My pal Adam calls Bob Dylan “Bob,” or “Bobby,” or “Bobby Z.” I asked him what he did, if anything, to celebrate the 61st birthday of Highway 61, Revisited. We often converse in Dylan lyrics when we message each other on LinkedIn. I usually initiate. He responded by saying he honored Bob by becoming the Hurdy Gurdy man.
Which should have led to a deep and intricate meditation on itinerant street musicians, but didn't. Instead, it led me to consider how few of us get to be known only by our first names, like Donovan. You might think his last name offers an explanation, and it does, though the same last name didn't negatively affect other well known individuals who shared it.
Everyone knows who Donovan is, even those too young to know his music. Even those who don't, who I'm sure will one day outnumber those who do, will assume he must have been important, based solely on the fact he's known by his first name. Like Prince, before and after his “The artist formerly known as Prince” phase.
But Prince wasn't even his name, so we'll have to put him into a different category.
Stevie's another one, but here the water gets muddy. Stevie Nicks is also Stevie. So’s Stevie Ray Vaughn. If you're superstitious, you'd say he shouldn't have covered another Stevie’s song, and maybe if he hadn't, he wouldn't have gotten caught in the crossfire.
I'm talking about the helicopter.
The Shadow of Your Smile is playing in my head. That beautiful, unmistakably Stevie, harmonica solo. I don't recall hearing it on my dad’s Zenith Transoceanic when I conducted my daily music services in Bobbe and Zeide’s bedroom as a child. But it's embedded now, a tune I'll learn to play, too.
I told Adam that if he or I were to go by our first names, it would merely confuse our fans, more so for me, since I'm only just now spooling up my fan base (I debuted at #86 on Substack’s “Rising in Humor” list after finally categorizing myself).
And yet.
I was Louie up until the first day of kindergarten. When I showed up to the door of Mrs Hanscomb’s class, she asked, “what's your name?”
“I don't remember,” I said. For the next twenty minutes (or maybe it was five. Time moved slower in 1966), she tried to get me to say my name. I wouldn't.
She finally gave up and asked, “is it Louis?” Louis. Not Louie.
“Oh yeah!”
I became Louis that day, except with my family, who never adapted to the new reality. Because of them, I could never bury Louie. I gave up trying a dozen years ago, when I declared myself “Louie the Lens, Your Personal Paparazzi.”
“But you hate that name,” Penny insisted.
“Not any more.” I don't know that I've ever come up with anything cooler than Louie the Lens.
So now I'm thinking, maybe when I make it big, because I will, I'll just go by Louie. Everyone will know who I am, and even those who don't will assume I must have been important.
Because why else would you be known by just your first name?