I went into the cinema without expectation, I left feeling like a besotted teenager and have listened to little other music since

The bookshop in the town where I used to live had a world-beating second-hand selection. The music section alone was so bounteous that there was a second shelf dedicated solely to books about Bob Dylan. One of them provided an inadvertent punchline to the six-foot display, proclaiming: Why Dylan Matters. Thank god, someone said it!

I have cared about music for about 30 years and been a working music journalist for more than half of that time. You can’t avoid the fact that Dylan matters, yet I had always remained Dylan-agnostic. No one in my family is a fan. I saw I’m Not There when it came out, aged 18, and didn’t really get it. On an interminable van journey from Cornwall to Edinburgh, friends played a CD of his greatest hits, but it left no lasting impression. As a teenager I found his music sounded dusty in the way that old records often do when you’re revelling in the newness of your own, formative era.

Women: ‘You’re such an asshole. How do you make such good music?!’
Bob Dylan: *unintelligible mumbling*
Women: ‘Fuck, you’re so hot’