When I was in seventh grade, I bought Bob Dylan’s “Self Portrait” from a discount bin for my first Sony Discman.

Like many, I grew up on Dylan. So my mind melted, right there on the drive home from the Silver City Galleria, when I heard Dylan duet with himself on “The Boxer” using two voices: that “Nashville Skyline” crooner voice and his real voice.

Every critic and fan likely has their take on that album — awful, genius, joke — but to me, at that moment, it was Dylan using his voice like layers of paint on top of each other. Like a self-portrait. And it cracked something open for me.

I would spend years thinking (and writing) about this mystery wrapped in a riddle. Einstein disguised as Robin Hood. Jokerman, manipulator of crowds, a dream twister.

This Minnesota college drop-out/

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