This book is full of interesting ideas, but it needed way, way more editing. I'm actually kind of surprised it got published. The book's central claim of Dylan's Midwest influence is practically disposable.
What the reader finds is basically an exposition of the author's conservative political agenda. Bumbling and confused, Pichaske wanders about, supporting himself by appropriating other works here and there and wherever the North wind carries him. You end up with the author rambling through references, interpreting them with a lot of fluff and deceit, barely leaving a trail for the reader to follow, and ranting about his vague opinion of the coming apocalypse. Any structure is artificial, and any respect for his subject, Bob Dylan, is second-place.
Pichaske is kind of a weak wannabe combination of Robert Bly and Greil Marcus, and maybe like some sort of hep cat. With an obviously inexperienced writer and neglectful editing, the prose style is all over the place. It really seems like the guy could hardly give a shit about his readers, and I suspect it's because he's afraid of them. I think he is uncertain of his tall claims (Feminists, go lightly from the ledge). Despite his front, he is a poor representative of masculinity.
I give it more than 1 star because the author indeed lays out a feast. The problem is he eats it all himself.