The Cavern
Rock & Words
ANOTHER SIDE OF BOB DYLAN (Bob Dylan, 1966)
Artist: Bob Dylan (B+)
Recording Date: June 9, 1964
Release Date: August 8, 1964, USA
Record Label: Columbia
Producer: Tom Wilson
Rating: 8
Era: Folk, Folk-Rock (1940 -???)
Subgenre: Folk
Best Song: It Ain't Me Babe o Chimes Of Freedom
Tracklist: 1) All I Really Want To Do; 2) Black Crow Blues; 3) Spanish Harlem Incident; 4) Chimes Of Freedom; 5) I Shall Be Free No. 10; 6) To Ramona; 7) Motorpsycho Nitemare; 8) My Back Pages; 9) I Don't Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Have Met); 10) Ballad In Plain D; 11) It Ain't Me Babe.
I originally planned to skip straight to Bringing It All Back Home, but this album is too important to skip. So we'll get to electric Dylan and Judas Priest's screams soon enough, but not quite yet. But why is it so important, if it even has a lower rating than Freewheelin', and that's not just my opinion, but the consensus of most critics and reviews? True, it wasn't the most impactful of Bob's first four acoustic albums; the second album is musically superior and continues to have a significant cultural impact today. The point is that Another Side of Bob Dylan has an almost generic title, but it couldn't be more fitting: Lyrically, and even melodically, Dylan takes giant leaps. He begins to move away from the folk protest songs of his earlier albums, turning towards more introspective, surreal themes, without abandoning poetry, but somehow feeling more personal. It's certainly a side of him we hadn't seen before. And that didn't sit well with many people. They wouldn't go so far as to throw things at him on stage (yet), but many folk purists felt that Bob had lost his way and was straying from the political themes that, for them, were what mattered. Dylan was simply fed up with being called "the voice of a generation," and part of that is what he shouts in "It Ain't Me Babe," disguised as a love song (or a song of heartbreak).
Another point is the melodies. After the first and third albums were incredibly monotonous, here he takes a turn towards catchier tracks, with songs that at least have their own identity, hooks, and a more defined style. Another Side is, therefore, a transitional album, a bridge to the electrified Dylan who would surprise the world less than a year later. But the seed is there. It's a kind of Rubber Soul, without which you can't understand the sonic and lyrical shift that was to come. And speaking of the Fab Four, they hadn't met yet, but it's safe to assume they were already influencing each other at this point. Between *The Times They Are A'Changin'* and the release of this album, the Beatles had swept the United States in February, and it's a well-known anecdote that when Dylan first heard "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," he nearly jumped out of the car, literally saying, "Did you hear that?...that was fuckin' great! Oh man..." So, the attention to melody was very likely imported from Liverpool. Shortly afterward, the Beatles flew to France for a tour where Harrison bought the French edition of *Freewheelin'*, called *En Roue Libre*, which must have made a similar impression on the four long-haired lads. Lennon would soon begin tentative attempts at more introspective themes, which would first appear on *For Sale*.
Another influence was Robert Johnson. Shortly before, John Hammond, head of Columbia Records, had given Dylan a demo tape the label was about to release, called The King of Delta Blues. Bob had never heard of Johnson, and apparently, neither had any of his friends. But Hammond assured him it would blow his mind, that he was a bluesman from the 1930s who had only recorded about 20 songs and that he had to hear them. Dylan's autobiography, Chronicles: Volume One, is a gem because it immerses you in Bob's mind, shifting topics and timelines as the thought occurs to him, sometimes within the same paragraph, and sometimes even on the same line. It's almost like listening to him talk, but with a strange poetry and incredible metaphors. The thing is, on this album he talks about almost everything: leaving Minnesota, his motorcycle accidents, the chaos in his house with his young children, his frustration with the press and people's expectations, the Off-Broadway plays he saw, the books he read at friends' houses before realizing he could afford his own apartment, details of his friendship with Woody Guthrie, girlfriends and wives, and even his pets. Everything, that is, except his own music. He reveals things sparingly, and if you're expecting to find song lyrics, details of recording sessions, or anything like that, you're better off looking elsewhere. But the book is still an absolute gem, worthy of a Nobel Prize. The thing is, in a random chapter, he recounts precisely that first time he heard Robert Johnson. He dedicates about five pages to it. I don't intend to transcribe everything, but some lines are simply too beautiful not to share: “Over the following weeks, I listened to him repeatedly, song after song, sitting and staring at the record player. Each time I did, I was struck by the impression that a specter, a fearsome apparition, was appearing in the room. The economy of words in those songs was astonishing. Johnson disguised the presence of more than twenty performers. I concentrated on each song, wondering how he did it. Composing them was undoubtedly an extremely complex task. Each song seemed to come directly from his mouth and not from his memory… The meaning and feeling they contained were so elemental that they offered a very profound perspective on composition. It is not possible to analyze every moment in detail. Johnson omits tedious descriptions on which other blues songwriters would have centered entire songs… One wonders if Johnson was playing for a future audience that only he could see… He is rough, like scorched earth. There is nothing clownish about him or his lyrics. I wanted to be like that too.”
