Why I love Bob Dylan, vol. 1

I have a joyful feeling when I think about Dylan albums. He created so damn many (ten perfect albums in the 60s, a muddled but still Dylan period in the early 70s followed by two more perfect albums, late 70s Christian period, absurd yet endearing commercial albums in the 80s, a second act as big as Jesus's in '94 and '01), and with this constant output he revealed himself entirely. They all have a single mood: the expansively romantic feeling of an epic poem (Highway 61). the painful examination of a failed love affair (Blood on the Tracks), the paranoid, shiftless, claustrophobic sense of you against the world (Blonde on Blonde), playful absurdity and group mythmaking (Basement Tapes), dreamlike visionary spiritualism (John Wesley Harding). They're like old friends. I've seen every side of them, been through everything with them, know all their secrets, love hanging around with them.

Then there's the style of the songs. Overflowing words and a huge range, so you can quote them at any time, in any context. The voice, disentegrating over the years, always just beyond my ability to imitate, probably the best possible for these songs. The abounding energy of the music itself, alternately rollicking and whispering, echoing and air-tight. God, that guitar, strumming percussively away in the background, that high moaning train-whistle harmonica. The world never knew a 4-5-1 progression could have so many masks.

Also, just look at them. They're so pretty. Each one with a mug shot of Zimmy himself, drugged out or pissed off or grinning or staring or reclining or self-consciously posing. The minibus on Freewheelin'. The silly hat on Desire. The 'stache on Love and Theft. Dude, Bringing it All Back Home? Best album cover ever.

Tomorrow: my current thoughts on We Shall All Be Healed. I'll put off writing this essay if it kills me.