Untimely Reviews: Phish, Dick's Sporting Goods Park, Commerce City, CO 09/03/11, Part I

If you caught my review for night one of Phish at Dick’s Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City, CO, you might have guessed that when I woke up Saturday morning, I had a considerable-sized hangover. It was one of those headache-oriented hangovers that let you know an hour before you actually wake and open your eyes that it’s going to be a rough start to the day. I had plans to sleep a little bit of that off, but thanks to DiscoBiscuit Jeff from Philly, who speaks at one volume and one volume only –- loud -- my plan was altered.

At about 7:40 a.m. Mountain, DBJ wandered into our campsite trying to score something, anything, from Uncle Jake. It started off as breakfast -– for which he was offering $5. DBJ was told that our crew needed to eat first, but that if there were any leftovers, then no problem. He was back within moments trying to reassess the situation (Editor’s Note: Uncle Jake was the only one up and out of his tent, and thus far he’d fried a few strips of bacon and begun heating water for coffee.), and basically the same conversation was repeated.

When it was clear that there was still no breakfast for DBJ to have, he asked about having one of our plastic cups. Uncle Jake gave him a cup, thinking (I assume) that this would make him go away for a while. Instead, these were some of his top-volume lines.

“Yeah, bro. My name’s Jeff,” he said (for the second time). “I’m from Philly” (which we already knew) “and the Disco Biscuits are really my thing” (also a repeat). “I’ve seen Phish 89 times but I’ve seen the Biscuits more than a hundred.”

Good job, DBJ.

“But, yeah,” he said. “That’s really awesome what you’re doing, cooking for your people, but for real, bro -– if you had anything to spare, I’d totally throw you some cash.”

Dear DiscoBiscuit Jeff from Philly:

Take said cash, plan ahead, and go to the store.

Signed,
Everyone

He wasn’t done, though.

“So, did you have a good show last night, bro?”

“Yeah, man,” said Uncle Jake. “Real good time.”

“Dude, that was so tight,” said DBJ. “Check this out, bro: Every song they played started with the letter ‘S’.”

Thanks for the news flash, Philly. Now a word from our sponsors.

“Yeah,” said Uncle Jake. “Pretty crazy.”

“Dude, it was more than crazy,” said DBJ. “They played ‘Sparkle,’ and ‘Simple,’ and ‘Sanity.’”

I’d had enough.

“Know what else they played, bro? ‘Silent in the Morning.’” My head throbbed with each hollered syllable.

“Yeah, man,” he said. “Totally.”

DBJ went on talking up his schpeel to Uncle Jake. Loudly. I was contemplating getting out of the tent.

“Know what my favorite song from last night was bro? It was called Shut the Fuck Up.”

This made him mad.

“A better song was You Better Man the Fuck Up, dude,” he said.

“Yeah, bro,” I said. “That’s gonna get you some free breakfast real quick.”

“Aw, dude,” he said. “I was just messin’ with you, but whatever, man. If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t’ve come.”

With that, he was gone. But I was up.

DBJ was back by later, and it was clear -– mostly because one eye was literally looking the other direction -– that he had not yet slept. He was covered in a light coat of dirt, sporting a backwards hat with those obnoxiously fat, always-untied high-top sneakers that Grubby McDorkboxes like him usually rock. Apparently, he’d lost his cup and was in search of another, but he didn’t pause to ask our camp.

Anyway, Uncle Jake, Emily, and the nephews had plans to go into town and see some sites. Originally, they were going to tour around Red Rocks, but it was discovered that Carlos Santana was playing there Saturday evening. With George Lopez. (Note: Really? Does that actually happen?) So, it was determined that venue crews and staff would likely be setting up, so they headed northwest to Boulder and Estes Park instead. Having seen all of those places plenty, I stayed behind.

Once I’d washed the taste of Pabst-brined gerbil out of my mouth, I showered, changed and set out to see who was who on grounds to enjoy this weekend of Phish. It was sort of an aimless wander, but I wanted to get 10 subjects, and once a subject agreed to a quick chat, they had a choice of question sets: a), b), or c).

Taylor and Steve were first. They chose set a).

1) Where are you from? “San Francisco.”

2) How many times have you seen Phish? Taylor: “22”; Steve: “50.”

3) What do you do for work? Taylor: “non-profit, children’s mental health”; Steve: “student at Stanford.”

4) Complete this sentence: This best way to spend time when not doing anything Phish is…: joint-effort answer: “other music, i.e. Dark Star, Govt. Mule, the Disco Biscuits” (Editor’s Note: I badly wanted to ask if they knew Jeff from Philly, but did not.), “The Dead.”

5) What’s your favorite thing about the Phish culture? Taylor: “Everyone’s so positive. There’s a sense of togetherness. We’ve been on campgrounds for other festivals where we didn’t even know our neighbors.” Steve: “Other lots are all disjointed. Everyone’s so ‘I need this' and 'you’ve got that' and 'aarrghhh.’”

(Note: Steve was a little wary at first, wanting to know if this interview would “make its way onto the Internet,” which I assured him it would. He was also keen to some Thank You Phish Day that was supposedly taking place that day, where there had been plans of sky writing a message to the band and handing out free doses to the crowd. I didn’t see any of those things, but if I was oblivious, then, Thanks, Phish!)

“Melanie” was second. She went with set c). She also gets extra quotes around her name/locale because she was interested in being cute, and by "cute" I mean giving a a fake name and locale.

1) Where are you from? “’Tampa.’”

2) Name three bands on your iPod or in your CD player not named Phish. “Eric Hutchinson, Tool, Dean Martin.”

3) Do you have an opinion on Bob Dylan? “Love him! Minnesotan! Woohoo!” (Note: This was apparently a shout-out to all her Tampa people from Minnesota.)

4) What do you make of all the Obama criticism? “Ohhhh-bama. That’s what I say.”

5) What’s the most important thing to teach kids? “Have fun.”

Up next was Daniel. He, too, went with c).

1) Where are you from? “New York.”

2) Name three bands on your iPod or in your CD player not named Phish. “Ali Farka Toure, Emancipator, Holy Ghost.”

3) Do you have an opinion on Bob Dylan? “I love Bob Dylan.”

4) What do you make of all of the Obama criticism? “Obama had a tough road to go when he was elected. The criticism is out of control. I mean, he can only do so much. He’s not a miracle worker. I think he’s doin’ alright.”

5) What’s the most important thing to teach kids? “Sustainability.”

Fourth was Chloe. Again, c).

1) Where are you from? “I live in Lakewood, but I’m from Boston.” (Note: I asked her if she was stoked about the Bruins championship win, and she showed me her Boston inner-wrist tattoo.)

2) Name three bands on your iPod or in your CD player not named Phish. “The Grateful Dead, Boards of Canada, Pink Floyd.”

3) Do you have an opinion on Bob Dylan? “Bob Dylan’s a super-poet. He can’t fuckin’ talk anymore. No, I mean, he’s like the first rapper. I just wish he could still sing.”

4) What do you make of all the Obama criticism? “I love Obama. He’s doing what I want for weed, so he’s cool with me. I voted for him because I think he’s a good person. They’re good people. It’s better to have a good person in office than a good politician.

5) What’s the most important thing to teach kids? “To love themselves, to be themselves, to always be true to themselves.”

Lara fell in the five-hole. She chose b).

1) Where are you from? “Denver.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? “The Grateful Dead.”

3) What book did you most recently read? “The Help by Kathryn Stockard.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? “I don’t know. I’m not very adventurous, I guess. In a tent?”

5) What’s one thing for which you want to be remembered? “Changing the lives of children.” (Note: Yes, Lara’s a teacher.)

In the six spot was Tim. He also chose b).

1) Where are you from? “Chicago.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? “The Beastie Boys.”

3) What book did you most recently read? “The Life of Pi by Yann Martel.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? “I don’t know. Oh, in a nasty lake.”

5) What’s one thing for which you want to be remembered? “I don’t really care if I’m remembered.”

Lee was batting seventh, made for three consecutive b) picks.

1) Where are you from? “Minneapolis.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? “The Beatles.”

3) What book did you most recently read? "Big Sur by Jack Kerouac.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? “At a festival.”

5) What’s one thing for which you want to be remembered? “I don’t know...bein’ happy.

Hannah and Christopher were eighth. They went with a).

1) Where are you from? (Editor’s Note: I either forgot to ask them where they’re from or didn’t write it down, but I’m pretty certain they’re from the Denver area. What I do know is that they’re engaged (and if memory serves as of December with plans to wed next September) and will celebrate in Breckenridge.)

2) How many Phish shows have you seen? Christopher: “102”; Hannah: “1.”

3) What do you do for work? Hannah: “marketing sales account manager”; Christopher: “finance.”

4) Complete this sentence: This best way to spend time when not doing anything Phish is…: simultaneous answer: “Furthur!” They then added, “or snowboard or ski or hike 14ers. Live life!”

5) What’s your favorite thing about the Phish culture? Hannah: “my fiancé”; Christopher: “friends.” Hannah added that she also “thought the letter-of-the-alphabet show was cool.”

Up next: Lorin, who went with b).

1) Where are you from? “Connecticut, but I live in New York.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? “The Grateful Dead.”

3) What book did you most recently read? “Democracy by Joan Didion.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? “My friend’s second-floor porch.”

5) What’s one thing for which you wish to be remembered? “Always being able to stand up for myself.”

Jon and Jessica closed it out, also with b).

1) Where are you from? “Seattle, by way of Orange County.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? Jessica: “Pink Floyd”; Jon: “Neko Case.”

3) What book did you most recently read? Jessica: “Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin”; Jon: “Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean M. Auel.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? Mutual response: “The kitchen.”

5) What’s one thing for which you wish to be remembered? Jon: “Being hospitable, generous”; Jessica: “being reliable.”

So this was the little interview experiment, which was a ton of fun, something I'll repeat at future shows given the opportunity. Check back tomorrow for part two of Saturday's review, which will include some more campground shenanigans, and, uh -- oh, yeah -- the show.

