No one is really sure when and how Dylan Morrison became myth and enigma; nobody is even sure really where he comes from. One day he just showed up and it seemed like it was an old story, like an oral tradition, that has just been around since time immemorial.
He is a rock and roll legend, some obscure Jack Fate, as he has been before he even went away, into the desert or the woods to study with shamans, to fast in the desert for forty days & nights, wandering the wilderness and so forth, on his own hero’s journey before returning to his village.
More like Peter Pan, the boy who never grows up, and is on his restless sojourn to nevernever land; his bad boy image, tousled hair and leather pants, serving him well on his journey into the endless night. Women swoon for this dangerous pirate on the high seas; this Casanova, playing the cards at the all night arcade. Pushing the envelope. Walking the line. On the edge.
Is it fact or fantasy, or a lethal combination of both; the way Jungian archetypes recycle their motifs and dramas, in fresh young faces, courting the public eye, dancing as divine fools, tragic comedians, while spectators living in the shadows are watching, waiting, consuming the flesh of the Eucharist: voyeurs, participants in ritual, myth.
Dylan Morrison knew all this; but still he kept quiet, as he ambled about the town. The kind of shadowy figure that one day walks off into the sunset, a solitary vanishing speck of humanity on a long straight highway, fading into the faraway hills of the gentle desert with the sunset splashing fire red, burnt orange & orgasmic twilight sky blue, never to be seen or heard from again
