There's something elating and sickening about Bob Dylan's oeuvre, his egg that truly roqued for two decades – slapping every other artist's output in the chops with aforementioned fish from above. Indeed, he was the eggman.
Elating, 'cos the man is a colossus of vocal stylings, verse, musical composition, and artistic vision. And he was a snappy dresser, with muchos grandes cojones, paving the way for even the Beatles through the 60s. Happy Potter – you can lay your robes and wand aside.
Sickening, for pipsqueaks like Trey, who have to follow THAT!
Happily, the glass over-runneth, so it's not really that bad. Trey can get a bit dramatic at times.
Here's a fine video essay on one tune, at the heart of primordial Dylan.
At the start of this vid below, some journo asks Bob, "What would you call your music?". Why should Bob know what to call it, when he's so deep into it? Why should any artist have to pigeon hole themselves? Even pigeons? Ain't that the job of journo's and pundits? Enough already!
Here's Bob doing that voice of a hundred years old, that breaks your heart in two.
That campfire simplicity of guitar picking and melody line. No fancy production. Imagine lying on the floor of your bedroom, 1963, with just this cut spinning on your Dansette, the lights low or out.
Bob's embarrassment of riches was such the track wasn't even released until 1971*, on volume two of a greatest hist compilation – by which time most folks' careers are over and done with. Meanwhile, Bob was reinventing himself. Again. Like we say – cojonoes, muchos, y grandes.
So, wherever you are, raise a glass to the man from Minnesota. The world's a better place for having him in it.
* Another fine essay, on this tune, can be found on Allmusic.