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Untimely Reviews: Phish, Dick's Sporting Goods Park, Commerce City, CO, 09/02/11

For most of the summer, I stressed about whether or not I’d get to catch Phish. In the past, it’s never been a problem; before I was married, I was perfectly capable of mismanaging my finances enough to make Phish shows a priority. Since the great nuptial exchange, I’ve managed to see them each year since their 2009 reunion. In August of that year, the wife gave the go-ahead for a solo trip up to Chicago, and then we went together to Indio, CA for Festival8 that October.

Last year, when we got shut out six ways from Sunday on Telluride tickets, we opted for a trip to Wisconsin to see them at Alpine Valley. The wife was a huge sport then, too, being roughly four months and change pregnant. Our daughter’s been with us for over eight months now, and between two monster student loans, two car payments, and the 12-headed monster known as day-care fees, there just didn’t seem like a way to make any of my second-leg-of-tour options –- Chicago, Denver, or Portland -– work.

The way it did wind up working was for the wife to say that we didn’t really have enough money saved up for our big family vacation next spring, so she suggested we postpone it a year, and that I use some of what was saved to go see Phish, the most inexpensive route being to catch them in Colorado. For that, and many other things, the wife deserves massive, massive kudos. Not only was this a huge financial sacrifice, but it also meant that she would spend Labor Day Weekend on her own, and solely responsible for the baby.

I didn’t immediately reveal a sense of elation, but that’s kind of been how I roll in the last few years; excitement doesn’t really grasp me until the thing at hand is right around the corner. I did feel a bit more amped once the tickets arrived in the mail, and that edge grew even more when Phish finished their three-night run in Chicago. It meant that the Dick’s Sporting Goods Park shows were near, that I’d soon be again in the presence of my favorite act.

Stress was gnawing at me Thursday as the work day wore on and items on my to-do list were still mostly unchecked, and once most had checks, and I was in bed, I tossed and turned all night. The cause of this was general anxiety about getting up, on the road, and to the venue without feeling rushed, but Adeline woke twice during the night, too, which didn’t help.

I rose, nonetheless, at 3:30, showered, made coffee, and crossed off the remaining two stragglers from the list. I checked my e-mail, Facebook, and Twitter for the final time for a few days, and inspected the already-loaded gear in the car. I woke the wife, who woke the baby, and put her in her car seat, and we were off to Uncle Jake’s, who was driving two of his nephews, and I west.

Things were a little confusing upon our arrival, as there were five people outside, but no Uncle Jake. I knew the two young men were his nephews, but I wasn’t sure if these were the same two nephews I’d met before, nor at which festival I’d met them. I introduced myself to them, and immediately felt embarrassed as they -– Michael and Cameron –- both clearly remembered me. I asked if it had been Wakarusa we’d been at; they were quick to correct me: Festival8.

The wife was anxious to get the baby back home, to get both of them back in bed, but I wasn’t sure what to do as Uncle Jake’s SUV looked like it had roughly six square inches of space for my gear, and I had a lot of gear. On the back was fashioned this trailer-hitch shelf for extra storage. It too was loaded.

Alas, Uncle Jake appeared from what was likely a morning-coffee visit to the throne. We assessed what of mine could be left behind, said goodbye to our respective loved ones, and were off in the darkness. For some reason shotgun was reserved for me, and so I made a valiant effort to stay awake for the duration of the drive, while our two 21-year-olds and one 23-year old slept their way across Kansas. I nodded off once or twice, but only for a few minutes.

Everyone was awake and alert for the entrance into Colorado, and our arrival in the thriving metropolis of Montbello was enough to wake a dead cat, as we struggled to find much of anything resembling a grocery store. We obtained some directions, and visited with a crackhead, before making our way to Safeway and the neighboring liquor store for all of the essentials. In the parking lot of the latter, a middle-aged man pulled up next to our car, saw the fullness of the shelf, our arms full of booze boxes and bags of ice, and, with a puff of his miniature stogey, said, “Are you guys by chance on the road?”

We all chuckled, and he informed us that we appeared to be doin’ it right, but not to forget to sit down on the curb and smoke some weed in the event of a problem (Editor's Note: Thanks, bud.). We got to the venue and got parked, and saw the checkpoint tent through which we would be forced to trudge with gear in tow, every last bit of it to be inspected for potential rules violations. It was hot out, and the parking lot was sand. The four trips to our allotted three squares of soccer field were borderline brutal.

Nevertheless, we had a good group effort to get groceries, alcohol, three tents, and a shelter with seating for five up and operational, which was key for a good start to the weekend, as it would gauge, in my mind, how the harmony would or wouldn’t exist within our camp. It was also key, because as we were driving in the last tent stake, and shaking out the last bag of ice, security came around to announce that they were expecting heavy rains and high winds in the next five-10 minutes.

And based on the wicked lightning forks stabbing the ground around the venue, and the swell of monster gray clouds, this was no joke. I spoke briefly with a friend in Denver, who was hiding under a tree with his wife and son, their bike ride suspended by the same storm.

“It’ll pass over you quickly,” he said, “but yeah, you’re about to get crushed.”

This thing came whipping down upon the soccer field, sending massive shade tents cartwheeling across the field like tumbleweeds. Uncle Jake dove into his mansion of a tent while the rest of us grabbed what rain gear was within arm’s reach, and a leg of our own shelter to literally keep it from being ripped away from our middle square of real estate. Luckily, we’d managed to scarf down a few of the hot dogs and grilled-cheese sandwiches Uncle Jake had made before the sky opened on us.

As expected in a scenario like that, many whooped, hollered, and yelled, encouraging the storm to try and ruin the still-being-christened weekend for them, their own Lieutenant Dan match against God, if you will. Some folks howled with such volume that I began to question their sanity, but knew it to be validated by their even-louder bellows that emerged some 20 minutes later, when the storm subsided, and a vast Colorado blue that ensconced a beaming sun replaced those dark

pillows of that had just assaulted hundreds and hundreds of tents. But, we survived, and by the grace of something, everybody’s stuff stayed dry, even the inside of my fossil of a tent. And toward the venue we went. The line was a complete disaster first night as Dick’s employees feverishly hole punched any and all tickets that was shoved into their personal space, which is what the door attendants were checking to see if your ticket qualified, via hole punch, for a floor wristband. Jackpot.

Set one started with “Sample in a Jar,” which contained nothing noteworthy. I’ve heard that same “Sample” a bunch. (Note: Ed Rooney voice…) “Nine times” to be exact. And three of them were set openers. “Sparkle” followed which is always fun, and with high energy –- except when it’s sloppy -– but it always seems so rushed anymore. This version was crisp and clean, though.

“The Sloth” came third. Still unremarkable. “Sweet Virginia” started, and I felt like now we were talkin’ kidney beans. Solid execution, great placement, and I always like getting Fishman involved early on the vocals. “Suskind Hotel” followed that, and it’s cool to be present for only the second performance of it. There’s a lot of hype going around for both the performance rarity and the Trey-led jam, but it didn’t do a whole lot for me. In fact, the jam reminded me of the Mike Gordon line from Bittersweet Motel:

Trey: “Mike, what’d you think of that set last night?”
Mike: “I thought you played a lot of notes.”
Trey: “You always think that!”

It did, have a crisp finish to it, though.

“Strange Design” is always pretty, but for a so-far-uninspiring first set, it was a rough spot for me and my fading enthusiasm to have a slow song. My phish.net stats listed one track played at 13 shows, two at 10, nine at nine (“Sample” being one), and nine at eight, of which “Stash” is one. This is the price you pay, obviously for seeing a band 30-plus times, but the way the set had thus far unfolded, I was not too thrilled. Regarding the jam: some decent Trey, some of that too-busy Trey.

The lovely bass and groove-infected clav funk that comes with “Sneakin’ Sally Through the Alley” almost always guarantees a win-win situation. For me, though, night one at Alpine last summer featured a “Sneakin’” that would be tough to top, especially having seen it just two shows ago. All told: decent crunch, fun vocal jam that trickled into some of that thick, spaceman Gordon spunk. Real nice. Might be goin’ somewhere here.

“Sparks,” an instrumental number from The Who’s Tommy followed, and I’ll be honest: I’d never heard the song before, and frankly, have never owned a copy of Tommy, so I stood there blank-faced for its brief duration. “Scent of a Mule”’s another eight-timer for me, but I typically enjoy it if the Trey/Page dual doesn’t feel rushed. It was rushed, though, and moreover, they rushed right to it, but when you’re waist deep in a 14-song first set on night one of three, something’s gotta give. Not a bad version.

I dig “Stealing Time from the Faulty Plan.” It’s got some edge to it, and in a Phish society that bashes content from Joy, I’m –- at least for now –- prone to stick up for it. Nice beginning to the jam, though it quickly threatens – via Trey and Page – to lose me. Decent finish. Never been a big Rolling Stones fan, but I love that “Virginia,” “Shine a Light,” and “Loving Cup” appear to get the most play from the Exile on Main Street album, as they are among the best cuts, in my opinion, from that record, and this version of “Shine” was delightful.

I’ve written previously about how I think the lyric “smooth atonal sound” is a bit of an oxymoron, and while I know there are those in the land of Phish that get off on it, I do not. Some of the most atonal jams I’ve heard have nearly brought me to my knees, made me feel as though my chest was going to split open and gush. “Split Open and Melt” scares the shit out of me every time I hear it live because of the massive potential it has for crushing me. This version went straight to the jam, and I was looking for a railing to white-knuckle, but it wound up being mellow in its intensity, and featured some blistering Chris Kuroda work.

“The Squirming Coil” is a long-time favorite of mine. I can’t recall a version I didn’t like (regardless of set or set placement), and this one was no exception. It closed out the set, and as you may’ve noted, every song started with the letter‘S’, which was all the buzz that night and the next day.

I found it cute.

