Taking It Back

When a relationship ends, romantic or otherwise, things get divided. Someone gets the stained-glass Elvis. Someone gets the autographed book. Nobody wants the nature watercolors, because nobody asked for them in the first place. Friends divide themselves, sometimes with misinformation. And the music? What about the music? These days, vinyl collections aside, most music collections are digital, easily copied to external drives, and nobody “loses” anything.

Except.

Sometimes you want to lose the music. Sometimes, it’s just a song. Sometimes, it’s a playlist. Sometimes, it’s the collected works of an artist. It sits in your iTunes, lying in wait. It ambushes you, waiting for moments when you have a leash in one hand, an umbrella in the other, and no way of getting to your music player in time. Sometimes, you let loose an audible groan. Sometimes, your eyes roll so far back in your head in frustration that you imagine that other people can hear, like a playing card clacking in a bicycle wheel. NO! NOT THIS NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL SONG! NOT NOW!

At some point, recently, I realized that there was a lot of music in my library that I was actively avoiding. Which is, I don’t have to tell you, ridiculous. So I’m on a campaign to reclaim these ghost songs. First up is Bob Dylan. I’m not sure how it happened, but over time, after a series of vaguely negative associations, I phased Dylan out. I have to confess, I’m pretty specific about my Dylan tastes to begin with. Breaking up with Victoria’s Secret Bob Dylan wasn’t difficult. It was a lot easier than getting back together with Bringing It All Back Home, John Wesley Harding, and Blood on the Tracks, for starters.

In 1995, I saw Dylan and The Dead in Highgate, Vermont. I went with my boyfriend at the time, and a bunch of his friends. I had no interest in seeing The Dead, but my mother had been a big Dylan fan, and it was my first chance to see him. I went. We drove. As the girlfriend, I got the privileged “hump” in the back seat (chivalry!). Partway there, we (my boyfriend and one of his friends) stopped for the night to camp. The spot was in the pitch dark, but my boyfriend had to take the car (and its headlights) to the highway to watch for other members of our party. As he left me and the friend to set up the tent, a biblical rain began. So, in the absolute black of night, in pouring rain, the friend and I attempted to assemble a tent that had never been assembled before. Eventually, the boyfriend returned. He was road-trip chipper and dry. We were crabby, and soaked to the bone. The three of us slept in an inch of water in wet clothing. The other members of our party never showed, having chosen to travel in a newly-procured VW van (trustafarian street cred, represent!), so new that they didn’t know that the headlights didn’t work. When they hit the border, they were stopped and forced to overnight in a parking lot until the light of day. We awoke (itchy! wet! angry!), and continued on to our destination. We set up our wet tent again. We bought beer. We headed off in a convoy to the show, a 20-minute drive away. And then we hit traffic. It took us 5 hours. We drank all our beer. We refused many offers to sell our tickets for many times what we’d paid. We arrived at the gates. Dylan was onstage, singing Like a Rolling Stone. AS WE CROSSED THE GATES (literally), they decided to let everyone in for free. Dylan finished his song AND HIS SET.

Sober, we sat though The Dead (sigh). Drums In Space can kiss my ass.

The trip home wasn’t much better. I rode the hump in a now-packed car to Quebec City. The boyfriend was nervous about driving on bridges, and made us turn off the stereo and roll up the windows every time we crossed one. His friends teased him, and his mood grew sour. He and I went back early to the hotel because he hurt his back.

Shortly thereafter, we broke up (again, for the last time). Dylan reminded me of the endless frustration of that young relationship, not to mention the fact that I bought TWO tie-dyed t-shirts on that trip, which…no.

There have been other reasons for Dylan distance—a long estrangement from a very close female friend, a misguided relationship with a complete bozo who only spoke in song lyrics (relying heavily on Dylan and Neil Young), not to mention Bob’s own decline (Christmas album, anyone?).

Those orphaned songs deserve to be heard. I’m coming for you, Sad Breakup Songs. I’m coming for you, High School Mixtapes. I’m coming for you, Songs I Shared And Blew Someone’s Mind And Then Regretted It. It’s time.