On the Tyranny of Age and Popular Culture

I sauntered into the cinema for a matinee screening of A Complete Unknown, James Mangold’s latest excavation of Bob Dylan’s life and legend, clutching my bucket of popcorn like some knight clutching his holy grail. The glory of cheap matinees! The screen flickered to life, and with it came Timothée Chalamet in the guise of Dylan, a mercurial spirit made flesh. He wasn’t just good; he was incandescent, the kind of performance that makes you think the Academy is already thinking about etching his name onto the little golden statue. And Monica Barbaro as Joan Baez? That voice! It soared above the screen, slicing through decades of nostalgia with a crystalline purity that seemed to say, “Here I am. Deal with it.”

Boyd Holbrook swaggered onto the screen as Johnny Cash, a man who could crush mountains with his baritone alone, while Edward Norton’s Pete Seeger carried the gravitas of a preacher at the pulpit. They all sang, mind you — sang their own parts! Barbaro, though, deserved more than applause; she earned reverence. Best Supporting Actress? At the very least.

As the credits rolled and the lights came up, I found myself humming Like a Rolling Stone, because how could I not? Outside the theater, I disposed of my popcorn bin and beer cup because I’m not a monster, the tune still dancing on my tongue. And then — ah, memory! — I was whisked back to the time I emerged from Shine a Light, Martin Scorsese’s bombastic ode to the Rolling Stones. That post-screening buzz! That irrepressible urge to crank Let It Bleed to ear-splitting decibels!

But of course, there was the man. There’s always a man. An older gentleman with a round face in comfortable walking shoes asked, “What do you know about the Rolling Stones?” His tone dripped with condescension as if my (relative) youth disqualified me from appreciating Mick and Keith’s devilish brilliance. What do I know about the Rolling Stones? What don’t I know?

This question — the absurdity of it! — is the hallmark of a peculiar breed: the gatekeeper of pop culture. They guard their memories with the ferocity of a Cold War spy, as if knowledge of the past is a finite resource, as if a copy of West Side Story or a copy of Blonde on Blonde were keys to some secret society. “You weren’t there,” they say, wagging their fingers like elders at the tribal fire. “You don’t know.”

But here’s the rub: The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Motown, Wu-Tang Clan — they’re not secrets buried in the sands of time. They’re monumental, global, indelible. Their music doesn’t belong to any one generation; it belongs to anyone with an internet connection or a record player. Every note, every lyric, every interview —archived, cataloged, and ready for discovery.

Yet the gatekeepers persist. They clutch their vinyl and their anecdotes, whispering to each other about French horn players on Sgt. Pepper’s and James Brown’s live sets as if these are sacred texts only they can decipher. It’s a territorial instinct, born of insecurity and a desperate need for relevance. They defend their fandom the way Napoleon defended Austerlitz, as if the legacy of their heroes depends on their vigilance.

This phenomenon isn’t confined to one demographic. Black and Brown gatekeepers raise their eyebrows at the melanin-deficient vibing to Motown and Stax, as if Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding weren’t already universal. It’s a kind of cultural whiplash: the shock of seeing your history reinterpreted, and — gasp! — enjoyed by someone else.

All of this, of course, points to the critical importance of physical media. Vinyl, CDs, DVDs — these are artifacts, tangible proof that an artist existed, that a song or a film mattered. Streaming, for all its convenience, is a fickle god. A film or album can disappear with a single click, erased by corporate whim. No hard copy? No recourse.

Take the Rolling Stones. Take Bob Dylan. These are not relics; they’re foundations, bedrock. A young person humming Like a Rolling Stone isn’t stealing from the past; they’re inheriting it. The idea that you must “be there” to understand pop culture is a lie — a shimmering mirage meant to keep the young at bay.

My generation does this ad nauseam with the Grunge gods of rock and the golden era of hip-hop.

Why do we obsess over age in pop culture? Why do we sneer at the aging rocker on the casino circuit or the athlete past their prime? B.B. King played into his twilight years without ridicule, but Michael Jordan on the Wizards? A travesty, they say. Academics gatekeep writers as if dear old Willie Shakes wasn’t the Tarantino of his time and age, penning dick and fart jokes for the cheap seats. It’s selfish, really. We want our memories unsullied, our idols preserved in amber.

But here’s the truth: Art isn’t static. It evolves, it endures, it finds new audiences. Stravinsky, Brahms, Dylan, Bird Parker — they’re all part of the same continuum, their genius as relevant now as it was decades ago. The beauty of recorded art is its defiance of time. It doesn’t age; it simply waits for us to rediscover it.

So hum Like a Rolling Stone. Blast Let It Bleed. Dive into Motown or Wu-Tang or whatever sets your soul on fire. The gatekeepers will grumble, but let them. The music, the art, the culture — it’s yours now, as much as it ever was theirs.