Intermission is probably a good time to discuss how what’s going on with you largely determines your experience at a show, perhaps to a degree measurable in comparison with what’s going on with the band. I mean, on most nights, this band doesn’t suck, so if you’re in a good space, they’ll probably push you into a great one. I think I was a little off from a wacked-out night of sleep, not really eating a meal to speak of all day, and then pounding 87 beers from the moment the storm let up through most of set two. Because of the mayhem going in, I lost my people, and spent the show getting knocked around and shoved by everyone –- and they’re there every show –- that had to get up front.

I’ve been up close at my share of shows, and it’s great, but not everyone can do it. Actually not very many at all can. It’s called physics. You can only put so many objects in a finite space before that space has to shift. There was something about the general ennui I felt during set one, and via my swift exit/return to/from the concession stand, I was probably 12-15 rows back, Page side, and early, therefore feeling determined to man my small plot of land.

I’d also felt like there was something energy-wise happening with both myself and with the band at the end of set I, something that could carry over and develop into a huge second half. While I was in line, I heard one of the many knuckle-headed gems you hear from Phish fans, and it went something like this:

“Bro, if someone’s givin’ you negative energy at a show, you gotta either turn it into positive, or just walk away.”

Great in theory, I suppose. In practice, not so much.

So there I was, in my spot. House lights go down, crowd rowdies, and whatever the percentage is, people rush. When most had settled, I wound up with a guy behind me that decided he was going to put his folded-up, bagged lawn chair (or umbrella, or whatever it was) directly against my heels, and stand all but touching my back.

I’m sure there is one, maybe two, larger pet peeves in my archive, but I can certainly not think of one right now. When people put their feet on my book rack in grade school, and scraped their soles against its edge, or kicked it repeatedly –- intentionally or not –- it would drive me nuts. Same at manager meetings in restaurants where we’d around a high top and someone’s gotta put their feet on one of my chair’s rungs. Or when I work hockey games for the Central Hockey League, and I have someone standing behind my chair, leaning on it, and noticeably breathing on my head. These things fire me up big time.

I won’t carry on in great detail about this incident, but I let it affect my second set. At first I didn’t do anything because it was weird, and I thought maybe it was an accident. But like I mentioned, people keep flooding the very front, those on the edge get forced back. Eventually, I offered a gentle shove to his item, thinking he’d notice that it was in my space, and move it. Instead, he shoved it right back into my heels.

This literally continued for the entire set, each shove exchange a bit more aggressive. At one point, he was like, “Dude, quit tryin’ to move it back,” to which I wanted to say, Yeah, man. That’s what we’re all trying to do here: not move backwards while people flood the front.

Anyway, the music.

“Sand” was the opener, and it had great energy, some solid cylinder firing. It segued into “Simple,” which you can almost never go wrong with, and on this occasion it featured a patient, full middle section. I suppose it would be appropriate to say that Mike did in fact “drop a meatball” in there, and, more generally speaking, there’s some cool, spaced-out stuff happening amongst the three of them, while Page quietly sounds like the attacking creatures from Galaga.

I was stoked to get a “Steam,” and, given my thoughts on specific-track expectations for shows –- never have them -– I was going against my own grain and feeling like I’d be bummed if we didn’t get one in six sets at Dick’s. There had to be one. It was the only new song, really, of the summer. Typically, with first experiences, you’re just stoked to hear it and be there for the rendition, which I was. I also dug how they came out of the jam.

Still no pauses, and into “Soul Shakedown Party” we go. Who doesn’t like a little Bob Marley dropped on them? Here’s how I generally feel about “Seven Below”: best song on their worst album, but it’s a song that should’ve been faded out on the studio cut because the jam is disjointed. Page, however, began this jam with some nice church organ, and for the most part, it was a solid, skanky, echoing jam.

The stats say I’ve seen “Suzy Greenberg” eight times; I say 18. Either way, it’s a good thing Page keeps carrying this tune out of the mud of mediocrity because, well, it’s real damn mediocre. Still no pauses, and a pretty execution of “Scents and Subtle Sounds” straight into a “Slave to the Traffic Light.”

The stats say I’ve seen “Slave” four times, which, again, feels like an under-representation, but not one I have a beef with, because, like “Squirming,” I’m a sucker for it. I always seem to get one when at an outdoor CO venue, and it reminds me of how happy I am to be seeing Phish, and specifically, seeing them outdoors in CO. Could be my soft spot for the song, but I feel like they crush it every time, too.

This segued into my first “Silent in the Morning,” and I unfortunately got it without “The Horse.” Thanks, ‘S’ set! It should be noted, though, that Mike, just like in the studio version, just dumped delicate popcorn on the crowd with this bass line. Segue into “Sanity,” another first, Trey accenting the ‘s’ sound like a Ssssesssame Sssstreet ssssock puppet ssssnake. At song’s end, he was not even attempting to be discreet about it, but buying time for Page and Fishman to get up front for an acapella version of “Sweet Adeline,” my daughter’s namesake song, the first I’ve heard since her birth.

“Sabotage” for an encore is, by and large, a crowd pleaser, I think. Got ‘em fired up for second night, anyway.

The moment the house lights came up, I turned to the heel shover, and let him know that I wasn’t trying to move back, that his stuff was in my space.

“You have a great night, man,” he said, and turned to walk away.

Tool.

All things (re)considered, it was a fun first night, and regarding my occasional boredom and seen-this-a-bunch commentary, I felt like they covered some serious ground Friday night, meaning they checked 25 songs off of the list, leaving things pretty up in the air for nights two and three. Like I said yesterday, “even the greatest of shows aren't great for everyone, regardless of what transpires on the stage.”
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Untimely Reviews: A Preview to a Review: Remembering Phish in Las Vegas, 1996

Last night I returned home from a trip to Colorado to see Phish for three nights at Dick’s Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City. We left a little after five a.m. Friday morning, and returned home around six in the evening. I’ve assembled some notes and will post reviews of the weekend, but because I heard the phrase “this one time in Vegas” about 14 times this weekend, I recall the last time I bookended a show with nine-hour drives on either side.

The first (and last) time I wrote a review about a Phish show, I was in college, and I did so for the Arts & Entertainment pages of Fort Lewis College’s The Independent. Being that I was the editor of those pages, I didn’t have to plead for a freelance opportunity, or submit a piece and hope for it to be accepted. I went, came back, and in the sentiment of the old college try, put the thing together at the last minute. And it was kind of a disaster. I mean, I was proud to have a nice chunk of my pages represent Phish, but I didn’t take a camera, so I had to pilfer a picture from somewhere, and that was far from the worst of it: I didn’t do a thorough copy-editing job, and being that it was way past deadline when I submitted it for layout, our staff copy editor had already gone home for the evening.

There weren’t glaring typos or misstated facts about the performance, but there were two primary flubs: 1) I did nothing but rain praise on the band, which I’d just done two months prior in an album review when Phish’s Billy Breathes had been released. Here’s where it gets tricky: Every ounce of praise for both their sixth studio album and the show –- Las Vegas, NV, Dec. 6, 1996 –- was deserved. That record ranks near, if not in, the top three of all their non-live recorded material, and that concert –- chock with Elvis impersonators, professional yodelers, and a guest appearance from Primus –- was epic. But, you, in my opinion, can look foolish when heaping gob after incessant gob upon an artist without even a sliver of negative criticism.

Not that big of a deal. What was, was 2) me not fact checking. Primus had recently switched drummers (again), and I was not keen to the band’s lineup. What I did was include drummer number two’s name –- Tim Alexander -– in my original draft of the story. Dave, one of the fellows with whom I attended the show, happened to be the A&E Editor I’d replaced, and at the time, he was a pretty good friend of mine (Editor’s Note: That friendship has encountered a few difficulties in the 15 years since, namely his current 11-year prison sentence, but we’ll file that tidbit in the some-other-time folder.).

Anyway, he mentioned that Brian Mantia had replaced Alexander at the kit, and as I was wont to do with information received from Dave, I decided I needed to verify it. In the interim, I changed Alexander’s name to Pat McGroin, and slapped parentheses around it, assuming that that would stick out enough to signal my eye for a need to edit. My organizational skills were a touch in the lacking department back then, though, and, well, that’s how it went to press.

In hindsight, though, it was fitting that the piece was a bit of a disaster because most everything about the trip was, too.

At the time, I was about 16 months into my stay in Durango, and had just moved into my fourth residence. The first was the master bedroom of a wood-burning-stove-heated house about 20 minutes north of town. The girlfriend with whom I’d moved to Durango –- we both had been accepted to FLC as transfer students -– had a rough go of things. She got a job delivering pizzas for Little Caesar’s and I got a job as a line cook at this dingy sort of Applebee’s-of-the-Southwest kind of chain. My starting wage was $5 an hour and I closed five nights a week.

It took me less than two weeks to move from salad to Mexi’ to the fryer, and before long I’d be working sandwich/grill back, and finally grill, which meant I was running the kitchen and making a bit more money. But for that winter, I was on fry for a while because that station had a heavy demand that most college-town kids simply couldn’t handle. Our room at home had no shower in its bathroom, and so five nights a week, several beers after my shift, I’d drive out to our place, and get in the tub, constantly trying to push the grease pockets away from my skin as I bathed.

My girlfriend and I were both taking 15-plus hours, which meant nine a.m. starts, which meant early departures. In short, we never saw each other, and when we did have free time, I –- being four years her junior -- was too immature to recognize the importance of spending it with her. By semester’s end of ’95, we’d agreed to move out on our own, which was a shame, because Amelia was one of the sweetest human beings I’d ever met.

I moved in with a few buddies I’d met up on the Front Range performing one of my other glorious bits of employment -– housekeeping -– and was with them for less than two months; dogs were not allowed in this condominium unit, and my lack of responsibility in the poop-scooping department got my operation discovered, my dog and I booted. A few friends from the restaurant invited me to move in with them, which I hastened to accept. This was a two-bedroom unit with a tiny kitchen and bathroom, in which seven people (and one other dog) slept. Only one of which was a girl, and she’d long since given up cleaning anything, given that she lived with half a dozen slobs.

