A wry view of life for the world-weary

Prospero Or Caliban?

For self-confessed Dylanophiles today is a red letter day as, thanks to the pre-ordering service provided by a South American river, the long-awaited latest studio album, Tempest, from the man himself is due to plop through my letter box. I always look upon the latest release with a mix of eager anticipation and fear of disappointment. The release date is timed to coincide with the 50th anniversary of his debut studio recording – a phenomenal testament to his longevity and creativity, although there have been some duff albums along the way. It is unlikely the 71 year old is going to hit the artistic heights of his true masterpieces – in my view, Blood On The Tracks, Blonde on Blonde, Highway 61 Revisited  and Time Out Of Mind – but hey, with a back catalogue like that, who cares.

Unlike most of my favourite artists, I have seen Dylan only once live – bizarrely in an airfield near Fleet in the late seventies. That experience was a disappointment – he was going through a strange stage at the time – and I figured I would stick with the albums rather than the ex tempore rehashes of his back catalogue.

I am looking forward to ripping it on to my MP3 player tonight and to see what his 34th studio album is like.


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