Two Dylans arrived at my door. One was a cherubic Welshman sporting a conscious Woodbine and a tie made from a scarf he stole from his sister (his words). The other was a Jewish guy from small-town USA in a leopard skin pillbox hat and a coat he borrowed from James Dean (not his words)! Both these guys linked by a name found in an obscure C14th manuscript of ancient Celtic stories – Dylan, son of the wave. Both revolutionaries in their field. One took the grey self-congratulatory poetry of the 1930’s and turned it on its head writing in a style filched from that ancient Welsh verse, took poetry out of the closeted comfort of upper-class England into every home via the radio, made it a performance art and launched the audio recording industry. The other took pop out of the grip of Tin Pan Alley mediocrity giving it meaningful topics to sing about and lyrics that were poetic and intelligent then blew away the same self-satisfied complacency of the folk world with a ‘fucking loud’ (his words) electric sound. One democratised poetry, the other pushed popular music to literary heights it never knew were possible. One was the first poet since Byron to live the life of a rockstar with all its self-destructive glamour, the other was a rockstar who has only ever thought of himself as a poet and the first to be granted a Nobel for literature. Both men hid behind multiple masks, creating and puffing their own fiction of themselves. Both lied about how they came to be. Both are geniuses in their field.