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Rainer Fassbinder


Old? Than the hills. Cagey? Could give Dick Cheney a run. Torn and frayed? Like a beaten up circus dog. Moves left? Bill Belichick couldn’t come up with a defense. Our collective (and still surviving) cultural bellwether Bobby D, Mr. Tambourine Man, Huckleberry Zimmerman has hooked left, faded right, gone up the middle,  scrambled around, thrown to the sidelines, flee-flickered, even tossed a few away while always mutating and forever changing from poet provocateur to white-faced song and dance man, from fresh-faced cowpoke to the ghost of Hank Snow, from lingerie salesman to wheezy-voiced carnival barker, with enough sideways traipsing and off-route detouring to last a bunch of careers. And now, Bob Dylan’s got a Christmas album.
bob dylan wearing santa hat
   Makes perfect sense, really. Yet another almost straight-faced exploration of pop songwriting roots with the attendant wrinkles emanating from that old weird America, yet another idiom accessed, yet another mixed-up, shook-up persona (Bing Crosby meets Doug Sahm over cocktails with Sammy Cahn).