These fans are desperate for Dylan to make another great statement, to admit he is music’s messiah.But greatness is the last thing on Dylan’s mind, his mid-’60s mastery an irritant he’s desperate to escape.Living with his new family, the almost supernatural creative fire of the mid-’60s passed from him like a fever.
Though good records, they were placid compared to their predecessors, a calm after the storm. After New Morning, Dylan made no more studio albums for four years.
Rifles have been recovered from one persistent, insane intruder.
With one part of his mind, Dylan fears his own weapons could mangle these fans. It is the height of the countercultural tumult in America, and the stray battalions fetching up at Dylan’s door are looking for the legend they see as its leader: Dylan the acid guru of Blonde On Blonde, who laid down what rock could be, then vanished from view as a generation fell under his spell.
Hippies have been capering on his roof, swimming in his pool, fucking in his bed, marching up his driveway in straggling droves.
They are coming for answers, or to stare and point, or with less clear, more malign motives.