Bob Dylan ... A nice man. Photograph: AP.
I've just had that thing many middle-aged men seem to suffer from every now and then. It's nothing to do with the prostrate - at least I hope not ... nor is it finding more hair in one's comb than on one's head, nor an unseemly yearning for a lady half one's age. I've just been struck by that poignant tugging of the heartstrings commonly known as a Dylan moment.
With Luke Haines now safely across the Irish sea, scaring our Gaelic brethren, I have been spending a blameless weekend with my daughter, immersed in the simple pleasures of swimming (well, I floated actually), reading Jemima Puddle-Duck, and buying crap at a car boot sale. My Dylan moment came soon after we arrived back in London, as I brought her round for tea, before depositing her back at her MaMa's in time for bed. As she contentedly cut up paper on the floor of my yet-again bachelor pad, and glued it to a bar of soap, I searched for some music to put on that: a) I hadn't listened to for a while; b) She wouldn't immediately hate; and c) When retrieved from my precariously balanced CD collection wouldn't bring the whole shelf down.
Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits Volume 3 was the first record that met all three criteria. Once I'd given up cajoling her to abandon construction of the "special pink soap case" and eat some of the delicious comestibles I'd commandeered from Friday night's rider (healthy stuff, I assure you), I sat down to watch her work. Dylan's Forever Young might at other times have passed me by, or drawn a cynical smirk, but tonight, its melody and lyrics shone into that filthy old chasm I call a soul. "May your hands always be busy, may your feet always be quick", stuff about standing up straight in a storm and always being courageous ... You get the picture?
Watching this inexplicably (unless you count her mother - which I suppose you should) beautiful spawn of my loins - five years old, fresh as the spring, and still only possessing the most rudimentary of swear words - going about her business while Bob handed down his sage advice, almost reduced me to tears.
She seemed to pick up on the moment too, asking who was singing. She rolled the name around a few times then asked if he was a nice man. As usual, I said yes, which on the whole I think is true. Obviously I didn't tell her about the drugs, the broken-hearted girlfriends or the motorcycle accident - she had to be home by 6pm. And even if I had, I don't think she'd have minded much. She already thinks Hound Dog Taylor is a nice man - and forgives him for shooting his bass player - because she "likes his sound", while Bo Diddley could kill Noddy for all she cares - she loves him unconditionally.
I'm still a bit concerned about her Amy Winehouse obsession though - especially when she climbs up on the table and sings: "They tried to send Ava to rehab but she said No, No No." If you're out there Amy, please come to tea.