She became an immediate fan of mine when I moved in and promptly scoured the bathroom. I didn’t have any actual real estate in the home, so I placed my twin mattress, my box spring, and my pickup truck full of possessions in the shed across the sidewalk. It had no heat or running water, which made for a cozy Colorado winter, but with a decent North Face sleeping bag, a stack of blankets, my dog, and a gas-powered space heater, I survived. The building, I should mention, was partitioned and very wide, and there were four guys and another dog living in the other half of it.

As the weather warmed, and some roommate shuffling occurred, I was able to move to a bed in the corner of the living room, but as summer’s end drew near, the California landlords surprised us with a visit, informed us that they were going to remodel the home and remove the partition, to then re-rent it as a single unit. This may or may not’ve been true; they (Note: And by “they” I mean she.) was aghast that somebody had spent the winter in the shed – my bed was now occupied by someone else, and was stricken with a paranoia of someone dying on her property. Either way, we were told to go.

That summer had seen the primary couple of the home split, two guys leave, and a pair of sisters from Grosse Point, MI move in. One was a server at our restaurant, the other waited tables down the block. For about a week, I had the luxury of sleeping with the younger one, but quickly found out I was but a link in her boy chain. One night in the middle of that delightful stretch, after over-serving myself at our restaurant, the sister with whom I was sharing sheets was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, and her elder sibling and I were on the couch watching TV.

I think my confidence level must’ve been pretty high at the time, because I bum rushed her with a big, long kiss, thinking in that cosmically dark cavern of a brain, that this would only have one result: some kinky sister-sandwich action. She obliged in the lip lock for five or six seconds, and towards the end of the moment, she’d even raised her hands to my head and run them through my hair. She made a quick transition, though, and used them to push my face away from hers, saying, “Dude. No. What the fuck? My sister’s in the bathroom right there.” My response was less than good.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.” I’m not positive, but I think there was a semi-sinister grin on my face as I nodded to complement those three words, but she leapt from the couch and zipped into her room, slamming the door behind her, just after offering a few more: “Whatever, man. That’s fucking gross.”

Needless to say, I did not attempt anything like that ever again.

The Grosse Point sisters, however, did agree to sign a year lease with myself and the guy from the primary couple, so the four of us and our three dogs moved into a place about 15 minutes west of town. It was an absolute train wreck of a situation, as said dude immediately began to stay with in-town friends, as did the sisters. Admittedly, it was a wicked Durango winter in terms of snow fall -– one storm left parts of our neighborhood chest deep -– and the drive from town was entirely uphill. The girls literally never even unpacked.

But we were there for about four months, and I was working full time, going to school full time, and doing a three-day-a-week internship at a school 30 minutes from town, starting at nine a.m. My attendance at this internship was spotty at best, and I probably reeked of Guinness on most occasions in which I was present. What’s worse is that the La Plata Electric Association had begun installing -– per individual home owner request -- these thermostat-keypad devices that controlled the home’s power. This meant that one had to drive to LPEA, submit a payment, and have a card activated. One would then drive home, swipe the card in the device, and boom –- power.

When the amount in your account dropped below $20, it would beep incessantly and if you didn’t swipe again –- obviously with new money -– by the time it hit zero, then boom –- no power. As in, no heat, no light, no nothing. As the only quote/unquote regular resident of the home, I was seldom there, given my schedule. But I slept there every night, and upon arrival, had to deal with all three dogs having been cooped up all day and on some nights, I’d toss and turn through the beeping. On others, I’d shiver, longing for my scarcely heated shed.

Somewhere along the line, a girl named April started waiting tables at our restaurant, and she took a liking to me, which typically never happened. I mean, I had plenty of stints with girls, but seldom, if ever, did a girl aggressively pursue me, and April made it clear from the very beginning that she wanted to hang out after work all the time. It didn’t matter that I stank -– I was running the kitchen by this time –- and that I always wanted to do the same boring thing with the same folks every night after work. She wanted to be there.

Among a couple of other minute details, this clued me in early that April had a little bit of baggage. Not a big deal. We all do. Hers was just a touch more on her sleeve than most in my circle, but she was in to me, and there’re a few deals about April that you should know: First, she was very intelligent, and second, she was very attractive. Third, she wore her hair very short, which I hated then, and still hate now, but fourth, she had this fragrance about her that very few women have had, but it’s one that, while the most intricate details about it have escaped me over the years, the bulk of it has not.

We talked about it on several occasions, and even laughed about it more than once, and I’m pretty certain it was her perfume. Some girls have that freshly shampooed smell about them at all times and it can be dangerously intoxicating. Every once in a while, you’ll meet a girl who just has a natural scent to her that stays with you for a bit after spending time with her. And even rarer: the girl that, no matter where she is or what she’s doing, she’s staying perfumed when you’re not looking.

This was April. I’d give her a ride home, and bam –- April smell in my truck for five days. She’d come over and spend the night and my sheets would smell of April until I washed them, and sometimes even for a while after.

One final detail about April: her boobs. She had -– and probably still has –- the greatest breastesses I’ve ever had the pleasure of befriending. They were quite large, healthy, real, proportionate to her body, and capped with some gorgeous nipples. One more final detail about April: I knew her boobs so well then, and still know them well now because boobs were where the game ended with April.

No matter how significant the bonding of an evening, no matter how many drinks we’d had, no matter how cold the electricityless bedroom of mine was, there was a mission statement posted between April’s hips, and it said this: Make no mistake; these panties are staying on.

Believe it or not, this was the second of four girls in my time in Durango that liked me enough to spend multiple nights in my bed, mess around with me, and then, when the contract was ready to sign, rip the pen from my hand and ask what I was doing in their office. I’m not going to go into the shenanigans associated with the other three because we’re talking about April here, and one night, my male roommate was out with April and I, having drinks, smoking butts, chewing the fat. And he decided to come home with us, too, for some reason.

It was the strangest thing. We got there, hung out chatting for a few minutes, and then April went into his room –- the room directly across the hall from mine –- and as I sat there trying to figure out what was happening (Note: We had power this particular evening, so there was no beeping and the house was warm.), the door shut. Next thing I know, there’s music playing, and the bedroom light emitting from beneath the door disappeared. When I woke in the morning, they were gone.

I avoided as much engagement with April as I could for about 10 days, and when it became clear that her badgering would not relent, I hung with her one evening, remaining somewhat cold and distant, even when she all but insisted that she come home and spend the night with me. I brushed my teeth, turned out the light, and got in bed, my back to her. She displayed a fair amount of affection, which, translated, meant any whatsoever, as it was usually me trying to assess, time and again, whether or not this would be the night I was tall enough to get in line for Magic Mountain.

I resisted, though, as the fat, obvious cloud of awkward hovered over us, and when her efforts became verbal, then emotional, I turned on the light, propped my head in my hand, and listened to her tale of how my roommate had, according to her, been inappropriate to the nth degree on the night in question.

Now, I don’t know what went down across the hall from me that evening, and I’m not going to use any form of the word allege, and I’m not going to say that anybody was lying, but the gist of her version of the tale kind of leaves my then-roommate wearing a certain black-and-yellow sports jersey, with a particular digit on it that may or may not be a popular uniform-number choice for other athletes that play that same position.

Why, then, she would choose, nay, insist, to return to such a residence still baffles me, almost as much as April’s self-invite to join Dave and I on our journey to Las Vegas to see Phish.

Allow me to clarify: I’m not sure where April was from, but I know that her mom lived in Las Vegas, and this was a free ride to visit her. But it was in my pickup truck with a camper shell with a) a dude with whom she had a peculiar-at-best relationship, b) a guy she’d never met, and c) my dog, who she adored, and again per her insistence, she would share the truck bed with for both legs of the journey, which if you remember, is about nine hours each way in non-winter travel. This was December, on a weekend no less.

That Friday morning, I picked up Dave a little after five. He and his then-girlfriend rented a studio apartment with a Murphy bed, and they were always bickering. This morning was no exception. Dave was up, pulling bong hits, and had the TV on, which were not the quietest two things for that early, and given that it was snowing pretty hard, I wasn’t exactly silent upon entrance either.

But we left, and picked up April, and drove to Vegas, where we had precisely nothing more than tickets to the show arranged. I remember getting to a parking lot down the street from the Aladdin Theater, and feeling like a complete shmuck. Not only could I not really afford to make this trip, but I’d just seen Phish four consecutive nights at Red Rocks Amphitheater that summer, and taken my own bed-of-a-truck ride to New Orleans to see them that spring. I was overextending myself and my budget on this one, and, in the process, leaving my dog in my truck for a three-hour show, after having him back there for over nine hours.

Which is worse, I’m unsure, but the other element was leaving my fragile friend April in a Vegas parking lot in pre-cell-phone times was not sitting well with me, either. Into the show we went, though, and while the show itself would later be unanimously dubbed solid, I was not of the right mindset to enjoy it. Just before the house lights went down, Dave produced a bag of mushrooms from his jeans pocket, which caught me off guard. I’d been unaware of their presence in the truck, and I was not really that far removed from being done with psilocybin altogether. In short, I’d begun taking them with a ratio of 99 parts enjoyment to one part gut problems and over the course of many trips, that ratio had flipped. Dave was a little surprised that I didn’t enjoy the surprise, and after repeated offers, nibbled away solo before putting the rest back in his pocket. As the first set matriculated its way through the evening, the bag came back out, and, for all I know, the remainder of the contents were consumed. It didn’t help that we were in seats, either. I couldn’t walk around and scope the scene, a practice to which I’d become accustomed.

Instead, the troubles on my mind, coupled with an obnoxious repetition of trying to asses Dave’s intoxication via glances –- I’d never not taken mushrooms and hung out with someone who had, so I didn’t know what it looked like from a sober perspective –- distracted me from the show. By the time the first set ended, I’d relaxed a bit, but frankly, by the time the historic encore with Primus and the like was taking place, I was ready to go, and by “ready to go” I mean preoccupied with where we’d sleep.

