The 1970 song Bob Dylan wrote to get back at David Crosby: “He refused outright”
By the time the 1970s dawned, Bob Dylan was tired of being the voice of a generation. It came with baggage, and besides, it seemed like a bygone virtue anyhow.
Dylan was always ahead of the curve, and he wanted to shed the weight of his reverence in favour of artistic freedom, and he also wanted to ditch politics to pursue a rather more spiritually open venture.
The shift surprised many observers who had spent the previous decade projecting their own expectations onto Dylan. Rather than embracing his role as a cultural spokesperson, he appeared increasingly determined to escape it.
This arrived with his 1970 album New Morning. But there was one specific incident that arose before the record that helped to solidify the fact he was going to be steadfastly aloof for the album, if only to ditch anyone dragging on his coattails for answers or the esteem of association with a right-on sage. In June 1970, a mere matter of days before Dylan was due to head into the studio, he was invited to Princeton University to partake in an honorary ceremony. He was unsure.
However, he was with David Crosby on the day, and Crosby can be a rather insistent fellow. Along with Dylan’s then wife, Sara Lownds, they set about taking the original vagabond back to school. “Sara was trying to get Bob to go to Princeton University, where he was being presented with an honorary doctorate,” Crosby recalled. “Bob did not want to go. I said, ‘C’mon, Bob it’s an honour!’ Sara and I both worked on him for a long time.”
Nagged by both his wife and an eminent folk star, Dylan finally acquiesced and agreed. He would end his exile, and make an appearance. The problem was that Crosby had been left in charge of arrangements. “I had a car outside, a big limousine. That was the first thing he didn’t like,” Crosby comically recalled. We smoked another joint on the way and I noticed Dylan getting really quite paranoid about it.”
Things were not boding well. “When we arrived at Princeton, they took us to a little room and Bob was asked to wear a cap and gown. He refused outright. They said, ‘We won’t give you the degree if you don’t wear this.’ Dylan said, ‘Fine. I didn’t ask for it in the first place.’…Finally we convinced him to wear the cap and gown.” And he was, reluctantly, crowned with an honorary doctorate. And never has someone been less pleased about such a thing.
When he returned home after this torturous night, he decided he would pen his vengeance in a song. That song is the scornful, ‘Day of the Locusts’, a strange blip in the serenity of New Morning that is just about masked by the luscious instrumentation. Nevertheless, he sings: “Oh, the benches were stained with tears and perspiration / The birdies were flyin’ from tree to tree / There was little to say, there was no conversation / As I stepped to the stage to pick up my degree.”
Crosby even picked up on the coded dig aimed at him. He was high and adjacent to Dylan, so who else could “the man next to me, his head was exploding” be about?
Whether intended as a playful jab or a genuine complaint, the reference highlights Dylan’s tendency to immortalise personal experiences in song. For Crosby, it served as proof that even a well-intentioned favour could end up becoming lyrical ammunition in the hands of one of music’s greatest songwriters.
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