There are albums that magically enter your life at exactly the right time. By the same token, there are albums — even classic records — that just get in wrong. “Blood on the Tracks” is the latter. Hearing it transports me to a confused, slushy winter in Minneapolis. A never-ending high school year when I drove all the time and suffered the company of spontaneously violent hippies. The flavor of Dylan’s album became infused with the sour taste of that period. Listening to the Bootleg version I now hear something new: a brilliantly plotted folk album, the weary tale of a disillusioned heart.
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