What I remember most about the show was post-conclusion, when the venue emptied onto the Vegas streets. It was like a pocket of Mardi Gras had been dumped into the Nevada night. The buzz of show goers reached in all directions, and not a single person seemed to have their wits about them. We got to the truck, and let the dog out. Some ticketless lot inhabitants voiced their concerns for his well being, and before long, we were driving. I don’t know what direction we went, or where geographically we wound up, but I do know that it was away from the strip, and on the shoulder of a curved highway on-ramp.

We pulled over and crawled into sleeping bags in the bed of the truck, hardly leaving McConnell, my shepherd, any room to curl. It didn’t take long to fall asleep, and it didn’t take a whole lot longer –- around two a.m. -– for a cop to wake us up via camper-shell-window knocks with his flashlight. I fumbled for my bag’s zipper, hushed my barking dog, and slid the window open.

“What in the hell,” he said with a pause, “do you guys think you’re doing?”

“Sleeping, sir,” I said, blinded by the beam he projected into my eyes.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “Can’t sleep here. Illegal and dangerous.”

Dave had not even pulled his bag down over his head.

“Okay,” I said, “but we don’t have any place to go, sir.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “You shoulda thought of that before you left Colorado.”

He was, of course, right about that, but this only heightened that been-pulled-over feeling I was now experiencing, recalling the beers I’d had at the show, and the fact that there was certainly some weed on Dave’s person or in his duffle bag.

“What do you suggest, then, sir?”

“I suggest you get your ass outta here before I start writing you a ticket,” he said.

I got out of the bed, still calming my dog, and Dave now arose, too, and as we were climbing into the cab, the cop continued.

“What happens if a truck driver falls asleep at the wheel and hits you guys? Did you think about that? You’d be dead; that’s what.”

I apologized and pulled away, astonished that there’d been no further repercussions.

Where we chose for our second spot of slumber is also unclear, but it was far from the city, and on some side road surrounded by miles of sand, and buildings stretching the horizon. It was also very bright and surprisingly warm when we awoke.

Dave had made it clear weeks before we left that he wanted to gamble. I had pretended to be interested, but knew that I would not have the funds to do so. What I had, at that moment, was a little more than $30 and an awareness of what it would cost us to get home. We drove back to the strip, however, parked, and walked a ways. Along the sidewalks were people with flyers advertising escort services, and it reminded me of all the previous evening’s insanity, the zooted concert attendees, the peddling of wares, the attempts to sell you sex of one sort or another.

Ultimately, we entered one casino, played a few slots, and got some breakfast. Dave wanted to find the right place to do some higher-end gambling and the noises and the windowless stretches and manner in which one casino blended into another without ever putting you outside slowly began to overwhelm me. I wanted to go home, but I felt some sick bug biting me that seemed to hint at money-making possibilities wherever Dave chose to stop.

It seemed like we walked for an hour and-a-half, and I began to remind him that we continued to get further and further from the truck, that all of these places looked the same. He was patient for a while, and when I actually began to whine and demand to know what he sought, he abruptly stopped walking.

“Blackjack,” he said. “I’m looking for the right blackjack table, and we’re going to make ourselves a little cash for the ride back.”

Blackjack? I thought. I don’t even know how to play blackjack. Wait, I don’t know how to play any of these games, except for maybe five-card draw and five-card stud, and now I’m not even sure what the difference between the two is. Maybe blackjack is the one that’s just like 21.

Dave finally decided on a table, and sat down. I hesitated, and before long, each of the seats next to him and near him became occupied, save one. I felt my $27 through my jeans, and sat, without even the slightest notion of a casino strategy in my brain. The dealer passed me by, addressing each of the other table’s wagerers as he went. He saw the look on my face and during his next pass, he addressed me.

“You have to buy in if you would like to play, sir,” he said.

I felt my face warm a touch, and with sweaty palms, removed a five-dollar bill from my pocket and placed it on the edge of the table. This time, the dealer’s face changed colors a bit.

“The buy-in,” he said, “is $20, sir.”

As I clumsily swapped my five for my 20, any ounce of logic and rationale I had in that moment, was sucked away from the table like the sunlight had been at the time of the building’s construction. I of course knew by then that blackjack was in fact 21, and that I could play this game, and maybe even walk away with a profit. My 20 was replaced with three chips, and when the cards were dealt, I’d been given a seven first, a six second. Apparently, a wager was then placed because people were sliding chips forward, and there was a third pause when the dealer and I locked eyes again.

“The wager is $20, sir,” he said.

I slid my three pathetic chips forward, and when I knocked to indicate a hit, he slapped a king on top of my cards and the chips were gone. The whole experience seemed to span about nine seconds, and I stood up, backing slowly away from the table feeling a little faint and a little nauseous, my arms raised as if someone had just caused a huge scene in my vicinity, my culpability still in question.

I had seven dollars to my name and was nine hours from home, while my dog sat, probably uncomfortably warm, in the back of the truck in a parking lot some 45 minutes away.

I don’t remember anything that transpired between my lone blackjack experience, and Dave leaving the table. I think he told me as we walked back to the truck that he’d been up $140, but then lost $100.

I hoped he knew that at least half of that profit had to go into my gas tank.

When we did stop at a gas station, I dropped a quarter into the pay phone and called April’s mom’s house from the number she’d jotted on a napkin. Much like she had for the journey to Vegas, she slept almost the entire ride home, only popping into conversation when the Kane County police pulled me over for speeding just outside of Kanab.

I didn’t see April for months after that trip, and when I did finally bump into her, it was one of those awkward grocery-store encounters where everything feels weighted and forced. The following summer, Dave and his girlfriend moved to San Diego, that show in Vegas becoming cemented as our first and last together.

A show for the ages it was, and I knew it at the time, even though I didn’t really enjoy myself during most of it, unable to detach myself from a pool of bad decisions. Ironically, Trey Anastasio of Phish and Les Claypool of Primus would record an album together a few years later. On it, a track called "Shadow of a Man" recounted the tale of a man named Billy who'd come back from Vietnam. I don't liken my Vegas experience to post-traumatic stress disorder caused by war, but perhaps I left a shadow of myself somewhere near the Aladdin.

My experience at Dick's was nothing like that trip to Sin City, but as the rave reviews pour in, I felt compelled to mention that even the greatest of shows aren't great for everyone, regardless of what transpires on the stage.
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HoG Addendum: The Top 25 Bob Dylan Studio Albums, Part II

Like Kenny Loggins said, "This is it/The waiting is over."

Wait a minute. Time out. Start over. We can't move into the Bob Dylan top 10 with a Kenny Loggins quote. And as tempted as I am to say something long-strange trip-y, I'm not gonna. That song blows. The only appropriate quote that comes to mind follows, and if you missed yesterday's part one, you can find it here:

"’Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood,
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud,
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form."

10. Self Portrait
release date: 06/08/70
cover: something hanging in the art-room hallway of a middle school
sales note: gold
AllMusic stars: 2/5
lyric to love: “All the tired horses in the sun/How’m I s’posed to get any riding done? Mmmmm…MMMMM….mm-mmmmm.” -- from "All the Tired Horses"

notes: “All the Tired Horses” chills the spine with opening female vocals, and I will, to the end of time, sing that refrain over til the song’s end. “Alberta #1” has a fat, froggy bass and conjures memories of the Eric Clapton version. Dylan continues to boggle with wonderful musicianship on “I Forgot More Than You’ll Ever Know,” while “Days of 49” makes one expect chants of “Hi-Yooooh, Hi-Yay!” to erupt. The track has a fat-necked, low-icy horn that sounds like a gangster kazoo. Dylan, in this number, returns to an earlier version of his voice.

Albeit overstated, there’s a tempo-appreciation thing happening in “Early Mornin’ Dew,” and it’s still worth noting. The combination of bass, piano, and mandolin-like strumming is remarkable. Next are the soothing “In Search of Little Sadie” and “Let It Be Me.” “Little Sadie,” however, possesses a moving tranquility of joy and release that compensate for the void left by the album’s previous track. It’s a better version of “In Search of Little Sadie,” has the addition of mandolin and percussion, plus a higher tempo, all of which make the song really enjoyable. The late appearance of the bass line, as well as some Jerry Garcia-sounding acoustic guitar riffs complete the cut.

“Woogie Boogie,” while a foolish title, has a nice blues intro with horn accompaniment. It sounds like a rockin’ swing party aboard a 3 a.m. cruise ship. Picture poofy dresses, broads twirlin’ and sliding through their partners’ legs. Tobacco’s in the air and Jack Kerouac’s taking photographic-memory mental notes in the corner. It’s followed by the admirable string arrangements of “Bellie Isle.”

There’s a steel ax, played in nice moderation in “Living the Blues.” Some tranquil female backup vocals flavor the number, painting a picture of gals in green strapless dresses and white platform heels with one side of their hair pinned back. Their flawless complexions, intoxicating smiles, and shoulder shuffles accentuate their song.

The inclusion of “Like a Rolling Stone” confuses, while the composition “Copper Kettle” is nice, but not search-worthy. From the files of redundancy, “Gotta Travel On” dips into that jam-band-influence vat. It’s got a Widespread Panic-y, Phish-y feel to it with some digable female vocals in the refrain.

Scrutiny associated with the inclusion of “Blue Moon” is outweighed by the velvet flow it delivers. It’s like a chocolate fountain you never have to clean, a simple source of imaginary stimulus. Also from the speculation department comes the suggestion that “The Boxer” cover attempts to mock Paul Simon, to which I ask, wouldn’t it have to be a shitty cover to substantiate such a claim? Further revealing my jam-band affinity, I have to thank BD for writing “The Mighty Quinn (Quinn the Eskimo)" as Phish absolutely crushes it when they cover it live.

