Bob Dylan is in that league of gentlemen where in-depth columns and analysis are dedicated to his album releases. Even the big boys on Manhattan and Fleet Street sit in their glass cubicles de-coding his rock canon and finding cryptic undertows of hidden meaning; survivor guilt in “Roll On John” (Will Herme/Rolling Stone) or contempt for the bankers in “Early Roman Kings” (Alexis Petridi/Guardian) because he is Bob, man, and back in the 60s he changed the world. Those on the right side of 50 want him to hold his music like a reflecting mirror to our times, because in their youth he somehow made sense of the violent upheaval of their rapidly changing world. To those born into a universe whose bards spun yarns about crying doves and angels in Harlem, he holds less reverence. A friend of mine in her dewy glow of youth raised her eyes in awe, “Bob Dylan, is he still alive?” I fall somewhere in between the two, old enough to know his name holds a meaning, but too young to remember much about his glory days, except stuffing my face with sand and discovering crayons. So I feel I am primed to listen without prejudice and enjoy Dylan’s rootsy ragtime, effortlessly chugging along like only decades of skill allow. His rasp is grating, but soothingly so. And I guess nearly 50 years in the rock’n’roll trenches have earned him the right to cruise the streets dressed as a pimped up gaucho. Even the thought of it makes me smile.