I‘M SURPRISED Bob Dylan isn‘t French, or a cat. For a creature neither French nor a cat, Bob Dylan sure is a master of disdain.Imagine 75000 people have all gathered in one place to see you. The day has been hot and bright and yellow but now it‘s cooling to pink and tangerine and the sun is setting behind blue mountains, casting a long warm shadow that is purple, flecked with gold. All these people are thrumming like strings pulled taut, they‘re smiling and jostling and thrilled to be here, tonight, right now. In all the world, in all of time, there‘s nowhere else anyone would rather be. Everyone is glitteringly, radiantly present.They‘ve all driven at least two hours into the desert from Los Angeles, but a good many have come from far further off — from London and Australia, from Mumbai and Germany and Dubai, and at least one of them has flown for nearly two full days on three British Airways flights from Cape Town, compulsively collecting sleep masks as though he‘s quartermaster f...
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