John Wesley Harding

 

Stripped-down and basic.  This album is baffling and mysterious: what is that house in The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest?  Is it St Augustine of Hippo? Canterbury? or some weird fever-dream angel/demon?

It's such a total turn away from Blonde on Blonde: as if that was as far out as he could go, and he needed to come nearer to shore or he'd be swept away.

Dylan truly is an artist who does exactly what he wants to, regardless of what others will think.  It's a cliché, but only because it's true.  In the same way Bowie completely sidestepped punk and emerged unscathed, Dylan dodges 1967 psychedelia for what would later be known as Americana: rootsy folk/blues/country/rock.  

I'm really enjoying him now we're past the Mt. Rushmore of Blonde on Blonde.  As is always the case, the albums either side of "classics" tend to be just as interesting, or for me even better.