What I read was an excerpt from the book, not a review. I like Dylan quite a bit, but it was not writing I'd set beside other writing I especially enjoy. The stuff I read felt as though you are watching it being typed.

It seems to me that Dylan courted what he complains of, at least to some degree, and there's no way around it. Not every singer calls attention to themselves in the particular way he did, or conjoins poets to prophets as casually as he did, or uses the illusion of music in the way he did. To some extent he owns responsibility for profiting from the seductive illusion that you can be a rebel and change the world by being rightously entertained. I grew up in that atmosphere of smug-consumer horseshit, and lose a little patience with it. Keepin' it real doesn't supersede actual reality.
    The illusion of music is that the will is working through it to some effect, only it's just an abstract effect that makes you feel somehow connected, and powerful. That's why they have military bands. Dylan may want out the backdoor of how he earned his living but it's a bit ridiculous of him. Houdini was a little more responsible with his act, by actively exposing how magic tricks can take advantage of distressed or weak-minded people, with pseudo sorcery, seances, whatever. Dylan just takes their money and scorns them as grody zombie idiots he's been advised not to shoot. He's all Vincent Price in the Last Man On Earth, beseiged by the living dead. No, I don't exactly love him, or hate him--I don't actually know him. I like the songs and stuff.
   It gets all overwrought puff-piece this business of the poor celebrity. Yeah, I know, they're all really quite shy, private people, I've heard, when you get to really know them. This is not dull stuff? Really? Then I'm out of my head for sure. It's Teen Beat meets Grumpy Old Men, a self-devoted fanzine on crystal meth.
As I say, I like Dylan's music, but what I read sounded very happy to have my attention, again lately, but without feeling much obliged to hold it. Reads as though it were far too important a discourse to have to edit or revise. That's self-serving, and a cop-out.
It is like I'm having a conversation with Dylan. Except I'm not talking. And it's going on for hours. And it's like he's Holden Caufield, and I'm his analyst. Bob, um, I'm sorry, excuse me, I gotta get my kids to bed. Hold onto that thought about people disrupting your family-life though. Or, I'll just catch it when you bring it up again the next time, if that's cool with you, man. Help yourself to the 'frige, all right? You da man.