Undoubtedly, some of these ideas could be applied to Dylan himself when someone hears him for the first time, and it's also clear that on this album he seeks to replicate, in a way, that power and magic, that raw and sharp guitar sound, yet sublime and delicate. This impact of Johnson on Dylan would become widespread once The King of Delta Blues was released, shaking to its core the very young Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page, and Jimi Hendrix, and an entire generation of guitarists who honed their skills trying to decipher Robert Johnson's sounds. Bob Dylan would be among the first to hear the recording before its release, and therefore, to absorb that powerful influence.
Returning to Another Side of Bob Dylan, the album was recorded in a single session at Studio A in Columbia, New York, on June 9, 1964. Dylan arrived with his guitar, his harmonica, his new influences, and a bunch of new songs, and recorded the entire album in one sitting. Legend has it that several empty bottles of Boujeais were left over after the recording, but the truth is that he even had the luxury of discarding "Mr. Tambourine Man," which would appear on the next album, "Denise Denise," and "Mama, You've Been In My Mind." Perhaps that's why there are small errors or details that remained in the recording, like the part where he barely contains his laughter at the end of "All I Really Want To Do." These are the kinds of mistakes that give it freshness, humanity, and life, unlike today's hyper-perfectionist recordings with AI-generated finishes (cough cough, Suno, I'm talking to you).
Finally, one issue that undoubtedly impacted the album's mood, though not musically, was his breakup with Suze Rotolo. In his autobiography, I insist, he constantly changes the subject, but his memories of Suze constantly resurface. I don't know if she was the love of his life, but she certainly left a very deep mark on him. By early 1964, the relationship was already strained by Bob's tours and a months-long trip she took to Italy. When she returned, she discovered Bob was having an affair with none other than Joan Baez, which led to a heated argument in front of Suze's sister, Carla, whom she accused of meddling and being a parasite. That fight was the end of the relationship. In 1966, Bob would admit that the breakup with Suze left him devastated for months.
The album opens with "All I Really Want To Do", a cheerful little tune with a simple guitar playing descending scales strummed with occasional harmonica breaks between the choruses and verses. And yes, the formula is repeated for four minutes, but it doesn't sound tiresome at all. Right from the start, a melody jumps in and steals the show. It also descends in scale, but it's incredibly catchy, and it contrasts with the chorus “All IIIIII reallyYYY wanna doOOOOOOOOOOO is, baby, be friends with you,” creating a curious falsetto that also serves as the song's main hook. The lyrics also show a shift from this first track. There are no more furious social commentaries taken from newspaper articles. Here, Bob basically says he doesn't want a fight with anyone, he doesn't want to judge or be judged, he just wants to be friends, and between the lines, it's a declaration of principles, a request (almost a plea) not to be judged either, foreshadowing, along with the album title, that this is a break with classic social themes and with his role as a “Generational Spokesperson.” He just wants to make songs without any greater pretensions. It reminds me a bit of Silvio Rodríguez's “Debo Partirme En Dos.” On a couple of occasions, he seems to be holding back laughter, especially at the end, where he seems about to burst out laughing, and leaving that detail in gives it a fresher feel. A good, melodic start that shows where things are headed.
