When I was in eighth grade, I first heard Bob Dylan on the radio. While randomly switching stations, I came across "Like A Rolling Stone" playing loud and clear. Instantly, I was a fan. I began to collect everything I could. My father, seeing my new found interest, decided it would be the fatherly thing to do to support me. So for my fifteenth birthday, he bought me two tickets to see Bob Dylan in concert when he came through Austin. I couldn't believe it. I was so excited to go, I had forgotten the general audience Dylan attracts. Due to "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35," many Dylan fans have associated his entire career with some kind of drug use. Luckily, my sister Sarah was thinking clearly at the time. She politely pointed out that my father hated Dylan's music and told him how painful it would be for him to see it. After a short time, my father conceded that it would be better if I went with my sister.
It was the most awesome experience up to that point in my life. We got th
At that point, I wanted to be Dylan. I wanted to be the man who everyone wanted to see. I wanted to be the man that other men would risk the lives of their women just so they could catch a glimpse of me performing. I wanted to be the center of attention. I wanted to have a career like Dylan's where I could perform non-stop from the time I'm twenty until I die. I wanted to be the name on everyone's ticket. I wanted to be the face on everyone's shirt. I wanted all the lights, and shirts, and audiences, and concerts. At that moment and every moment since, I have craved the thrill of performance.
The audience had been sitting down the entire time. When Ian Moore left, we sat there in an odd, complete silence. The backup band walked out one by one, but the audience remained silent. Then, Bob Dylan stepped into the light. He was wearing an electric blue, metallic shirt. Every light in the house was shining directly on him so that he seemed to shine. The entire audience burst into the loudest stand
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