Well. . . .

I can't say that I have ever been impressed by Bob Dylan. Lots of people I knew (particularly blues addicts—and addicts of various other kinds) went bananas over his first record and seemed to think he was the Messiah returned.

But here was a kid from Hibbing, Minnesota who, his school mates said, had a halfway decent singing voice, sounding a bit like Buddy Holly, when he was in his high school rock and roll phase, who, when he took up folk music, apparently gargled with Drain-o to make himself sound like a ninety-year-old who just fell off the turnip truck, dropped his surname of Zimmerman and appropriated the name of a well-known Irish poet, then borrowed the biography of Woody Guthrie (tried to BS Cynthia Gooding about his background when she interviewed him on her radio program).

Then, when he returned Joan Baez's pushing his career (careen?) by treating her in an absolutely shabby manner, he really lost it with me—who wasn't very impressed with him in the first place.

But enough of this.

Don Firth