âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Bob Dylan (IV) •

Guess who watched A Complete Unknown? Enjoy!

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Depending on who you asked, Newport Folk Festival of 1965 was either a glimpse into the bright future of music or a complete disaster. If any one were to ask your opinion, you would have said the former. Unfortunately, nobody did. Well, nobody except the future of music himself.

You had volunteered to help clear up at Newport solely to get the opportunity to witness it. And, boy, had you. Donovan, Joan Baez, Peter, Paul & Mary, Pete Seeger - heroes of you and your friends throughout your teenage years. But you, and numerous other attendees, had hauled ass from all over the country to see one person. The closing act. Mr Bob Dylan himself.

And this was when the rift had started to form. For the first time in possibly his whole recording career, Bob Dylan came onto a stage with an electric guitar in place of his trusted acoustic, followed by a loyal band. And both the audience and the festival organisers were largely divided. So, for the first time in possibly his whole recording career, Bob Dylan was booed loudly by his once-attentive crowd.

But booed off the stage? Never.

You, pretending to sweep in between the wings, had hung off every chord, listened to every word, observed every strum of the guitar and rhythmic breath of the harmonica. You didn't care if Bob Dylan went electric. As long as he never stopped.

Alas, he did, and you had to tumble back down to Earth with quite a bump. And then it was the next day, and you had been called to pick up rubbish and clear away chairs as though history had not been made less than 24 hours before.

You completed your tasks with much less vigour than you had when setting up. It was like coming down from the best trip of your life. It was the best trip of your life. You weren't sure what was next for you. Besides hitchhiking back home. Trailing the sadly familiar streets for a job. Telling strangers that you saw Dylan go electric. Telling strangers that you never did anything else. Rotting.

You finished another row of chairs, carefully stacking the last one on top of a ten deep pile, and sighed loudly. It certainly felt much more like hard work packing up than it was setting up. Stretching your arms, you took a seat in the next row for a well-earned break, pulling out the bottle of water you'd filled up in your hotel room and the pack of cigarettes you'd pick pocketed from someone backstage the night before. Camels. Not bad for a steal.

Just as you were sparking up your lighter, the obnoxious roar of a motorbike came thundering to your attention. You turned disinterestedly, wondering if some poor soul had dropped their wallet the previous night. No doubt it would have been snatched up by another poor soul before the sun had had time to rise.

To your utmost surprise, you were greeted by the tousled pompadour and dark glasses of the man you had travelled so far to see. As though checking to see this wasn't a hallucination, you spun your head around quickly to see if anyone else was looking. There wasn't anyone else around - Pete had called for lunch ten minutes ago. Bob Dylan was quickly approaching the remaining fragments of Newport Folk Festival and, if you weren't mistaken, he was heading straight for you.

The motorcycle drew closer, and wordlessly you watched it. Or rather, you watched its rider. What else were you supposed to do? He was wearing dark glasses, as it seemed he always was, and a thick, furry jacket over a plain t-shirt. A suave effort to blend in. His hair was unkempt and mad - you wondered if that was because of the wind or because he wasn't long out of bed.

With your eyes laser-focused on him, Bob pulled up to the sidewalk. Close enough to shout over to you, but nowhere near close enough for you to reach out and touch.