Bob-Dylan-Motel-Pool Unlike his verbal virtuosity, Dylan’s fine art is meh. Yet, the Greenwich icon’s 100 works are headed to London’s Halcyon Gallery on February 13. In some ways touching but pretty banal, the collection will probably draw in a kind of strained-mingling mixed crowd of arty-smarty gallery goers and eye-flapping fans, likely many more of the latter. It’s not that this sort of rehashing of superfluous crossover is unusual, but it’s a tad irritating. Never mind that Dylan’s latest live shows are self-parodising travesties of hoarse, weak blues mumbled by a condescending statue and he doesn’t care. But hey, I’d say a big Fuck You to everyone and send away my old crap to London so I can cynically wallow in fame moneys too, if my concert audience dwindled to a gaggle of seniors who take “everybody must get stoned” literarily. Dylan, I love you, but please limit your extracurriculars to the radio show. |NME|