For over half a century, the names Joan Baez and Bob Dylan have been intertwined—folk music’s enigmatic couple whose voices once rose in harmony, and later, in heartbreak. Now, in a series of candid reflections, Baez is pulling back the curtain on one of music’s most legendary relationships, offering painful and poignant insight into her time with Dylan—and why it all fell apart.
Their story began in 1961 in Greenwich Village. Baez, already an icon, had just lit up the Newport Folk Festival with her angelic voice. When she met a scrappy young Dylan with a haunting song called Song to Woody, she saw something no one else had—genius waiting to be unleashed. She took him under her wing, inviting him to tour with her, sharing her spotlight and stages, and introducing his music to the world.
Their bond was undeniable. “We sang anything together and it made sense,” Dylan once said. But what started as artistic chemistry slowly blossomed into romance—one that, according to Baez, defied easy definition. “What three months was it?” she once joked when asked how long they’d been together.
But as Dylan’s fame skyrocketed, the relationship buckled under the weight of his growing ego and Baez’s desire for emotional honesty and political purpose. While she sang of peace and protest, he turned electric—musically and personally—blazing a trail that left Baez behind.
In 1965, everything changed. Dylan secretly married Sara Lownds—news that hit Baez like a freight train. She hadn’t expected a proposal, but she also hadn’t expected betrayal. Just months earlier, Dylan had claimed marriage wasn’t on his mind. And now, he had a wife and a child on the way—with no word to the woman who once lifted him to fame.
“I was lost in the shuffle,” Baez later said, heartbroken. Dylan, overwhelmed by the chaos of his stardom, admitted it too: he had failed her. Baez channeled that anguish into her most enduring song, Diamonds and Rust, calling him “the unwashed phenomenon” who “burst on the scene already a legend.” It’s a love letter, a requiem, and a reckoning—all in one.
Years passed, and bitterness lingered. On Dylan’s 1984 tour, he treated her coldly. And yet, she never stopped singing his songs. “They’re the easiest and most pleasurable to sing,” she confessed, revealing that despite everything, the musical bond remained.
It wasn’t until decades later—through painting, not music—that Baez finally let go of the pain. Listening to Dylan’s music as she painted his portrait, she broke into tears. And when the painting was done, so was the resentment. “I couldn’t blame him anymore,” she said quietly. “We were just stupid.”
Today, Baez lives far from the stage, painting and watching birds in her garden. But the memory of Dylan—the passion, the betrayal, the brilliance—still lingers. Their love story was never tidy, never fair. But it gave us Diamonds and Rust, and a glimpse into how love, even when it ends, can inspire something timeless.