mostly david ephgrave

Last night, I listened to an alternate version of my favourite Dylan album 'Blood on the Tracks' over a glass of whisky after buying episode fourteen of the long-running official Bootleg Series 'More Blood, More Tracks' from Amazon on a whim that day. I've been loosely aware a different version of the album existed for almost as long as I've known the original, yet for whatever reason, I hadn't heard the outtakes, either before or after they were officially released last year. Retrospectively, this seems strange when I love the album so much, and when it remained in the shortlist of CDs almost exclusively clogging up my hi-fi as a student. It was the soundtrack to many a stoned evening true-to-type. What makes the material so special is its intimacy, which is unusual of an oblique artist like Dylan. While I'm a fan of much of his work across the span of his career, this is the album I return to most frequently, with 'Time Out of Mind' running...

I can’t think of a songwriter who tackles the subject of loss as eloquently as Bob Dylan. While he’s most celebrated for his Sixties output and for the many lyrical twists and turns he’d throw out in that trademark bullhorn voice of his, I think there’s greater depth and honesty to be found in his simpler, later work. Two of my favourite Dylan albums, 1975’s ‘Blood on the Tracks’ and 1997’s ‘Time Out of Mind', couldn’t be further removed from the sass of that younger man and present a character who's less self-assured, and either reeling from the fallout of a tense relationship or dealing with his own mortality. (So says the amateur musical psychologist.) I don’t think many would doubt his lyrical ability, but it’s his less intricate, more heartfelt songs that connect with me better, and 'Most of the Time' is a perfect example of this; I love how he starts each verse starts with the title, sounding like a man in control, yet...

I find it hard to accept Bob Dylan'a album Time Out of Mind is twenty years old now. This is not the only example of this type of disbelief. I’m also struggling to come to terms with the fact Paul McCartney’s Flaming Pie was released two decades ago, and that the first series of I’m Alan Partridge is the same age too; everywhere I look, I'm surrounded by things far older than should be; something which also applies to me: I can’t believe I’m twenty years old either.   Part of the problem stems from finding it hard to differentiate between the past two decades' names; the jump from 2000 to 2010 and onwards just doesn’t have the same ring as the difference between the Fifties and the Sixties; it’s all too murky and indistinguishable. But this doesn’t take away from the fact more time has passed since Time Out of Mind’s release than between JFK’s assassination and my birth; that’s unfathomable on every level for me. Something else that surprises me about that a...

It's perhaps surprising that one of my favourite love-songs was written by Bob Dylan. He's someone you're more likely to associate with cynicism than romanticism, which may be why when he writes something tender, it hits home all the more. Take the much-covered 'Make You Feel My Love': Dylan's aged cigarette-and-Never-Ending-Tour-weary voice lends more beauty, warmth and sincerity to the song for me than Adele or (*shudder*) Garth Brooks ever could, particularly when hidden in the midst of the bitter, depression-filled, mortality-fearing atmosphere of the album 'Time Out of Mind'. It sounds genuine. When he wears his heart on his sleeve and shows a little frailty, it’s a fleeting yet wonderful thing to behold. While I love 'Make You Feel My Love' (I could have worded that better), it doesn’t hold a candle to 'You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go'. It’s not just one of my favourite ballads; it’s one of my favour...