“Take Me As I Am” acts as a calming bedtime number, while “Take a Message to Mary” has some backing vocals, guitar (sounds like Charlie McCoy again) that’re right on the money. Lyrical suggestions that Dylan is still inspired by the country motif inhabit this track. Notes of the random: Really? Fifty-two musicians collaborated on this release? I’m not complaining. Very impressive.

More jam-band love: always dig a good version of “It Hurts Me, Too.” And, in “Minstrel Boy,” there’s some strange lyrical theme occurring, one that’s fleshed out by bubbly bass and scratchy guitar licks. A nice gospel-rock feel to the track.

I’ve always loved “Wigwam,” but never knew its name before this project. It’s got a nice theoretical answer to countless questions surrounding criticism of BD’s work, and the tendency to compare current work to that of the previous. It’s as though he said, If I want, I’ll bring in four dozen artists, record a double album with minimal linear theme strings, and yes, one track will be a horn-driven instrumental in which I “la-dee-day” for the vocals. And yes, I’ll name it after a Native American dwelling.

“Alberta #2” closes it out and leaves one with the feeling of a fine, fine meal’s conclusion, a meal shared with seldom-seen friends, a feeling of security, warmth. Not sure I came across more scrutiny for any particular album greater than the seeming demise that exists for this one. It's covers, it's not deep, it's not genuine. It's a joke, a spit in the face of critics, a sham, and a letdown. Know what I thought it was? Real damn good.

grade: 9

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9. Highway 61 Revisited
release date: 08/30/65
cover: a color version of a jaded-yet-rejuvenated Dylan seen previously on the album’s predecessor
sales note: platinum
AllMusic stars: 5/5
lyric to love: “The sun’s not yellow/It’s chicken” –- from “Tombstone Blues”

notes: Every album ever recorded in the history of music will take second place in one regard: beginning an album with as powerful a track as this one. Naturally you get BD’s vocals and harmonica with titanic lyrics, but the organ, the peak-and-valley climbs of the bass line, the ragtime piano all make “Like a Rolling Stone: one of the most omnipotent cuts of all time. “Tombstone Blues” then, has an impossible act to follow, but with it does so successfully since the album genre hops into the blues and picks up the organ pace where “Stone” left off. Dylan, as this record gets rolling, develops themes of social commentary via peculiar characters, the importance of their presence self-evident, the absurdity of their actions a critique of certain elements of human value.

Track three, “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry,” shows us more potential influence later seen in Led Zeppelin, specifically “Boogie with Stu” from Physical Graffiti. “From a Buick 6” piggybacks on that motif with an even-more-upbeat bouncy ragtime feel, and then we get the haunting sounds of “Ballad of a Thin Man,” wherein auditory foreshadowing of offspring-yet-to-be-born Jakob can be heard; there’s something similar to the vocals directed at Mr. Jones and the bellowing heard in The Wallflowers’ “One Headlight.”

The recurring power of the organ embeds this album in an essence of old-time heroism that recorded American music had never known until Highway barged into its living room with a welcomed exuberance and “Queen Jane Approximately” is a perfect example of how. The title track offers a slide-whistle sound effect, a rhythm, and vocals that combined evoke next to nothing save for an appreciation of the chunk of the United States it inhabits: a Mississippi River frontage road.

“Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” shares a comforting level of piano that’s almost outdone by exhausted vocals and a harmonica solo that wonders whether or not, in this instance, less is more. “Desolation Row” brings it all back home with some of BD’s most powerful mashing of historical figures into modern-day societal situations, an epic that features some stunning guitar work by Charlie McCoy, leaving the listener with the kind of sense that inquires, After this, what next?

grade: 9

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8. The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan
release date: 05/27/63
cover: a walk every cold-weather-dwelling western human has taken at least once
sales note: platinum
AllMusic stars: 5/5
lyric to love: “…I catch dinosaurs, make love to Elizabeth Taylor, catch hell from Richard Burton…” -– from “I Shall Be Free”

notes: It’s hard to strip away pop culture from things 65 or younger, and it’s hard to remove the Forrest Gump from “Blowin’ in the Wind,” but the beauty of the entire composition, the messages to humanity that rival quotes of some of our greatest leaders demand that you appreciate this number for what it is, regardless of where and how often you’ve heard it.

The senseless thing to say about “Girl from the North Country” is that it’s a number about a lass from up yonder. What it makes me think of, though, is a man driving with his dog across the two-lane highways of the west. When we get to “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall,” we’re officially one and-a-half albums into the 34-title selection. That’s about four percent of the way through, and the lyrical mastery this early lies deep with the BD. That gem’s followed by another: “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright,” a song with a title so great in its simplicity, a sound accented by dancing hammer-ons.

It’s a bit of an oddity to have your name appear in the titles of your first two albums, and again in two song titles on your second release, and that’s all I have to say about “Bob Dylan’s Dream.” In “Talking WWII Blues” BD drops a serious notion that play-fights with humor, a theme ensconced in classic harmonica. It’s followed by a great folk-riddled ballad in “Corrina, Corrina.” I prefer the Leo Kottke version myself, but as is the case with covers, you wouldn’t have your favorite rendition without the original, another theme that has followed Dylan for decades.

Once we arrive at “I Shall Be Free” we’re given more humor, politico, and a man’s man kind of songwriting. This is the kind of song that instills a smile at the very core of being: “greasy kids stuff” wound up being the title of a Frank Zappa ditty; we see “humdinger” dotted across the pop-culture spectrum; phrases like “eatin’ bagels…and pizza,” “the daughter of Mr. Clean” admit to us the Americanness of Bob Dylan, even if he, at such a young age, was displeased by much of what American meant.

grade: 9.25

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7. Bringin' It All Back Home
release date: 03/22/65
cover: the life-loving essence of the beats, a transition, perhaps, of the folk-rooted BD to an avant-garde psychedelic
sales note: platinum
AllMusic stars: 5/5
lyric to love: “Just then the whole kitchen exploded/From boilin’ fat/Food was flying everywhere/And I left without my hat” –- from “Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream”

notes: This wild, electric-band party gets underway with “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” a shock to the chronologically tuned ear that, to this point, had heard nothing but vocals, six-string strum, and harmonica for four albums. Two years and change later, Dylan comes out swingin’ and goes swiftly away. “Look out, kid.” That packed punch precedes “She Belongs to Me,” a sort of floating staccato riff atop some bass and high hat. It’s got a tropical sound meshed with the railroad-track/campfire vocals, and of course, some harmonica.

I’d rather not say anything about “Maggie’s Farm,” but I’d be remiss if I didn’t note that the somewhat customary blues and guitar of BD have a pop in this track, a nice spice to fit the new-yet-familiar flavor profile known as lyrics of rebellion*. In “Love Minus Zero/No Limit” Dylan gives us something of a down-home feeling, and from here it’s clear that the album is building off of itself. The self-development continues with “Outlaw Blues,” where toe tapping morphs into heel stomping, vocals once mildly nurtured on previous tracks sent forth with confidence into the cold world.

There’s no Willie Nelson in this “On the Road Again.” In fact, his version wouldn’t surface for another 15 years, but in Dylan’s cut of the same name, the development of Bringin’ continues, this time with blues roots that are taken back down a notch, settling into a mellower blues-rock route, a sound joined with vocals and harmonica familiar from previous albums.

“Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream” toys with takes and laughter, yet there’s still more development. This build-while-refining approach continues to astonish, this time with a retreat from calm blues rock, instead selecting a ragtime-blues thoroughfare that evokes images of bustling bar crowds and dancing, care-free, young Americans. “Dream” moves and jumps with a zest greater than any of its predecessors, and, without taking anything away from previous lyrics: The essence of this song is really special. I’d go so far as to say there’re some possible early jam-band roots in this ditty.

As mentioned, it’s always bizarre to hear the stripped-down original versions of songs written by Dylan, made famous later via juiced-up covers, in this case, the Byrds. At this point in the album the electric feel backing Dylan has been reduced to the electric-guitar riff, suggesting that the development has regressed in favor of advancement, another path of experimentation chosen. This is not, for a minute, to suggest that the order of song appearance on an album mirrors its chronological place in the recording-spectrum session, but attention to song-placement detail must’ve been considered, if only for whim.

There could be some powerful allegory twisting within the lyrics of “Gates of Eden,” but overall, the flat vocals and uninspired harmonica, coupled with a basic chord progression leaves this track an auditory dud. “It’s Alright” suggests another track with potential for later evident influence on rock, i.e. Led Zeppelin’s folk-rock tracks. There’s some efficacious preaching in the lyrics, lyrics that deliver a living-life-to-its-fullest message via disenchantment with politics, the suggestion of value in family, a discredit to some social values, and a hint of passion-flushed life. Such a hint is delivered vis-à-vis a line we see years later in The Shawshank Redemption. In this song, however, the original says, “He not busy being born is busy dying.” And since I’ve already used one form of a word twice to discuss one song, why not throw in a third and forth: “It’s Alright” poses the question of the devaluing of things the world has suggested we deem valuable.

“It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” To close out Bringin’, Dylan, having abandoned the trek out/return to base/select new path progression of the album two tracks ago, gives us a number that has a popping bass line to accompany his usual trinity. A motif of departure dances circles around the B side of this album, leaving a wide-open curiosity unanswered, especially considering the album’s name.

grade: 9.25

* In Dylan's Chronicles, Volume I, he discusses the notion of rebellion:

"I tried to explain later that I didn't think I was a protest singer, that there'd been a screwup...The rebellion songs were a really serious thing. The language was flashy and provocative -- a lot of action in the words, all sung with great gusto."

