Bauldie’s rigour, lightly worn, shoots out of every line… identifying the ways the artist Robert Zimmerman and the personas of Bob Dylan diverge and intersect, while storms rage and spectres of Rimbaud, Brecht and King Lear circle. Bauldie’s take feels before its time, breaking down the walls between phases that even Dylan fans like to erect, and tracing Dylan’s consistent posing of a question anyone can relate to: who the hell am I, and why am I doing this?
