King of Wreck

Hiphop can never die so long as Bob Dylan—with story in his voice and lust in his eyes—is alive

Point being, you go see Rolling Stones, P-Funk, EWF, Lou Reed, Bowie, Chaka, or whoever because you want to be reminded how good the good old days really were, and because, let's be real, you want to check in and see how the staunch gray guardians of your dusty glory are holding up. But, and this is the crucial difference, when you put that new Dylan on it's to hear what he's up for today. Because see, now that Miles is gone, Bob D and a precious few very, very free jazz cats—namely Ornette, Cecil, Sam Rivers, and Bill Dixon—are the only artistes around that make you feel like whatever they get into tomorrow will be infinitely more arresting or ahead of the curve or in the moment than whatever YouTube-sucking nostalgia trip we're on now. They're all still like Method Man: "Still wild still 'tical still gritty style, foul, crimi-nimi-nal, individual." Point being, Bob Dylan woke up this morning still representing Bob Dylan. And you, Brutus?

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