“Black Crow Blues” is a very unusual track in Dylan’s early catalog, being one of the few where the acoustic guitar doesn’t dominate, but rather the piano, which he plays himself. It sounds like an old saloon player piano, with a distant, remote echo. He doesn’t use many chords, but he surprises with his skillful use of the keys. At 1:38, he runs from low to high notes across the entire keyboard, and at 2:15, he even plays a kind of solo, interspersed with a harmonica solo. As the name suggests, it’s a blues with two identical verses and a closing one. Lyrically, the influence of Robert Johnson is already noticeable here, along with allusions to his recent breakup: “Wishing my long-lost lover, Would walk to me and talk to me, tell me what it’s all about.” A generic blues, with the exception that it’s played by Bob Dylan on a piano. It's not the most brilliant track, but it lasts just over 3 minutes, so it doesn't get tiresome.
Next up is "Spanish Harlem Incident", where we return to the warm acoustic strumming. Again, we have a great vocal melody, in which the choruses demand that he reach almost the top of his register without resorting to falsetto, and at times it sounds as if his voice is about to break. The lyrics are a kind of love letter. A plea? "I am homeless, come and take me." Perhaps a last attempt to get Suze to forgive him. The second verse achieves wonderful imagery. We certainly hadn't heard Dylan so vulnerable. If it sounds familiar, it's probably from the version The Byrds recorded on their first album, which was one of the first pieces of evidence that Dylan sounds better with other voices, and that he was beginning to create much stronger melodies, only here they still sound very bare, just guitar and harmonica.
"Chimes of Freedom" is one of the best tracks on the album. The song originated from “Lay Down Your Weary Tune” by Witmark & Sons, an outtake from The Times They Are A-Changin'. Dylan's version of “Lay Down…” wouldn't be released until 1985. Returning to “Chymes,” Bob provides a guitar structure with an incisive, mandolin-like guitar riff that feels gentle, while bass lines punctuate the beat. It's the closest thing on the album to Dylan's protest folk, and it's also an epic track of over seven minutes, which was an eternity at the time. In late 1963, Dylan began writing a book, which he wouldn't finish until much later. But one of the fragments of poetry dedicated to John F. Kennedy after his assassination inspired him to rewrite the lyrics that would become “Chymes of Freedom.” Bob sings in a warm and hopeful tone. The lyrics, on the other hand, have a melancholic poetry, laden with cold imagery: wind, drizzle. Hail, which signifies despair. But each verse also uses imagery reminiscent of bells, which reflect hope. Bob is essentially singing to the dispossessed, those systematically ignored by the system, assuring them that there will always be powerful echoes that will change things. The Byrds would also record a version very much in their style, with harmonies, 12-string guitars, and all, but they cut it by more than half, thus diminishing much of its impact.
“I Shall Be Free No. 10” is a song with a strange melody. Almost nonexistent. It would almost fit better on The Times They Are A-Changin'. It's basically a spoken blues, with half-chewed verses, followed by a harmonica break. The lyrics are… I don't know if they're comical or ironic? With lines like “I was shadow boxing early in the day, I figured I was ready for Cassius Clay.” Suddenly, I don't know if we get a little lost with references to very local people or events, or sayings that get lost in translation. Some people find it hilarious. On a bad day, I might mark it in blue, since it's undoubtedly the weakest track on the album.
We continue with “To Ramona”, a beautiful heartbreak ballad with a simple guitar, a delicate and melancholic melody, and a voice brimming with feeling like few others, hinting that it truly hurts to sing. A song for Suze? The lyrics suggest the girl do what she has to do—a possible goodbye, whatever is best for her—without looking back and without listening to advice. Even if that means separating permanently from the narrator/singer. It has some beautiful verses like:
“But it grieves my heart, love
To see you tryin' to be a part of
A world that just don't exist
It's all just a dream, babe
A vacuum, a scheme, babe
That sucks you into feelin' like this”
Joan Baez would later claim that Dylan used to call her Ramona (rub salt in the wound...). But both the depth of the poem and the pained voice suggest that it wasn't for a fleeting love like Baez's, but for one that left a deeper mark, like Rotolo's. The song closes with a powerful verse, in which the narrator acknowledges that one day he himself may not follow his own advice:
Just do what you think you should do
And someday maybe
Who knows, baby
I'll come and be cryin' to you.
A beautiful song, deeply melancholic.
