The Pied Pipers

One evening late in summer 1963, a high school friend took me to visit an older acquaintance of his, already a student at McGill. I don’t really remember either one, but I do have a strong recollection of a small, dark, untidy apartment on University Street —  it seemed so sophisticated that I was both intimidated and enchanted — and of the songs coming from the record player: “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “A Hard Rain’s A‑Gonna Fall,” “Masters of War,” “I Shall Be Free.” They were sung by a raw, raspy voice — original, oracular, more angry than sad and making none of the usual effort to seduce or entertain. But what really held my attention was the lyrics, for they expressed ideas and emotions that my fifteen-year-old self was feeling but hadn’t yet articulated.

The voice was, of course, Bob Dylan’s, and this album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, became my obsession. I memorized every word, every note. I bought a harmonica and tried to play along. I spent hours...