When 11 minutes of nasal whine
went viral, the Dylanites were on

their march, torches blazing (or
incandescent with battery power –

it is 2021 after all) and once at the
commentator’s house, they chanted

At 80, Dylan is two thirds of
American history!, and while it

didn’t scan, there was merit in
the calculation, but he shouted back

At 80, Dylan is getting older! It was
a stand-off of monumental

opinion, the weight of ‘like’ and
‘dislike’’ balanced on years of

social media practices, or not:
he eschewing the populism of that

routine too. If Blood on the Tracks
was going to remain a metaphor

as well as album title, they’d have to
compromise – for example agree

there is clever enough alliteration
in the line mercury mouth in the

missionary times, even if wrapped
in the weak chimes of its rhymes, and a

suspect meaning. Or simply settle on
how it is the lesser melody of his output

and more in the poetry; or take the
dispute to how we collectively name

the Nobel Prize winner’s fans: Bobcats
Zimmsters, Freewhellers, The Bob Mob,

Dylanistas? Let the axe fall wherever the
fishing boat bobs on to-and-fro waves,

out where there’s enough water to drown
everyone, unless we all love the blue.

(source: prompted by review here)

My light-hearted – yes it is – response to another trenchant review by Rupert Loydell