Bob Dylan and his peers exist on the fringes of music, on the fringes of entertainment and, above all, on the fringes of political potency. And somehow they all participate in the delusion that they ride the eye of the hurricane. Dylan's poetry is ridiculously inept; his voice is as bad as his guitar playing, which is abysmal. Only his ballads, and very few of these, have any value. And his total impact on the course of America and the world measures nil—even though he and his coterie, perhaps mercifully, believe otherwise. Some of his early songs, notably Blowin' in the Wind and With God on Our Side, wrenched the heart. But his own incredibly mannered interpretations—the consciously antimusical, harsh voice coupled with an asinine woolhat dialect—cheapened even these.

In "Blonde on Blonde" you won't find any songs of conscience…. Yet, there is one pure...