Bob Dylan
– Blonde on Blonde
Dylan had already turned folk into a weapon and rock into a pulpit. Here, he builds something even stranger: a rickety, electric carnival ride that never quite breaks down, but wobbles just enough to make you clutch your seat. The album isn’t polished, and that’s the point. It’s sprawling, loose, and alive in a way that still makes most rock records feel like museum pieces.
Best of…
He stumbles through love songs like a drunk philosopher, slashes at poetry with a bluesman’s sneer, and sneaks in a kind of desperate humor underneath all the swirling surrealism. Every track feels like it was born under pressure — the pressure of a genius trying to out-run his own shadow, the pressure of a band trying to keep up without losing their grip. Dylan’s voice, all nasal grit and stubborn refusal to make things pretty, pulls you deeper into the madness instead of saving you from it.
The wild part is how it works. Against all logic, Blonde on Blonde holds together, held aloft by Dylan’s sheer nerve and the band’s swampy, intuitive swing. It’s not an album you figure out. It’s one you sink into, feeling it breathe and buck beneath you. Forty-plus years later, it still sounds less like a product and more like an ongoing conversation—one you were lucky enough to eavesdrop on.
Choice Tracks
Visions of Johanna
A slow, ghostly waltz through loneliness and obsession. Dylan’s imagery is so thick you could carve it up with a spoon, yet somehow it floats, detached, like smoke from a dying candle.
I Want You
Pure, punch-drunk pop chaos. The words tumble over each other, the melody hops like a kid on a sugar rush, and yet it’s all somehow held together by a big messy longing that you can’t fake.
Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again
Dylan laughing at the absurdity of existence and inviting you to laugh with him. Every verse feels like a new room in a crumbling funhouse, full of weirdos and shifting walls.
Just Like a Woman
The tenderness here feels almost accidental, like Dylan wasn’t sure whether he wanted to write a love song or a post-mortem. His voice cracks just enough to make you believe every word.
Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands
An entire side of vinyl devoted to a single, swaying, hypnotic ode. It doesn’t rush because it doesn’t need to. Dylan rolls out image after image, like a preacher who can’t quite let go of his last sermon.
Blonde on Blonde isn’t clean. It isn’t neat. It’s messy, brilliant, and a little bit dangerous — just like anything worth getting obsessed with.