My cell phone and music are the lone things that keep me from driving into you or into a wall when stuck in traffic.

I’m constantly on the road and it seems often when the Edens, Dan Ryan, Kennedy and Lake Shore Drive are at they’re worst. If I’m going anywhere outside my zip code, I normally give myself at least an hour.

On a recent Friday during rush hour with the rain pouring, I allowed myself three hours to get to New Lenox. Luckily, I only needed two and a half of those. On the way there, I used my cell phone to pass the time. On the way back, my phone no longer seemed to work—I think I got rain in it—and I slipped in a CD.

I decided to listen to Bob Dillon’s album. No, I didn’t spell that wrong. There’s the world’s Bob Dylan, and there’s Chicago’s Bob Dillon.

When it comes to Irish music, I prefer the latter.

My return trip only took about half of the original time, but I wouldn’t have noticed if it had been longer. Listening to Dillon sing “Belfast Town”, “Let’s Go Back to County Mayo” and “Green Hills Around Sligo” took my thoughts away from Chicago’s expressways and put me into a cozy pub in Ireland. Preferably, I’d be in Ward’s pub in Galway or McGann’s in Doolin.

Bob Dillon’s voice is enough to make him worthy for space in this column, but the fact that he’s 84 years old and has never taken a single singing lesson certainly adds to his story.

Bob and I recently sat down at Tommy Nevin’s in Evanston to share a pint before he joined the pub’s classic Sunday trad session.

“The first time I got up in front of anybody was at my younger brother’s wedding,” Dillon said. “That was 50 years ago… I just got up. My godfather was there, and he says, ‘Gosh, I didn’t know you had it in you.’ I’ve been signing ever since.”

Ever since, Dillon has sung throughout Chicago. He’s sung to North Siders and South Siders alike. He’s sung at Lizzy McNeill’s and Chief O’Neil’s. He’s sung at Irish Eyes and Irish Oak. He’s sung at the Abbey Pub and Kelly’s Pub. He’s even treated pubs in Ireland to his voice. Clifden, Dingle, Doolin, Ennis and Westport were all stops for him there.

Dillon’s own parents came from Ireland. They lived a few towns apart there, but only met when they both moved to Chicago. Dillon grew up in Chicago and has lived in the Lincoln Park area his entire life.

From a journalistic point of view, the following sentence probably should be put into the previous paragraph, but I feel it requires its own. Dillon has 13 children, 32 grandchildren and three great grandchildren. Yep. A tent is nearly required for any Dillon family party.

A bunch of those family members treated Dillon some years ago to a recording session where he sang 14 songs and had them put together on an album.

“I did all the songs in one shot,” Dillon said. “The guy asks me, ‘How do you want to put them on there?’ I said, ‘Put them on the way they were sung.’ They’re all over the country. In Ireland and everything. I’ve sold 500 copies.”

And they’re only Irish songs.

“Just Irish songs,” he said. “Bob Dylan does the rest of them. I’m Chicago’s original Bob Dillon. I’ve had the name longer than him.”

Dillon also forever has had the ability to sing with such beauty without every taking a lesson. It’s what amazed me the most when I first heard him.

I asked him, “How?”

“I wish I knew,” he said. “Absolutely, I should have a little training in me some place, but I don’t have any. I never took a lesson or nothing.”

These days Dillon gets out every few weeks to join the traditional session at Tommy Nevin’s. On this day, his presence was announced, he walked to the front of the bar, the room quieted and he sang.

I won’t even try and describe what happened next. It wouldn’t do him justice. His songs are something you have to experience yourself.

Dillon could certainly feel the crowd’s enjoyment.

“You can sense when you got the audience,” he said. “Nobody says a damn word and they’re enjoying it, then they give you a big hand. That’s all you can ask for.
Nothing else.

“They got the best audience in this here pub here. When I start to sing if some guy’s making noise, the next guy pounces on him.”

On this day, no one needed a pouncing. Everyone simply enjoyed Chicago’s own Bob Dillon.

* If you’d like to share a comment or a future column suggestion with Scott Powers, write him at sharingapint@yahoo.com.