He Lit a Cigarette, Smiled Like He Knew the Future, Then Dismantled the Media One Question at a Time — The Shocking Second Half of Bob Dylan’s 1965 Press Conference That Left Everyone Speechless — Click the link to read more

The year was 1965. The world of music was spinning on its axis, and at its center stood a young man with a mop of curly hair, cigarette in hand, wearing dark sunglasses indoors. Bob Dylan had just gone electric. And now, as if to confront the world head-on, he sat before a row of eager journalists with a face that betrayed nothing.

Part two of Bob Dylan’s famous 1965 press conference didn’t begin with any grand announcement. It began with silence. Dylan stared at the reporters. The reporters stared back. Then, as if breaking character in some absurd play, he smirked.

“Are you being honest with us?” one journalist asked.
Dylan blinked slowly, then responded, “Are you being honest with yourself?”

And with that, the mood shifted. This wasn’t going to be a normal Q&A. This was theater, chess, and stand-up comedy wrapped in one.

The second half of the press conference is often overlooked in favor of more quotable early moments, but it contains the essence of Dylan’s relationship with fame, language, and the absurd expectations placed on artists. When asked about his songwriting, he deadpanned, “I just write them when they come to me. I don’t make appointments.”

Another reporter tried to corner him with a question about the symbolism in his lyrics. Dylan leaned forward and whispered, “I’m just a trapeze artist. I fall sometimes.” The room fell awkwardly silent.

What’s most fascinating about this portion of the press conference is the subtle war Dylan waged against interpretation. Every question seemed to demand meaning, logic, intention — and Dylan refused to play that game. Instead, he offered riddles, jokes, or turned the mirror back on the press. He wasn’t hostile. He was elusive. He was playing defense through ambiguity.

At one point, someone asked him about his image. Dylan took a long drag of his cigarette and replied, “Which one?”
“You mean you have more than one?”
He grinned. “Don’t you?”

That exchange captured the core of Dylan’s defiance. The media wanted clarity, but Dylan offered multiplicity. They wanted answers, and he gave them questions. He wasn’t trying to be difficult — he was revealing how absurd the question was to begin with.

One of the more memorable moments came when a young reporter asked, “Do you think of yourself more as a poet or a songwriter?” Dylan laughed, then looked around the room.
“I think of myself more as a song-and-dance man.”

That line, dismissed by some at the time as flippant, has since become iconic. It wasn’t a dodge — it was a reframing. Dylan didn’t want to be trapped in anyone’s definition. He refused to carry the burden of being “the voice of a generation,” a label thrown at him far too early, and one he consistently pushed back against.

As the press conference continued, the questions became stranger. Someone asked if he believed in God. Dylan stared for a long time, then said, “I believe in the sun, the moon, and the highway.”

Another asked what he thought of his critics. He nodded. “They’re just people with ears and pencils. Like everyone else.”

But perhaps the most telling moment came near the end. A reporter in the back, clearly frustrated, asked, “Why don’t you just tell us what your songs mean?”

Dylan paused. His face turned serious for the first time that afternoon.

“Because if I could say it in a sentence,” he said, “I wouldn’t need the song.”

And with that, he leaned back in his chair, as if the answer had exhausted him.

This moment crystallizes Dylan’s entire philosophy toward art. Songs, to him, were not statements. They were experiences, expressions that needed to be felt more than dissected. He wasn’t there to decode his work. He was there to perform it, to live inside it — not to reduce it for easy headlines.

The press conference ended abruptly. One final question — “Where do you go from here?”
Dylan shrugged. “Wherever the songs go.”

That ambiguous farewell left the room stunned. There was no neat conclusion. No press-ready summary. Just Dylan, still half-smiling, already halfway out the door.

In hindsight, the second half of the 1965 press conference stands as a masterclass in media manipulation, not for the sake of ego, but for self-preservation. Dylan understood the danger of letting others define your art. He fought against it, not with anger, but with mischief, mystery, and a deep commitment to keeping the music alive by refusing to freeze it in place.

Today, clips from that press conference are studied like ancient scrolls. Scholars, fans, and skeptics all try to pull meaning from his words, not realizing the whole point was that meaning isn’t always something you can hold in your hand.

Sometimes it’s just a feeling in the room. A line that makes you laugh and then think. A man in sunglasses smiling like he knows something you don’t — and maybe never will.

That’s what made Dylan’s 1965 press conference unforgettable. Not the soundbites. Not the smoke. Not even the songs. But the tension between what we demand from our artists and what they owe us in return.

Bob Dylan owed no one clarity. And in refusing to give it, he gave us something far more lasting: the freedom to interpret, to wonder, and most importantly, to listen.