Bob Vylan – Joining The Crusade
Bob Dylan wrote anthems for the â60s. Bob Vylan write war cries for the right now.
Where Dylan once strummed against segregation and napalm skies, Bob Vylan pummel against modern fascism with beat drops and basslines that rattle your spine.
It isnât protest music with a guitar slung low. This is bare chested insurrection. Truth, screamed through throttled mics and speaker stacks. You get the feeling theyâre not here just to entertain. Theyâre here to ignite.
Bob Vylan rhyme with our times. With trauma. With the thunder of boots on protest streets and the silence of government complicity.
They rhyme like bricks through windows. Like sirens howling through the smoke of our burning cities.
They rhyme with truth, the kind that makes you squirm in your well padded seat.
Their words arenât fluffy poetry for posterity. They are now. Grit-soaked. Steel-tipped. Aimed straight at the systems weâre told we canât touch.
And like Dylan in the â60s, theyâve become a voice for the voiceless. Poetic prophets in a world hooked on apathy.
But where Dylan strummed, Bob Vylan strike with a tiger swipe across the head.
POW.
Have you been in any state schools lately? Walked the flickering fluorescent corridors of underfunded futures? Have you witnessed the hollow pedagogy – lessons drained of life, delivered by exhausted teachers bound by red tape and fear of Ofsted? Itâs not education. Itâs containment. And if youâve seen it, if youâve felt the quiet desperation humming beneath the interactive whiteboards, youâll know – Bob Vylan are so on the money itâs untrue. Their lyrics testify. This is truth from the real world, from classrooms crumbling, from playgrounds where rage and apathy play a banned game of kiss chase. Thatâs why their words punch so hard. Not because they cleverly rhyme, but because they reveal.
June 28, 2025 – West Holts Stage, Glastonbury. Bob Vylan stood defiant, raw and electric. Behind them: images of Gazaâs devastation. Before them: tens of thousands. Bobby Vylan grabbed the mic and didnât flinch.
âFree, free Palestine!â
âDeath to the IDF!â
The BBC panicked. The headlines erupted. Politicians clutched pearls. Avon & Somerset Police opened an investigation.
The crowd? Roared back. Unified. Unapologetic.
Oh my, there was a rupture in the middle of Englandâs smug summer darling. A reminder that punk never asked for permission.
We may not be able to move our camera lens fast enough to capture the frantic blur of Bob Vylanâs live performance – the flailing limbs, the sweat-soaked fury, the righteous chaos – but we can still keep up with the message.
Because itâs not just noise.
Itâs news, the reality too many are trying to scroll past.
And when the worldâs spinning this fast, sometimes it takes a scream to cut through the static.
Thereâs no press release nice enough to neuter what Bob Vylan represent:
Rage. Resistance. Raw, untamed truth.
And whether you agree with their message or not, you canât deny the fire. They are proof that music – real music – still has teeth. That lyrics still matter. That stages are still pulpits, and punk is still prophecy.
Bob Vylan donât speak for everyone.
But they do speak for the unheard.
And that, dear reader, is revolutionary.
Let this be loud and clear: 1st 3 Magazine hears Bob Vylanâs cry.
We stand not behind, but beside those who demand more than applause, who demand change.
We donât flinch. We donât bow. We seek truth, even when it screams.
We call for death:
- Death to oppressive regimes.
- Death to colonial hangovers.
- Death to war, hunger, homelessness, censorship, and complicity.
- Death to the silence that feeds the machine.
And in its place, we call for rebirth – in truth, in art, in love, in unrelenting noise that kicks the door down.
Bob Dylan sang of answers blowing in the wind.
Bob Vylan throw rocks through the windows where those answers hide.
You may want to join the crusade.
