Despite the fact that I grew up with Bob Dylan's music in the background and it holds very good, and/or sometimes sad, memories for me, I confess I've been a bit suspicious of Bob Dylan's more recent releases (as I am, in callow fashion, of the contemporary output of many a superannuated, still-touring, only-in-it-for-the money rock band who should have hung up their guitars years ago - step forward The Rolling Stones; hang your heads in shame, the Sex Pistols). This ambivalence was not helped by having had the misfortune to hear Dylan's ill-advised Christmas record: I know it's for charity, but that's no excuse. If it's a joke, it's a terrible one, and all of us have to suffer for it.
I've been watching Deadwood, which my sister long ago recommended, and at the end of the first episode of Season 2, a recent Dylan song, It's Not Dark Yet, played over the credits. It was so lovely that I forgave him all the Christmas insults. And Deadwood is wonderful.
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My enduring memory connected with Bob Dylan is Mark (Marc?) B absentmindedly patting his back pocket as he ambled through the house. I'm still convinced that Dylan fans are a bit fogeyish and beardy, smoke roll-ups and live in caravans at the backs of people's houses.
You're right! There aren't enough caravans to go round, though.
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