Few among us have made the journey from complete unknown to Nobel laureate. You have.
Given the scale of your output and impact over the past six decades or so, it almost seems trivial to frame your accomplishments in terms of the brand that you’ve built and sustained. Yet we will do just that.
Like any brand, you began by choosing a name that would allow you to establish a distinct identity in whatever form it might take over the years. Your moniker might have been influenced by that of an incorruptible lawman from Gunsmoke, a Welsh poet, or a street from your hometown. Maybe all three—only you know for sure.
Where many brands build equity over time through consistency, you did the opposite. Your music built from an American folk tradition, but soon evolved into new sonic and lyrical territories. Even your ardent fans jeered you in these moments of change, but you persisted.
You would remain the same individual, applying your art in whatever way you saw fit. But the Bob Dylan brand would become known for constant reinvention, ever evolving its approach to genre and storytelling, shifting its dramatis personae, and somehow remaining both a recognizable force of nature and a constant enigma.
That commitment to evolution is a near-impossible feat for a brand of any kind, in any industry, at any time in history. But you’ve pulled it off—and to this day, you still do.
Two of us caught you in concert earlier this year, performing in your aptly-named Never Ending Tour. As expected, your most popular songs were nearly absent from the set list. A few of the more familiar selections were performed in new arrangements that even your lifelong fans took a minute or two to recognize. You barely touched a guitar.
You started at eight sharp, offered no banter between songs apart from introducing your band members, and finished after two hours with no encores. And the experience was somehow both disorienting and exactly what we expected, in the best possible way.
You certainly don’t have to tour like this anymore. You’ve won all the awards and been feted everywhere from South Bend to Stockholm. You even sold your songbook for a nine-figure sum, so you’re certainly not short on cash.
But you keep getting back on that tour bus, into your eighties, playing everything from giant summer festivals to historic theaters in small towns. And the music you play continues that steady march of reinvention, evolving alongside your vocal instrument and your whims.
Yet through all the upheaval, everything you touch—from a surprise 16-minute song about the JFK assassination to original artwork to a whiskey brand—still bears your unmistakable touch. That’s the contradiction you’ve mastered, and a truly singular path to indelibility.
For those of us who continue to revere your work, it’s made all the more special because we know you’re under no obligation to continue delivering it. After all, as you’ve memorably told us, “Just because you like my stuff doesn't mean I owe you anything.”
Yet we know that constant engagement with the world is essential to what makes you bigger than a mere brand. We can’t say for sure, but we suspect it’s what keeps you going. Perhaps even happy.
In the end, as you’ve said, "a man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do." Here’s to your success continuing as long as you’re willing to sustain it. We’ll be here for whatever form it takes.
