BoB

I was listening to Blonde on Blonde on the way to work this morning. Or BoB as it is known to me and mine. It's the original mono mix, which I purchyased from Sundazed, a vinyl specialist.

You may be wondering, how can this person play mono vinyl in his car on the way to work? Is it Elvis? Does he have a record player in his car? These questions are stupid.

I have never bothered to buy BoB on CD, nor indeed much else from Mr Dylan. I have always argued that I played them all to death many years ago, and, besides, Sony/Columbia have generally provided extremely poor value for money with their reissues. It's hard to go from a luxurious gatefold vinyl to the crapness that is the bog-standard CD case.

But I bought the Sundazed reissue because I was intrigued that, in 1966, around 90% of all BoB sales would have been of the mono persuasion -- and that I had only ever heard the (UK) stereo version. (There is a full history of BoB on this site.)

But I still don't play it much (it being a bit of a pain to manoeuvre the record player into the car), as I kind of knew I wouldn't. And this morning I realised why. Because to say, "Played it to death my dear" is to come across as a little bit superior, not to mention burned out. I don't play it because it's a bit painful, really.

It takes me right back. Because there was a summer, I think it was my 18th (i.e. I was 17.5), that BoB was soundtrack to. And I mean, I can't hear the record now without being taken back. And though there have been times of my life I've felt low (and yes, I'm thinking about you), that summer was the lowest of the low. That summer was the depths; I was surrounded by ugly looking fish with lights on their heads.

Every track on BoB conjures up an image, a feeling, a face. I imbued most of the songs with my own imagined meanings, transferring every line, every enunciation, onto one of my obsessions. It's the perfect album for the lonely and dejected teenager, the perfect album to aim at the girl(s) who rejected you. Because the closest thing to a popular love song on it is the hungry, desperate, needful, "I Want You."

It's not just that it brings back the pain and the loneliness, the suicidal feelings, the desperation and the anger. But it brings back the pain of the pain, the embarrassment, the rueful acknowledgement that I was a little bit over the edge, a little unstable.

I'd love to be able to hear this mono mix fresh, to put myself into the imaginary frame of mind that I had just purchased it in 1966 and was playing it for the first time - because it is one of the marvels of the 20th century. But there is too much baggage, I was too much of a twat, and it is too much like the wrong kind of time travel.