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Bob Dylan is a good poet, but a poor singer. He isn't very pretty to look at either. I mean, he's no Elvis.
His time, the 1960s, was perfect for him. The Viet Nam War was ramping up, as were the protests denouncing it.
The good faith of the 1950s, gave way to the distrust of the 60s. It seemed for every positive step the government took (The Civil Rights Act) there was a major misdeed (Viet Nam) and lies to go along with it.
The American government lost much of its credibility and the American people-particularly the American youth-their naïveté.
Enter Bob Dylan...warts and all. And the perfect and polished crooners of the 1950s (the Perry Comos and the Matt Munros) took a back seat.
American youth was growing more and more suspicious of its elders, and it searched for that which it deemed authentic-something real it could invest its energy in.
It was Dylan's warts that made him all the more appealing to it.
He was the anti-crooner.
Great singers will always be appreciated, but people tend to gravitate more toward the perceived honesty of imperfect voices.
People like their rock stars with some gravel in their throats, folk-type singers with a lighter voice and simple guitar, bluesy soul mumblers and country singers with their grit.
Greater heart seems more often felt in the unpolished.
Human beings tend to be suspicious of the polished and the perfect. Society tends to be distrustful of stunningly beautiful women and overly handsome men.
On the other hand, the imperfect implies the genuine. We know all people have blemishes and we're suspicious of people who hide them.
My grandfather was the head football coach at the University of Illinois for 18 years. Ray Eliot was his name. After he retired from coaching, he became a phenomenal speaker to four continents.
I promise you, you would have loved him.
Any fair analysis of his speaking, however, would tell you that he was highly imperfect in his presentation. Sometimes he spoke too fast. Sometimes he would enthusiastically mumble and stumble past words. And he had this silly habit of clicking his tongue.
But when he spoke, he tore his heart out and threw it at you. The power of his conviction, his authenticity, held audiences spellbound.
Interestingly, in the 1960s when he would take his "corny" message of "The Proper State of Mind" to cynical American teenagers, they loved him.
He was imperfect. His imperfections seemed to magnify his genuineness.
People tend to grow suspicious of speakers who are perfect and polished with all the theatrics of speaking just so. They want to poke them; see if they're real. Instead of authentic, the perfect speaker comes off as slick.
There's honesty in blemishes.
People often have said of me that when I speak I am authentic. It is the compliment that means the most to me.
I am no perfect speaker. Like my grandfather, I sometimes go too fast and blow through words. Sometimes, as my friend Mike once pointed out, I interrupt myself, changing gears almost in midsentence as my thoughts and words battle to make sense.
But I think it's those very imperfections-though I've worked hard to minimize them- that add to the perception of my credibility.
When I coach public speaking I warn people about being too practiced, too perfect.
And so I warn leaders, too.
Be willing to show your warts from time to time. Admit when you're wrong. Change course when you've made a mistake. Don't take yourself too seriously. Be able to laugh at yourself.
When you cover your blemishes, it creates suspicion.
The revealing of your imperfections helps establish your credibility.
Be the authentic one.
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