“You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal”

The first stop was Cafe Wha, but it was closed…

Back-up first stop, Cafe Reggio. I asked the waitress if she knew anything about Bob

Dylan and how he frequented Cafe Reggio when he lived in the East Village. All she knew was

Bob Dylan frequented the cafe when he lived in the East Village and the question, “Do you know

anything about Bob Dylan?”, became the FAQ of the week since he won the Nobel Prize for Lit-

erature. So, simply put, she knew what I knew and what I expected. She advised me to come

back Saturday morning because there is a customer, Joe, who goes to Cafe Reggio for break-

fast at nine o’clock every Saturday morning. He has been a regular for the past fifty years, and if

you want to talk about Bob Dylan, Joe is the person to talk to.

Saturday morning I reached the cafe at 9:07 (I was not as particular about the time as

Joe seems to be). The kind approach would be to let Joe sit and eat his breakfast in peace be-

fore bombarding him questions. No plot twist here, that is the approach I took. French toast

sounded like a good time pass meal while I waited for Joe to finish eating. Also, hunger and

sleep-deprivation had attacked my body so nourishment was necessary if I wanted to properly

converse instead of yawning and moaning like a zombie. From my seat I could see Joe sitting

on his own at the table in the front of the cafe. He was wearing a pink button down shirt that was

tucked into a pair of freshly ironed pants. He had on a striped red, silver, and gray tie. But his

best accessory were his measuring tape themed suspenders. The worn-out yellow suspenders

had markings to indicate inches and silhouettes of tools- hammers, wrenches, and nails- scat-

tered on them. I asked the waitress if Joe was willing to speak to me about Bob Dylan and she

gave him the heads up that he would have a visitor after breakfast. Just as I was about to pay

for breakfast, the waitress informs me that Joe insisted on paying for my breakfast. He insisted

because he was excited about a stock that he had just gained a lump sum of money from (it

was a tobacco stock *shhhh*). All he can do is spend the money, so that is exactly what he did.
 An entire history lesson on the behind-the-scenes night club life was not what I was ex-

pecting, but it is what I got. Joe used to own a very popular night club called the Night Owl. It’s

logo was a this cartoon-looking yellow-orange owl. Joe’s jean jacket was hung up next to him

and it had the Night Owl logo on the back of it. This encounter was not planned yet Joe was pre-

pared with a clipboard filled with pictures and newspaper clippings of his night club. He gave me

a black and white photo of his club. There was a band in the front, one person at the mic, one

on the guitar, and one on the drums. The room was packed with people. But Joe only had one

jazz band every Saturday. Besides that, he would pull other performers in randomly. Of course

one of them was Bob Dylan.

He always referred to Bob Dylan as “Bobby”. He spoke as if they used to be great pals.

But it seemed that Bob Dylan was not the most popular person when he had just arrived to New

York. He came here when he was nineteen and he would perform, mostly at the Cafe Wha? on

Macdougal, but at other places as well. At the Cafe Wha, they used to have an Open Mic Night,

which used to be outrageous in the sixties, and people would just sit at the tables for a long

stretch of time but the way the would turnover the tables was by having Bob Dylan sing and

everyone would end up leaving because they would find his voice and his music appalling. No-

body liked his music, singing, and appearances. People seemed to like his songs when per-

formed by other people. Bob Dylan’s musical contract was bought by Albert Grossman, AKA the

crook. He was known for paying dirt cheap prices for these contracts. He was a great business-

man, but an awful person. Joe said that all the waitresses the worked at the Night Owl com-

plained that Grossman would never leave a tip. The only time Joe ever got Grossman to pay

was when Joe’s wife was running the club one night and she managed to get Grossman and

Dylan to pay an entrance fee one dollar each. Joe’s wife used to called Bobby a scruffy beatnik.

She did not like Dylan. Many people accused Dylan of stealing others’s music and lyrics. Bob

Dylan seemed to have a very different reputation when he just started his career. He was too

different for people to enjoy. He used to be the filler performance. He would play his guitar and
harmonica but no one would appreciate his “talent”. They found his voice too irritating and the

believed that his guitar skills were poor. I wish I cold ask him “how does it feel” to be a “com-

plete unknown” and then to finally be recognized.

Move forward a little bit to when he is more known, people would go to his apartment

building in the East Village and rummage through his trash. There would be a daily article that

would discuss the contents of Bob Dylan’s trash (apparently fans were very interested in the in-

formation). So how did he go from being hated to wing the Nobel Prize for Literature? He

seems to have come a long way from his past. Compared to where he is now, his nineteen year

old self is “a thousand miles behind”.

I realized from Joe’s bountiful and endless stories that the idea of changing Dylan’s

sound never came up. Though no one enjoyed listening to him, Bob Dylan still created the same

music. He does not like change. All the places I visited had a very similar feel to them. Each

place was quaint with lots of character and had the same decor from the sixties. The quaint

cozy feeling gives a sense of privacy, that “home sweet home” magic. It is the magic that Bob

Dylan saw when he frequented these East Village staples. That same magic is conveyed

through his songs. He did not change his sound because new sound means no more magic.

After listening to his songs, I split each song into two parts- the music and the lyrics. The

focus is more centered around the lyrics, because that is where the magic lies. If the music was

the magic then everyone would get a taste of magic. Magic is too powerful and special for eve-

ryone to have. If the lyrics are the magic then it takes skill and depth to find his magic.

Bob Dylan has left an overwhelming, striking, reputable mark on the East Village and on

Joe. I think Joe goes back every week to Cafe Reggio because he still feels connected to the

sixties. He still feels connected to that magic. Now Dylan leaves his mark in each song with his

uniquely distinct voice and his ubiquitous harmonica interludes.