Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan - The New York Sessions / Blood On The Tapes (Blood On The Tracks Sessions)

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• published: 21 Jan 2017
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Again new video for today. I gathered all the takes I could find and upload from this iconic album into one compilation, starting with most of the original pressing before the late December 1974 sessions (what many call the "Original" Blood On The Tracks) and then in chronological order the takes from all the sessions that are allowed by copyright laws. I strongly encourage you to read also the text from Pete Hamill that was on the back cover of the album. It resonates more and more as the day goes by. Here is an excerpt: "In the end, the plague touched us all. It was not confined to the Oran of Camus. No. It turned up again in America, breeding in-a-compost of greed and uselessness and murder, in those places where statesmen and generals stash the bodies of the forever young. The plague ran in the blood of men in sharkskin suits, who ran for President promising life and delivering death. The infected young men machine-gunned babies in Asian ditches; they marshalled metal death through the mighty clouds, up above God's green earth, released it in silent streams, and moved on, while the hospitals exploded and green fields were churned to mud. And here at home, something died. The bacillus moved among us, slaying that old America where the immigrants lit a million dreams in the shadows of the bridges, killing the great brawling country of barnstormers and wobblies and home-run hitters, the place of Betty Grable and Carl Furillo and heavyweight champions of the world. And through the fog of the plague, most art withered into journalism. Painters lift the easel to scrawl their innocence on walls and manifestos. Symphonies died on crowded roads. Novels served as furnished rooms for ideology. And as the evidence piled up, as the rock was pushed back to reveal the worms, many retreated into that past that never was, the place of balcony dreams in Loew's Met, fair women and honorable men, where we browned ourselves in the Creamsicle summers, only faintly hearing the young men march to the troopships, while Jo Stafford gladly promised her fidelity. Poor America. Tossed on a pilgrim tide. Land where the poets died. Except for Dylan." As for the setlist I will add it in the comments section below