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6. Bob Dylan
release date: 03/09/62
cover: BD looks like a character out of A Christmas Story
sales note: n/a
AllMusic stars: 3/5
lyric to love: “A lot of people don’t have much food on their table/But they got a lot of forks ‘n’ knives/And they gotta cut somethin’” –- from “Talkin’ New York”

notes: Running through some of the tracks on this self-titled debut, an element of rawness exists in “She’s No Good.” “Freight Train Blues” delivers daring vocals, energetic strumming, and a childlike enthusiasm. We get a rendition of “In My time of Dyin’” that perhaps inspired some future songsmanship via Led Zeppelin. “Man of Constant Sorrow” leaves the listener wondering whether or not BD’s fertilizing the roots of the man he’ll become or the one that’d already arrived. It’s got a campfire feel of an old soul that let’s you know it’s always been here, even if you’re only discovering it for the first time.

Across the Dylan discography, a consistency of highway and train imagery pops up, a theme apropos of an album like this one in which the start-to-finish feel hints at the artist having plowed through the tracks during the recording sessions. Somewhere at the midway point is “Gospel Plow,” an awesome title for a song that feels like a steamroller. In the era of modern music, the ability to record a record at a young age is no new trick. How many, though, were dropping their first LP a few months shy of turning 20 50 years ago, and doing so with to-be-famous cuts like “House of the Rising Sun”? I was not aware that the most famous version, by The Animals,” was not the first. BD’s version doesn’t quite equal it in prowess, but rivals it in passion.

“Talkin’ New York” makes me feel as though, prior to it, never had a song been recorded with the combination of musical integrity and the ability to make, via lyrical comedy, a man smile. Men and women, young and old must love it.

Where does the history of odes begin? In poetry, it’s decades and centuries ago, but who was the first in music? Bobbie Gentry’s “Billie Joe” came five years after BD’s “Song to Woody,” leaving me feeling like a gambling man: This was the first, and it remains one of the best.

Regarding the closer, I don’t know how one logistically keeps a grave clean. A headstone I can see. More importantly, how does one ponder death (“See That My Grave is Kept Clean”) with such vigor, intensity, and seriousness at 19?

grade: 9.5

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5. Nashville Skyline
release date: 04/09/69
cover: a Howdy-Doodyish salute
sales note: platinum
AllMusic stars: 5/5
lyric to love: “His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean/And you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen.” –- from “Lay Lady Lay”

notes: The album-starting duet with Johnny Cash is smooth like a perfect Hollandaise. Great strumming, gorgeous vocals. Track two has an uber-fun start. It’s got fat, bumpin’ Charlie Daniels bass, delicious steel guitar work of Pete Drake and Charlie McCoy is of course in on the work. The foresight and creativity of Dylan to drop an instrumental at this juncture was pure genius. The quick pulse of the number carried over into “To Be Alone with You, as track three is spiced with ragtime piano and Dylan vocals. It’s a brief cut, but it’s tight. “I Threw It All Away” gets back to the wavelike rolls of the organ. It’s a soft, soothing kind of picking happening on the guitar, a beautiful composition.

There’s a country twang to “Peggy Day,” and it’s 10 times better than anything contemporary. The song closes with a nice tempo change and vocal outro. Exquisite craftsmanship. I never noticed the percussion in “Lay Lady Lay” before now, and I’m embarrassed to admit it. Ken Buttrey’s story about this song pretty much rules:

"I went over to Dylan and said, 'I'm having a little trouble thinking of something to play. Do you have any ideas on ['Lay Lady Lay']?'... He said, 'Bongos'... I immediately disregarded that, I couldn't hear bongos in this thing at all... So I walked into the control room and said, 'Bob [Johnston], what do you hear as regards [to] drums on this thing?'... [He] said, 'Cowbells.'... Kris Kristofferson was working at Columbia Studios at the time as a janitor and he had just emptied my ashtray at the drums and I said, 'Kris, do me a favor, here, hold these two things... hold these bongos in one hand and the cowbells in the other,' and I swung this mike over to the cowbells and the bongos... I had no pattern or anything worked out. I just told Kris, 'This is one of those spite deals. I'm gonna show 'em how bad their ideas're gonna sound.'... We started playing the tune and I was just doodling around on these bongos and the cowbells and it was kinda working out pretty cool... Come chorus time I'd go to the set of drums. Next time you hear that [cut], listen how far off-mike the drums sound. There were no mikes on the drums, it was just leakage... But it worked out pretty good... To this day it's one of the best drum patterns I ever came up with."

One of Dylan’s best songs from start to finish, and the steel riff at the chorus couldn’t get much better.

“Tell Me That It Isn’t True” is a rosy composition that radiates in your ears like sun beams through your window the morning of a day you’ve really been looking forward to. “Country Pie” is cute, and “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here with You” equates to a subtle retract from the country feel of the album, a shift toward blues, even a sprinkle of calypso jazz. An alluring ditty.

grade: 9.5

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4. The Times They Are a-Changin'
release date: 01/13/64
cover: a street fighter to whom you do not wanna step
sales note: gold
AllMusic stars: 4/5
lyric to love: “When the Second World War/Came to an end/We forgave the Germans/And then we were friends.” –- from “With God on Our Side”

notes: The title track is a great follow-up, if you will, to “Blowin’ in the Wind” in terms of both its lead track, and Freewheelin's as well. Hard to say if there’s a more token BD track in the archives. The “Ballad of Hollis Brown” is a point-blank disturbing folk tale about starvation, death, and ultimately, rebirth. The murderous lyrics are prettied up by Dylan’s guitar playing, and it's this notion -- the marriage of the serious, important theme to splendid, unique audio craftsmanship -- that really puts Dylan above all other icons. With Elvis, it was dancing, love, and heartbreak. Michael Jackson and Madonna were meta -- they frequently wrote songs about pop culture from within pop culture itself. Dylan wrote about war and love and strife and humanity, the common man, the common woman, the politician, the celebrity.

“With God on Our Side” is absolutely stunning. The crisp audibility of the pickwork and strumming is amazingly clean. One of his best tracks, if not the best, through three albums. It’s amazing how much this album grew on my from listen one to two, and “God” was a huge hook.

Next is an introspective composition called “One Too Many Mornings.” It consists of calm pickwork and mild harmonica, channels visions of Dylan staring out a rainy window while writing and recording it. A switch in perspective follows with “North Country Blues,” the jarring tale of a woman’s loss that boasts the same clean, crisp sound as “God.”

Sticking with an historical thread, “Only a Pawn in Their Game” might contain the origin of the modern derogative use of the word “tool.” More importantly, this is a heavy civil-rights track about the murder of Medgar Evel, and it’s literally impossible to gauge the impact the number must’ve had. Very powerful. “Boots of Spanish Leather” is a dusk-time-sounding love ballad of loneliness. Envision a calm breeze by a dock, the rolling out of a few quiet ships pointed toward the horizon.

Speaking of ships, “When the Ship Comes in” props the album’s tempo back up, and has some lively harmonica. A great tune. Dylan offers more of the historical with “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” and this one -– not to take away from “God” or “Pawn” is worthy of the overused wow-just-wow sentence combo. It’s a shocking tale, and the antagonist made news again two years ago when he died, after a mostly quiet life not devoid of further legal problems. The tempo of the album, though, mellows out with “Restless Farewell” as closer.

grade: 9.75

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3. Time Out of Mind
release date: 09/30/97
cover: It may be a blurry me, a blurry me that matches the sound of this record -– but it’s me, and I’m back, bitches.
sales note: platinum
AllMusic stars: 4/5
lyric to love: “Sometimes the silence can be like thunder.” –- from “Love Sick”

notes: I spent the second half of the ‘90s living in Durango, CO. I matriculated at THE Fort Lewis College, and logged countless hours in the classroom and on the job. For most of five years, any spare funds I had went to a small main-strip business called Southwest Sounds. It was owned by the road-bike egotist Hal, and his main employee was a gal who my roommate and I unaffectionately referred to as Peppermint Patty.

Peppermint Patty liked three things: 1) to talk about her ink, 2) to talk about her knowledge of music, and 3) to use any opportunity possible to note when an artist or an album had won a Grammy. She was an odd duck, to say the least. I think she was a stoner, but she was one of those weird stoners that had excess energy when she was baked. I was not that kind of stoner. I was the more commonplace stoner that gets real mellow (,man) when high, the kind of stoner that gets easily wigged out by the energy of the Peppermint Pattys of the pot community. She would pace behind the counter (while talking), walk awkwardly quick in and out of the aisles when her assistance was requested, and she would also frequently say awkward things, like the time she told my roommate and I how great this Miles Davis album was to have sex to. She was also built like an inside linebacker if that accents the picture at all.

Anyway, she used to chat me up a lot because, if memory serves, she (like myself) hosted a radio show at the college station, and so we had two spots in town where we might bump into each other. She knew my purchasing tendencies, and one afternoon in late September, I came into the shop and she threw a verbal sack full of paragraphs at my face before I’d even removed my sunglasses. She wanted to know when I would be purchasing my own copy of Time out of Mind, and she wanted to let me know that Dylan was back with Daniel Lanois on this album, that it was a shoe-in for a Grammy.

I didn’t know then who Daniel Lanois was, and mistakenly told her as much. I also, at the time couldn’t keep Grammys and Emmys and Oscars straight, but whatever. She bombarded me with facts about Brian Eno and Peter Gabriel and U2, and though I’d intended to buy the album already, I couldn’t purchase it and exit quick enough. Part of me wanted Peppermint Patty to be wrong. Part of me wanted her information to be inaccurate, for Daniel Lanois’ production efforts to be atrocious, for this album to tank. Well, not really, but it was one of those embarrassing moments where you felt, beforehand, like you were the expert on this subject, and afterwards, you humbly realize the degree to which you’d been served.

I will always associate the release of this album with Peppermint Patty, namely because this album blew my mind, and because, yes –- it won a damn Grammy.

It starts with “Love Sick” and frankly I can’t think of a better way to open an album than with the cryptic keyboard bounces that bleed into a Fisher King creek bed. Unreal. “Dirt Road Blues” storms out with popcorn ax riffs, bee-boppin’ bass, and quiet gospel keys, while “Standing in the Doorway” is a return to the curious obsession Dylan has with the ringing of bells (in this case church) and for whom they ring.

