The Skirball Cultural Center is situated in the wealthy DMZ separating the Valley from the basin.  It is a rest area for the weary traffic victim unlucky enough to be challenging his transmission on the Sepulveda Pass during daylight hours.  And right now it holds Bob Dylan’s American Journey, 1956 – 1966 in a hardwood hangar decorated with the words and images of a restless Robert Zimmerman.

The exhibit, which has been zig-zagging across America for nearly two years, hails from Seattle’s Experience Music Project – those pop music preservers nestled in the shadow of the Space Needle known as much for their architecture as their contents. The collected artifacts vary wildly between mass-produced objects any hip uncle might have withering away on a bookshelf to precious hand-written lyrics riddled with corrections and arrows.  All of it encased in glass and lit with a glow befitting the Pieta.

At the entrance, thrift store copies of Bound for Glory and Kingston Trio LPs huddle around reproduced photographs of a frosty Minnesota before a cast of wild-eyed east coast bohemians take control of the exhibit.  There are interesting objects to be found:  Woody Guthrie’s guitar (crudely engraved “WOODY”), D. A. Pennebaker’s camera from Don’t Look Back and autographed LPs with lyrics written in bubbly long-hand.

The center of the exhibit is divided into small vocal booths each featuring a different Dylan album as well as television sets presenting digestible clips on all things Bob.  Pete Seeger and Robbie Robertson chatter away while the chirp of harmonicas ricochets around the room.

What excels most about the project is the same thing that makes the EMP in Seattle worth anything of note.  It’s not the enshrinement of Fred Durst’s hat.  It’s the interactive exhibits.  At the back of the gymnasium are stations offering the opportunity to mix an early four-track recording, provide percussion via hand-operated drum pads, and even operate the organ drawbars to epileptic effect.  In the corner of the well-funded playland is a small stage with three guitars allowing people to experience what it is like to be a rock star’s feet – a rack of effects pedals allows the performer to play pre-recorded riffs behind any combination of loud he likes.

And then there is the vocal mic.  Those brave enough to further aggravate the long-suffering security guard stationed right next to it could sing “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” behind the worst karaoke version ever recorded.  How is it that a person can completely remove the vocals at a station twenty feet away yet the instrumental version would give even the loneliest and drunkest businessman pause before trying to hold up his end in front of such a sorry accompaniment?  Besides that song came out in the ’70s.  But it is rather entertaining to listen to a person sing a song only they can hear, stomping and humming away, remembering a time and place that may or may not have existed.

By the end of the tour, the visitor has spent more time and effort considering Dylan’s sound than Dylan ever did.  He was notorious for barreling through material where the first rehearsal may just have been the first take.  Perhaps if he had heard “One of Must Know” backed by the finest tablas a table-top drum machine can produce he would have run off with the Maharishi rather than the Band.

Winding down the halls past docents a generation older than the Bobster, it’s easy to pick out those who have come to see the exhibit.  Hipsters in all shades of grey roam the displays regretting the things they lent to their siblings and getting a little closer to their reluctant hero.  The well-funded production lavished upon a man who still grumbles amongst us sounds exquisite and looks great.  It may not be enough to satisfy the average Dylanphile, but should be more than enough for the curious music fan looking to learn more about America’s favorite lingerie pitchman.

— SOC

BOB DYLAN’S AMERICAN JOURNEY CLOSES SUN., JUNE 8.