Dylan.

Several months ago I went to the Bob Dylan exhibit at the Morgan Library on Madison Ave, with my closest friend. We are both fans, but the trip was mostly for me. I went through the whole obsessive phase when I was 19, after finding a collection of the bootlegs (yeah, commercial bootlegs) for cheap in the HMV in Picadilly Circus. It was my observation, tangentially, that a lot of very good music was often on sale in England. Which says something about the wider demand for good music there, I suppose. Or, I suppose if I want to avoid impugning the taste of a peoples that has given us the Beatles &c &c, it could say something about inventory management (colonialism being the obvious counterexample when questioning British logistical expertise).

Any case. The Dylan exhibit was disenchanting, in a few ways. Generally, the stripping of illusions, the overwhelming normalcy of his yearbook picture, the many tales he spun, made it seem more likely that the whole thing is a put-on, that we're all being taken for a ride. But that doesn't bother me too much. If he can manage to fool that many people, its an achievement worth noticing.

What bothered me was this: the album covers they would have on display were generally first editions, and often ones that Dylan had autographed for friends. On these covers, which seemed to be affectionately inscribed to friends if not close then at least dear, he would invariably quote one of his own lyrics. And so, "Hey Dan - Like a rolling stone, man!", and "Lucy - Keep walking down the line"

I made those up. But you get the idea.