BOB DYLAN Blood On The Tracks (Columbia)

Bob Dylan is pussy-whipped. There are more general ways to state it, of course. You could say, for instance, that he has so idealized his vision of The Woman that he cherishes her potential infidelities and betrayals as much as her potential for salvation. But that is so much rodomontode. Baldly, put in the vernacular so it can’t be mistaken for something else, or avoided all together, he is pussy-whipped.

Planet Waves featured Dylan in the asylum of her charms, cuddled up away from the world, blissed-out on 2 AM feedings and the pleasures of the well-worn perambulator. Blood On The Tracks finds him huddled in the shelter of himself, alone, mulling over the consequences of what seems to him her cold-hearted departure. “1 know where to find you,” he sings with a whine that wishes it were a snarl, “in somebody’s room.” And again, “I’ve never gotten used to it, I’ve just learned to turn it off, either I’m too sensitive, or else I’m getting soft.”