Raw emotive horror can be heard in this early version of Blood on the Tracks. That implies the finished, studio release was lacking in that form. It was not. It remains one of the finest moments in the career of Bob Dylan and we listeners are spoiled with the alternate versions available to this classic. A slight, monotone delivery from Dylan here gives way to the obvious nerviness, the deadpan anger and bile barely hidden in these stripped-down moments. Blood on the Tracks: New York Sessions certainly follows a different route to the finished release, and this rugged, plainer affair makes all the difference. One man and his guitar had not been Dylan’s style for years, yet he returns to a borderline folk route here. Advanced folk tones in his acoustic guitar, paired with a bitter rage allegedly rounded off by Anton Chekov’s influences.
Slight lyrical changes on Tangled Up in Blue are overwhelmed by the stunning change in mood. Contrast this with the barely changed Simple Twist of Fate, which sounds about ready for the finished studio project, and Blood on the Tracks: New York Sessions feels far closer to completion than first thought. Those emptier, hollow moments allow the acoustic coldness to echo through, the distaste heard from Dylan amplified to the extreme. It was already fiery on Blood on the Tracks, but these New York Sessions are filled with cruelty, slightly lightened on what was officially released. You’re a Big Girl Now continues the colder feeling yet it precedes the biggest change of all, a spoken-word rendition of Idiot Wind. It is where the more brutal punches lay for these early tapes. Dylan has spent most of his career reinventing his sound, be it through new arrangements or vocal stalls, but nowhere does it come plainer, more honestly, than here.
Trust is key to Idiot Wind here, notes of seasonal change and the slack in a relationship which has hit a rocky patch. All of this sounds brutal, and even harsher when left to its harmonica close. These songs are still of the same, broadly brilliant qualities as they are on the final release. Those who wanted a little more focus on the vocal fury, the sharpness of Dylan as a writer at this time, are in luck with this one. Acoustic showiness appears on Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts, an optimistic flutter of neatly tied rhythms, of nice smiles and lighter reminiscences. It does not last long. Blood on the Tracks remains a wholly brutal piece of work and no lighter instrumental arrangement will change that.
Buried dresses, whistling fools and all the anger of a first go-around can be heard in the New York Sessions. It is a gut punch of honest emotions, there is no way to hide this. Blood on the Tracks does well to masquerade it as fictional tales from the short stories of Chekov, but these New York Sessions have such venom to them that they expose Dylan as a heartbroken hero who would once more put pen to paper on some truly defining songs. These are some of his very best efforts and hearing them in an earlier form, a grinding fury affecting each of these songs, is magnificent. An essential listen. As good as Blood on the Tracks but for very different reasons. Where the final release may hold some subtle tones, there is nothing to hide on the New York Sessions. A blistering, fiery experience quite unlike anything else Dylan ever did.
