Bob Dylan
Love And Theft

THE REVIEW

LAIC A ROLIN STON (or: Highway 61 revisited 2006).

This time the guys from B.M.A.B.M. went all out.
The day before yesterday, they called me to the Central Committee (B.M.A.B.M. stands for "Bad Manners Against Bad Music") and the Iron General entrusted me with this case: damn, my first overseas mission.
I can't believe it.
Since the name is illustrious and the person to catch is one of those "who matters," they decide to pair me with a "travel companion" who will ensure the success of the American mission.
Damn it, I think, these bastards don't trust me.
I try to express my disagreement, but the General is terse: "You are in the hands of EneaTheDevil, one of our best men."
"Are you in a hurry, general?"
"It's an important mission, Punny, perhaps the most important undertaken so far, and we'll be under the scrutiny of DeBaser's entire populace, and they'll throw dirt everywhere, are you aware of the risks, Punny?!"
"My name is Punisher, general"
"EneaTheDevil will handle the logistical and highly critical part, you, Punisher, will do the rest of the job... the dirty one"
"Are my criticisms getting on your nerves, general?"
"Go, Punny, finish the job properly and leave no traces."

Today, I'm speeding along the Californian Highway heading to Death Valley in a big Toyota SUV, accompanied by this strange individual assigned to me for the mission.
I take cancerous puffs from my Marlboro while the guy has been on the sidelines for more than two hours taking notes and listening to Bob Dylan's latest original work, "Love And Theft" from 2001, on headphones.
"How is it?!" I ask distractedly to break the ice, even if I've already drawn my conclusions.
And he, in a low voice: "Embarrassing. I can't find a word that defines it better. A parade of dance hall songs placed there to snag a few applause, a worn and completely avoidable commercial operation by someone who evidently believes that the mere fame of his name is enough for years to come. If only for a moment I try to understand what's beyond one of these pieces, beyond the predictable swing execution of a "Mississippi" or a "Summer Days," I can't find anything. Nothing. But above all, I can't find Dylan.".
"What do you mean?!", I say shielding myself from the sun with a pair of démodé Ray-Bans.
"Where have the golden times of protest gone "Freewheelin'," the introspections of the '70s, the religious torment of the eighties. Bob always had something to say, for better or worse, he always had an idea, a feeling. Now I only hear a jumble of pieces without strength, without nerve."

"Ah, ah," I say, ignoring everything he's telling me.

Unfazed by me, he continues his monologue: "...I don't understand why he persists if he knows perfectly well that he has nothing more to say. Rock as a whole, in its country, blues, and folk shades, owes him much, if not everything. But enough now. Contemporary popular music wants to pay tribute to the Dylan of "Blowin' In The Wind," of "Maggie's Farm," of "Just Like A Woman," of the ballads that made him famous, not to a sedate gentleman humming some saloon ditty. I know, I'm stating the obvious, but evidently, many still don't get the concept... yet."
"Mh Mh," I agree with the minimum union effort.

"And that voice, that "his" voice.
Unbearable.
I'm not an aesthete, I steer clear from claiming that, but if once upon a time that sharp, hoarse voice of his added value to his anguished lyrics, now, even more hoarse and worn out, it seems like the wheeze of someone who has nothing more to say. And if he has something to say, he doesn't know how to say it. I can't stand 'this' Dylan anymore..."

"Well, if you say so..." and I truncate this sharp and biting review of his. A headache comes on. And every time it happens, it means the intellectual level is too high for me. Damn Enea. The guy is pretty good, I think.
One more reason to get on my nerves.

Anyway, the hardest part is done... now it's downhill all the way. It only took half an hour to take out the bodyguards, extract old Bob from the San Diego concert stage, and lock him up securely in the trunk. These RX300s could even fit the singer of Banco.

Enea and I constantly glance at each other from the corners of our eyes and likely get on each other's nerves, but so be it: a good punisher must also know how to engage with colleagues democratically and constructively. Even those better than him. Damn it.

The "National Park - California" sign suddenly appears, and I'm forced to swerve sharply right to take the flashing exit.
We reach the summit of Death Valley and slam on the brakes, raising a dust cloud worse than my spring cleaning at home. A fierce wind blows across the valley, scattering my companion's notes everywhere. I open the trunk and pull Bob out tied up like a Citterio, removing the tape from his mouth with a swift yank.
"So?! Anything to say in your defense?"
He spits incomprehensible fiery words with that acidic and scornful voice, the result of years of gargling with turpentine and quick breakfasts of nails and sandpaper. He spits worse than an angry llama confined in a zoo without windows, with that icy glare and in that damned slang filled with "fak" and words elastic and bitter like a Big Bubble chewed by a leprous HIV-infected person.

Using the excuse of not understanding a damn thing about English, I turn to my lanky companion, who by appearance should know more than me: "Hey mortuary, do you want to tell him something else?"
Enea approaches the curly sacred monster, scrutinizes him closely, lifting his glasses, and standing legs spread 20 cm away.
What the hell he has to look at, I wonder, only God knows.
Enea whispers to him in perfect American: "Time passes slowly and fades away..."
It's the last thing the great Bob Dylan hears. The most cited songwriter of the 20th century, the minstrel who forged the critical conscience of multiple generations, and damn it.
For me, a firm pat on the back is enough.
Just one, strong and decisive, like those exchanged between old friends not seen for 20 years, and the singer plunges off the cliff bouncing like the crazy ball of a pinball between score-marker boulders.
I look down the cliff edge and sing to myself "Like A Rolling Stone..."

That damned wind muffles all sounds: not a scream, not a thud, not even a comment from Enea.
My companion, silent as a shadow, adjusts his round John Lennon glasses, wrinkles his nose, smooths his hair with a pocket comb, and sits back in the RX, polishing his shoes bright as pitch.
"Are we sure?" he asks, lifting the collar of his coat.
"What do you think: have you ever seen someone survive a 300-meter fall? If you find one, send them my way, and I'll register him with NASA and sell the rights to Mattel."
He doesn't smile, says nothing, Christ, they say I'm heartless, but he beats them all!

We resume the return journey. I turn on the dashboard radio and hear "...Live from San Diego, an interview with the minstrel Bob Dylan, directly from backstage... Excuse me, Mr. Dylan, what does it feel like to still see all these people at your concerts?"
Enea and I turn simultaneously, eyes wide open.
"Oh, well, it's great... I like it."
"Damn," I say, "it's really him! No one else gives such slow, rambling interviews!"
I brake hard and turn 180° to head back down the valley.
"Damn it," I keep repeating, "you see that..." and the needle hovers around 180 km/h while Enea clings with his nails to the Toyota's human leather seat.
We reach the valley floor and see, behind a boulder, what's left of the songwriter's body, still warm.
I approach, lift his arm, unbutton the plaid shirt cuff, and see on the wrist what I feared.

I read a tattooed code:
CLF14 / 61WRL / REVISITED 2006

The code number stands for California 14: meaning there are 14 clones of Bob Dylan in California alone, sharing the territory, while there are 61 clones worldwide (World indeed) that endlessly and simultaneously travel on the infamous "Neverending Tour." Additionally, this clone has just been overhauled (2006).

It was predictable, why hadn't anyone thought of it before?
Enea looks at me with panic on his face, he understood everything.
"And now?"
"Now we have 60 more pieces to eliminate... for the expenses we incur: will you tell the general!?"