Eighteen months had passed since the majestical magnificence of Blonde on Blonde. In those long-gone innocent days we knew nothing about a motorcycle accident, nothing about Woodstock or The Big Pink, nothing about Sarah and kids: all we had from Bob was the Sound of Silence. To put that in perspective, during that time The Beatles released Revolver and Sergeant Pepper.
Then seemingly out of nowhere came John Wesley Harding. The shock was seismic – where was the snarling and sneering delivery, the ethereal wild-mercury sound, the mystical and poetic lyrics? We played JWH on non-stop rotation and gradually convinced ourselves this was a return to roots, a rejection of pop’s wilder excesses. Never mind that Bob’s voice seemed to have changed (I had some friends who seriously thought Bob had died and that this was some imposter put in place by Columbia in order to keep the revenue stream going) and never mind that tracks like Frankie Lee and Down Along the Cove seemed childlike in comparison to Visions of Johanna and Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. All Along the Watchtower and I Dreamed I Saw St Augustine were proper Dylan songs and that was plenty good enough.
