Majuro— I wrote this a few days after watching the film “A Complete Unknown,” which chronicles the extraordinary rise of a young Bob Dylan.
Early in his career, someone helping Dylan navigate the music business was asked why he chose to take on such a young, unproven musician as a client. The man replied that, while Bob Dylan couldn’t sing very well and wasn’t particularly skilled at playing the guitar or harmonica, he was undeniably “unusual.”
My own guitar-playing phase began in 1982, after spending a year on Namu, an outer atoll in the Marshall Islands. One day, a thick, blue Bob Dylan songbook arrived aboard a field trip ship.
With plenty of free time, three cheap but fully strung guitars, and surrounded by incredible island musicians and singers, I made that songbook part of my daily routine. I memorized chords in the simplest patterns I could, often to the point where the tunes didn’t quite “sound” as they should. But in my newly Dylanesque view of the world, all that truly mattered were his lyrics. I committed to memory every verse of about 60 of his songs, priding myself on being able to sing my way through his entire “Highway 61 Revisited” album from start to finish.
“You walk into the room with your pencil in your hand.”
After three years on Namu, with my guitar slung across my back, I embarked on an island-hopping journey through Nauru, Kiribati, Fiji and the Solomon Islands before landing in New Zealand. There, I hitchhiked the entire length of the North and South Islands—from Auckland to Christchurch—shaping and sharpening my repertoire with each stop along the way. Returning to Wellington, I found a temporary home at the Beethoven House, a ramshackle hostel brimming with young drifters from every corner of the globe.
I began busking for loose change, stationing myself in the underground pedestrian tunnel that connected the city’s bus and train terminals. The tunnel had fantastic acoustics, with its walls amplifying every chord, and it was always bustling with commuters rushing to and from work or shopping throughout the day. To claim a spot, I’d arrive just before dawn—around 5:30 a.m.—since the tunnel could only accommodate one musician at a time. But every morning felt like a gamble. Few things felt worse than dragging myself out of bed, wandering through the cold, dark streets of a still-sleeping city, only to find some dude already down there wailing away on a trombone.
“You raise up your head and you ask, ‘Is this where it is?’”
Every busker knows that whoever secures the prime spot in the tunnel—talent level aside—is guaranteed to make some money. I routinely pulled in about NZ$50 by noon. When I finally emerged into the midday sunshine, my pockets bulging and weighed down with loose change, each step I took echoed with an embarrassing jangle. My first stop was always the same: a Chinese takeout where I’d order a massive meal. Then I’d find a grassy patch by the curb, spread out my feast, and unapologetically pig out.
“You hand in your ticket and you go watch the geek, who immediately walks up to you when he hears you speak.”
One morning, I arrived at the tunnel entrance only to hear the piercing wail of a guy on his baby sax, blasting out old classics so shrill they felt like they could pierce your eardrum if you got too close. Frustrated, I hopped on a small commuter train and rode to the outskirts of the city, where I stumbled upon a spiffy, high-end strip mall bustling with pedestrian traffic.
In front of a chic boutique selling expensive women’s clothing, I unfolded my guitar case on the ground and carefully spread a few dollars’ worth of change inside to prime the pot. Then, with purpose, I launched into a loud, “edgy” rendition of “Ballad of a Thin Man”—all eight verses, every word. Lost in the moment, as I often became while performing in public, I decided to roll right back into the first verse and so barked out the lyrics even louder this time.
“You have many contacts among the lumberjacks to get you facts when someone attacks your imagination.”
A meticulously groomed young woman, styled head-to-toe in Calvin Klein garb, emerged from the boutique. I stopped mid-strum and gulped. She looked deadly serious. Approaching with purpose, she introduced herself as Jane.
I tensed, preparing to make a quick exit, but before I could move, Jane, in a somewhat strained yet polite tone, invited me inside for what she described as “a wonderful cup of tea.”
I was about to muster the courage to explain that I had just begun “Highway 61,” that the album had more songs, and that I wasn’t particularly interested in tea. But something stopped me. Instead, I stayed quiet and followed her into the store.
“Ah, you’ve been with the professors and they’ve all liked your looks.”
Jane led me to a small, round table tucked away in the back of the shop, far from the perfumed racks of clothing, in a nondescript gray employee break area. She handed me a steaming cup of thick herbal tea that carried the rich, sweet aroma of honey and berries. Without hesitation, she launched into a barrage of questions—about me, my travels, my nationality, and more. But the moment I casually mentioned my time living in the Marshall Islands, it was as if a switch flipped. Suddenly, the conversation took on a life of its own.
“Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you and then he kneels.”
When Jane finally paused in her relentless unpacking of my life, I stood up and politely suggested that it was time for me to leave. She immediately jumped up, dashed off and called over her shoulder for me to wait. A few minutes later, she returned, balancing a large, decadent slice of German dark chocolate cake and a tall glass of milk on a tray. I sank back into the chair.
“Well, you walk into the room like a camel, and then you frown; you put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground.”
The questions kept coming.
When I finally scarfed up the last crumb of cake from the plate, I stood. Jane waved her hands animatedly, insisting I stay for yet another cup of tea, but I knew I had to get back out there.
“You know something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?”
I moved toward my “spot,” lingered for a moment, then set down my guitar case and tossed a few coins inside to get started. As I strummed my improvised opening chords of “Like a Rolling Stone,” I glanced over at Jane and caught her mid-motion, raking her hands through her hair in visible frustration.
The scowl on her face caused a lightning bolt of clarity to rip through my brain: by defiantly squawking away right outside their front door, I was driving away their business.
Cursing my own idiocy under my breath, I packed up my things and turned to head back toward the train station. But as I walked away, I noticed Jane was still watching me.
Our eyes met and held for a moment. Then, after a slight hesitation, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, let the faintest hint of a smile cross her lips, and disappeared back into the store.
Jack Niedenthal is the former secretary of Health Services for the Marshall Islands, where he has lived and worked for 43 years. He is the author of “For the Good of Mankind, An Oral History of the People of Bikini,” and president of Microwave Films, which has produced six award-winning feature films in the Marshallese language. Send feedback to jackniedenthal@gmail.com
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