Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited revisited


A neo-post-punk Swanseaic masterpiece reviews retrospectively the paramourous longings of rock’s grandiloquent past. Dylans ovre is comprised primarily of records, although he has occasionally (most often unsuccessfully) strayed into the realms of the LP. Long admired for his popularity, here the artist finds a
place in music never before inhabited, a desert hideaway of broken shuffling Americana, a Hillbilly highway of draughty hungry road music. Chords like savage Coyote’s pound, resound and bite the bloated corpse of the American dream. Wet fat plops of smegma. This album has a sound as difficult to describe as words are easy to waste on futile lyrics. Dylan drives through the mountains of his past, grunting his mouth words into riveted bundles of sinew, almost jazz, like some feeble weak kneed dark hued fish food silting endlessly to the floor of a broken tank. This is music reimagined. This is flawed imperfect soundheaven. This is a windvane of endless unforgiving Yiddish charm. This is a sentence. This is the most insightful thing ever written about Dylan. This is a review.


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