“Million Miles” revisits the keys from the “Love Sick” intro, and this is as good a time as any to note that yes, the return of Lanois to produce was a phenomenal choice. Good things happen when artists do this, i.e. Phish with Steve Lillywhite when they hired him to produce Billy Breathes in 1996, having worked with him on Rift a few years earlier.

It seems that critics have lumped Time in with “Love and Theft” and Modern Times, done everything shy of call them a trilogy. I disagree, see the trilogy, if you will, to be Good As I Been to You, then World Gone Wrong, and finally Time. Using Good and World, BD was able, in my opinion, to get back to his folk roots and be at peace with the simplicity of recording songs again. With Time he was re-energized, ready to hammer out new material, material that wouldn’t disappoint, a theme that would carry through the following trilogy of "Theft," Modern, and Together Through Life.

Anyway, “Tryin’ to Get to Heaven” is magnificent. It has inspired keys, a great theme, some skankin’ rhythm guitar, and a tucked-in harmonica solo halfway through that’s quietly powerful. It’s also repeated after the last verse: “Gonna sleep down in the parlor/And relive my dreams/I’ll close my eyes and I wonder/If everything is as hollow as it seems.”

“’Til I Fell in Love with You” seems an unprecedented mix of ragtime, blues, rock, and soul. If you listen to this cut and don’t dance, or at least bounce and swivel in your chair, see a shrink: “Tomorrow night before the sun goes down/If I’m still living, I’ll be Dixie bound.”

“Not Dark Yet” has an exquisite tribal feel of mortality, a strange and humble peace with everything in the world, at least in the music: “Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb/I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from.”

Dylan and company offer another cryptic intro with “Cold Irons Bound.” The composition features some out-of-this-world bass, ripping electric guitar. Leading into the refrain is like the music spectrum is swirling around the sink drain. There’s a crooked-scowl feel to the thing; it’s the best display of musicianship on a BD track since Oh Mercy’s “Man in the Long Black Coat.” It’s so rockin’ that I had to keep tightening my headphones to keep them from flying off: “Up over my head nothing but clouds of blood…Reality has always had too many heads…” Straight shredding after the last verse closes it out strong.

Every album, we could argue, needs the token ballad spot. “Make You Feel My Love” fits this role, albeit it’s an odd feel compared to the rest of the record. It’s less produced, like Lanois stepped out for a smoke. At least it’s short.

Hey, Bart Scott! Check out the creepy guitar loop in “Can’t Wait.” This number feels like it was recorded laying down in the parlor from “Tryin’ to Get to Heaven.” It’s got a pitter pat of drum playing, some see-saw organ, and guitar chords that stream out at you and disappear like a haunted-house ghost. The way the cut resounds and trails off after the last verse is a great finish.

“Highlands” begins with a dusty-saloon keyboard intro and features some nice drum rim shots that add to the western feel. Wicked guitar patterns give the thing a sparse fluid motion and just when the return-home feel couldn’t get any cooler, BD drops a Neil Young reference. I also love the vagueness to the track, a vagueness that vanishes when the narrator finds himself in a Boston diner and we get seven verses of some epic dialogue with a waitress. The album’s liner notes detail which musician plays what on what track, but it’s too complicated to get into. Lanois’s listing, however, is worth noting, suitably bizarre: guitar, mando-guitar, firebird, Martin 0018, Gretch gold top, rhythm and lead.

No Dylan album has given me such joy since his mid-‘70s material, granted the preceding two folk albums do, but in a less energetic fashion. Put this one up there with (Note: SPOILER ALERT) Blonde on Blonde and Blood on the Tracks. An undisputable home run.

grade: 10

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2. Blonde on Blonde
release date: 06/20/66
cover: BD has exploded into an essence none can mirror
sales note: platinum x2
AllMusic stars: 5/5
lyric to love: “And he just smoked my eyelids/And punched my cigarette” -– from “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again”

notes: What’s left to be said about “Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35”? It’s maniacal-sounding, provocative, something everyone wants to shout, a clever title that spurns radio heads from temptations to omit it from airplay.

BD gives us a return, perhaps, to fundamental blues with “Pledging My Time.” It’s got sustain, jamming, some of his most lucid harmonica work and an irony in that the vocals in this track might have launched the disdain some have for the sound of his voice.

If anyone were to utter that “One of Us Must Know” does nothing for them, then that person should be reported to the feds for fear that they are an extra-terrestrial being. This is not to suppose that aliens do not have souls, but most humans, it would appear, do, and this track is a spiritual knockout. It’s got down-home keyboard work mixed in with marching-marine-corps drum hits –- all with the guitar toned down to an appropriate level –- and molds a relationship (without actually being one) song out of it all.

(Reminder: Until this project reached the current century in terms of record-release dates, track listings are coming from cassette and vinyl, which may not match compact-disc listing.)

“I Want You” takes the goof of the Monkees, the pop-rock of the Beatles, whittles out the nonsense and replaces it with a crisp display of spot-on musicianship BD contemporaries could perhaps envision but not execute, then or ever. It’s got a bold sense of honesty in lyrics woven into a sound spectrum that defines perfect.

“Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again” gives me the chills two seconds in every time I hear it. Inside the story of this track are historical figures placed with improved subtlety, and as has been mentioned on many occasions, the organ play sings the songs mountain ridges hum when the human ear is out of reach. Also, some astute textbook drumming happening inside this gem.

When a cadence is laid down, nurtured and tinkered with to the point of near perfection, that accomplishment is seldom repeated. Dylan and his personnel in these recording sessions are the exception, sequential asterisks adorn each track, and “You Go Your Way and I’ll Go Mine” is no different.

It should be noted that the piano/keyboard work of Al Kooper and Hargus “Pig” Robbins on this album deserve a gush-heavy segment all their own. Their play is phenomenally inspiring.

BD throws a total change-up o the church-funk organ work and goes back to a blues-roots-based piano roll in “Temporary Like Achilles.” It’s a sound that billows the vocals of pain via lost love. Next is “4th Time Around” which features the delicate guitar work of Robbie Robertson placed in a bed of simple drum patterns. Together, they make this cut swim through a clear river of lust.

“Visions of Johanna” is a seemingly broken, individuated cut that resembles remolded clips of musicianship pieced together with a cadence that suggest a mythical consummation of blues and rock. “Leopard-Skin Pillbox Hat” is, and will always be, a fun song, while “Just Like a Woman” gives us that Jakob Dylan/Wallflowers sound again. It’s a timeless track embedded in beauty.

And speaking of overstated redundancy, “Absolutely Sweet Marie” reminds me that the musicianship on this album set the bar for tempo changes and scale fidelity. With “Obviously 5 Believers,” we get a decent track, and on an album with so many high-caliber cuts, it’s nice to have the occasional decent track, and in the department of honesty, “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” is nothing to scoff at, but the troubles-with-the-wife cuts are only getting started.

grade: 10

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1. Blood on the Tracks
release date: 01/17/75
cover: Billy Joel at the piano with Elton John’s shades, and some “Welcome Back, Kotter” hair
sales note: platinum x2
AllMusic stars: 5/5
lyric to love: “People see me all the time/And they just can’t remember how to act.” –- from “Idiot Wind”

notes: I’d be remiss to not say anything about “Tangled up in Blue,” but perhaps more remiss to attempt to say anything substantial about it. Track two, “Simple Twist of Fate” goes back to that notion of relationships with songs. I’d like to think that even if I didn’t have such a deep bond with this track, it’d still give my skin bumps and make my eyes water two notes in. A work of magic. The only thing bigger than it is “You’re a Big Girl Now,” which forces me to literally have to sing through tears.

Continuing with that theme: “Idiot Wind” is my Jerry Maguire “Free Falling” moment. This cut has to be one of the best songs ever recorded in a studio. As I write this, I’m unsure of the total number of Dylan songs I’ve listened to, or for that matter, the hours spent listening to them, but this one trumps them all, the one I wake up with in my head more often than perhaps the rest of them combined.

“Buckets of Rain” is a nice, mellow recovery-period song to come down from the highs of “Idiot Wind,” and “Meet Me in the Morning” contains some phenomenal musicianship. The guitar picking is like the strut of the rooster in the track, the hum of the cut a churning motorcycle rumbling down the highway before dusk, before the sinking-ship sun vanishes.

“Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts” remains one of the more difficult Dylan compositions to wrap one’s head around. It’s not that its complexity is overwhelming, rather that it’s, well, complex. It’s an odd number, though a very enjoyable one. And quite the story. Regarding the tale’s plot, an uncertainty hovers over it, an ambiguity of sorts, but it’s one of the few foot-stomping tracks in which you stomp gently so as not to disturb your astute ears that attempt to follow the tale’s twists. It’d be amazing to see either of the two screenplays allegedly based on it become film.

I’m not a song composer, but I recognize the need for a spot, be it live or in the studio, for the slow song, and in this instance, the placement of “If You See Her, Say Hello” is perfect. Oddly, if I owned this album on CD, I might be tempted to skip this track from time to time, but I’m glad I don’t; the cassette gives me the full-album feel. Also, it’s a nice segueway from “Lily” to “Shelter from the Storm.”

“Shelter,” “Tangled,” and “Simple Twist” beg to be addressed together as a trio. These tracks are ridiculously invaluable, and that they came from the same album is preposterous. I can’t remember back far enough to think about the time in which I didn’t know them so attempting to analyze further feels weird and pointless.

On one end, the sentiment of “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go” has been captured in the rest of the album. In another, it gives the author a voice that says he’ll be okay.

grade: 10

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And there it is. Project complete. Here's to hoping you enjoyed, even if you disagree with parts or all of what was said. You know the catchphrases: It's a matter of opinion, one man's trash, etc. Now dust off all of your basement tapes, crank some Dylan, and enjoy your Friday. And if you're on the east coast bracing for Irene: "I ran into the fortune teller, who said beware of lightnin' that might striiiiiike!"
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