This is a true story about the time Bob Dylan almost killed me:

Bob Dylan nearly ended my life in late December 1992 on a rain-drenched stretch of highway between Phoenix and Flagstaff. Zimmerman himself wasn't there in physical terms, but his music drove a car off a road and into a muddy ditch. The crash ended my innocence and exposed me to my mortality.

Now I wasn't the driver, but I was in that car, sitting in the back seat. We were taking turns playing tapes on the stereo; it was my turn and Dylan was my choice. It was a revenge pick. The driver and her shot-gun friend were selecting music I despised so Bobby was my dagger. The album was Blonde on Blonde, side A, "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35".

Out of high school and only nominally interested in college, I was instead seeking music knowledge of the kind not taught in schools. The world was changing for me, unfurling in shades in-between black and white. I had spent all my school years in private Christian schools. It was a good education and good protection from subtleties. For 12 years I learned about a stark universe of right and wrong, of blackest black and blinding white. Graduation from high school in 1990 kicked me into reality not ready, not even close.

I was unsure what to do next. Music was more interesting to me than college, but no one was going to pay me to listen to Pavement CDs and read NME and Melody Maker. I was looking for a direction. I read Kerouac's On the Road and dreamed of imitating Jack. I bought jazz CDs, a Robert Johnson box set and Dylan. The ancient, wandering world of beats and bohemians called out to me. Arizona was dull and small; Dylan's imaginary highways, cafes and lost souls so vast and promising.

Promise seemed to vanish that December day and I collided with reality on that December day. The "Rainy Day Women" was doing its trick. The girls were annoyed and searching for a Red Hot Chili Peppers tape or something. The driver's eyes were off the road and the car drifted across the white line and into the median. "Watch out" cried the shot-gun girl to the driver. She over-corrected and the car spun 360. Down into the wide and empty median we hurtled, heading towards oncoming traffic.

My life didn't flash before me, but I thought of death. I could do nothing but watch the end come. I felt nothing but fear. When the car rolled, we all gasped. Crunching steel now overwhelmed the sound of Dylan, still playing on the stereo. And then we stopped, the car was back on its wheels. All was silent, save Bob howling, "Everybody must get stoned." We were all alive. The rain had saturated the ground, turning the dry soil to mud, which slowed the car down. It softened our roll.

Somehow Dylan played through it all. The driver switched off the stereo and we staggered out to inspect ourselves and the car. It was the last time I listened to Dylan for a long, long time.