Here's a nice thing

I stumbled across this little anecdote on the interweb today. It's a kind of antidote to all the boo-shit being spouted around and about concerning Bob Dylan.

A woman writes to BD and asks for permission to reproduce one of his letters. he sends her a postcard saying no. End of story, you'd think, and a typical example of a superstar disappearing up his arse. Two years later, he shows up in her small town and phones her.

Visits her house, listens to her songs, talks about her mandolin. Plays her some of his. This is just before Blood on the Tracks, so he plays her "Lily, Rosemary, and the jack of Hearts" and "Tangled Up in Blue."

Imagine. Before one of the greatest records ever made is even released, you have the artist sitting in your house playing you the song.

She sends him over to a friend of hers, because he's interested in mandolins. Dylan has had a guitar stolen, and the woman's friend offers to give Dylan his Martin guitar - politely declined.

Reveals him to be, underneath all the boo-shit, a pretty cool guy with a fairly wide decent streak running through him.