Tom Dunne: Bob Dylan, Patreon, and his curated ‘Letters from the Grave’

Dylan once claimed he grew up among snake oil salesmen. I never paid much heed until I read he had started a Patreon page

Bob Dylan at an awards ceremony in 2012. His ‘Letters from the Grave’ page has many feeling puzzled. Picture: Christopher Polk/Getty

Bob Dylan: Snake oil salesman. Controversial view I know, but it’s 2026 — controversy is all around. And I’m not saying he isn’t a genius. God knows he is.

I’m just saying if he tries to sell you a potion, think twice and call the regulator.

Snake oil salesmen came to prominence in travelling carnival shows, popular in the US from the 1800s to the mid 1900s. Amid the other dubious attractions, these lads would offer to sell potions with “amazing” curative qualities. 

Dylan once claimed he grew up among such shows. I never paid much heed until last week when, incredulously, I read that Dylan had started a Patreon page. For $5 a month you get access to Dylan “curated” content.

“Letters From the Grave” he calls it, a series of audio essays, historical monologues, and fictionalised voices of dead people. How very Bob.

I was confused. I associate Patreon with emerging, perhaps struggling, artists. It’s a way to help fund their art. Blindboy comes to mind. When he launched his podcast he would gently ask listeners to donate the “price of a cup of coffee, if you can afford it”. It was a virtuous circle.

But Blindboy hadn’t recently sold his publishing catalogue to Universal Music for $300m. I’d say if he had he’d dispense with the “price of a cup of coffee” model. In fact, I think he’d buy us a coffee. It would be a podcast that comes with free coffee, possibly for life.

But it doesn’t end there. The offering is described as “curated” by Bob, not “written” or indeed “voiced”. In fact, and you might want to drink some water and sit down for a moment, there are even mumblings that the content may be partly — don’t shoot the messenger — AI-generated.

I know, I know.

“Surely not,” you say, Bob Dylan, the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature 2016 — Literature, as in “proper” writing — resorting to some AI-enhanced sharp practice! No way, José. Well, José, seeing as you’re already sitting down I’ll draw up a pew.

Nobel Prize

When Dylan won the Nobel Prize in 2016 it seems to have surprised his world even more so than the world of people who believe song writing is not genuine literature. Snobs, the lot of them.

It surprised him so much he didn’t react at all. In fact, he ignored it.

He continued to ignore it until it was pointed out to him that the prize came with a stipend that could only be collected in person and which would require him to give a lecture. “How much?” he asked. “$900,000,” they said. “See you in Stockholm,” he rejoined.

Then it got more bizarre. He did not go to Stockholm. Instead, he sent Patti Smith.

He had “other commitments,” he said, his book club night perhaps. As for the lecture, well: Five days before the deadline expired, five days before he’d have lost $900,000, he submitted an audio recording on how various books, including Moby Dick, had influenced him.

It was all going well until later people started to notice resemblances between what Dylan had said and the online study notes of the books he’d selected. A lot of what he had referenced was only in the study notes.

People wondered if he’d read the books at all. If he hadn’t, it was the literary equivalent of submitting an AI-generated novel to the Booker Prize committee.

Did he honestly think that these people, of all the people in the world, wouldn’t notice? Or did he just not give two hoots?

Going against the grain

It shouldn’t surprise us though. Bob has been confounding expectations his whole life.

As early as 1965 he has, when pressed, always denied having ever written a “protest song”. And there’s you and me and your Aunt Mary thinking he is the defining writer of protest songs in the 20th century.

I think we project a lot onto Bob. We call him a genius, a visionary, a hero, a spokesman for a generation, an inspiration and all points in-between.

And every time we do I think he is clever enough to sidestep it. Sometimes by ignoring us, sometimes by doing an ad for Victoria’s Secret.

In the 1970s, Michael Parkinson, at the peak of his own fame, spotted Bob at a restaurant and decided to invite Bob onto his show. “Excuse me, Mr Dy…” he tried to say, but Bob, without looking up just said “he ain’t here”.

Perfect.