Next comes “Motorpsycho Nitemare”, another comical, country-tinged track with a catchy melody. The lyrics tell of a man who arrives at a farm, and the owner comes out to greet him with a shotgun pointed at his testicles. He lets him spend the night under the stove on the condition that he doesn't even look at his daughter Rita and that he milks the cows in the morning. That night, Rita tries to seduce him, but fearing her father's shotgun, the narrator tries to get rid of her by saying he likes Fidel Castro's beard. She leaves, offended, but her father overhears and starts shooting at him, mistaking him for a communist. The lyrics are nonsensical, but hilarious. I suppose those who understand “I Shall Be Free No. 10” have a similar appreciation for it.
“My Back Pages”, another beautifully crafted ballad, features a swaying melody with a simple guitar strum. It was the last song recorded in that single session, at 1:30 in the morning. The lyrics are an intricate poem about the ideals of youth. Apparently, some people take it as a pretentious anthem from someone who matured a great deal in just three years and now looks back on his life and says, “Ah, how naive I was when I was young!” Come on, you're only 23! In any case, the catchy phrase that ends each verse, “Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now,” may certainly be pretentious, but it would become one of the signature lines not only of the album but of Dylan's early period. The Byrds would also cover it, this time on Younger Than Yesterday, which, I now realize, took its title from this phrase with a slight modification. The song is beautiful, with a gentle, mid-tempo melody that creates a circular feel, culminating in that phrase, yet it never becomes tiresome despite lasting almost 4:20. The lyrics are increasingly cryptic, but full of beautiful imagery. Indeed, Dylan isn't writing protest songs about specific, local issues, but rather increasingly expansive anthems that would soon become universal and timeless. And this is a first step.
Next up is “I Don’t Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Have Met)”, a quasi-country tune with a very catchy melody. The verses have a driving rhythm, with the guitar mirroring the vocals, and then the choruses become more fluid, creating a vocal pattern very similar to what she’s about to do in “It Ain’t Me,” raising the tension with that high note and then abruptly returning to the main melody. In any case, it works better in “It Ain’t Me.” The lyrics are again about a breakup, this time in a more incisive way, without so much poetry and with more recriminations:
“If she ain’t feelin’ well
Then why don’t she tell
’Stead of turnin’ her back t’ my face?
Without any doubt
She seems too far out
For me t’ return t’ her chase”
Halfway through the song, we can again hear him almost bursting into laughter. These moments are welcome these days, when music is so perfect, produced, and full of AI, that the human element is a mere detail.
“Ballad In Plain D” is a more subdued track, with a gentle melody. Rumor has it that it's based on an old Scottish song with simply changed lyrics. Well, in folk music, many things were recycled. The beautiful song's guise contrasts sharply with the almost ferocious lyrics that truly matter. It begins by narrating the start of a relationship with a girl with bronze skin. The girl has a sister, but he fell in love with the younger, more creative one, and describes the older sister as a parasite he can't respect. Later, he recounts that final argument, which was more with Carla, her sister, than with Suze, and ended with them shouting while Suze watched like a little girl. We rarely see Mr. Zimmerman recount something so personal, acknowledging in no uncertain terms that he did something unforgivable.
“The wind knocks my window, the room it is wet
The words to say I’m sorry, I haven’t found yet
I think of her often and hope whoever she’s met
Will be fully aware of how precious she is”
At some point in the track, there's a wrong chord that he corrects almost immediately—another minor detail that shows there's no point in striving for perfection in a single take. It's a seemingly simple song, but I don't know if we'll ever hear Bob open his soul like this again. Later, he would admit that perhaps he shouldn't have released it.
The album closes with “It Ain’t Me Babe”, one of those massive tracks that's a must-have on any compilation. Upbeat guitar riffs, a strong and catchy vocal melody, and classic lyrics with a double meaning. It's clearly another breakup song, dedicated to Suze, but with a double meaning. He's telling her he's not the knight in shining armor who will save her from the dragon she's looking for. It's a theme of ideals in a relationship, where a woman hopes she'll change her man, while the man hopes she'll never change… The lyrics are simply incredible, and I wouldn't dare pick a favorite verse. The twist comes from the double entendre, a reminder to his fans that he's no messiah, no spokesperson for any generation, just a 23-year-old with a broken heart who simply wants to sing: “It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.” The Byrds wouldn't cover it, but in 2015 Joaquín Sabina would record an excellent Spanish version, "Ese No Soy Yo," rewriting the lyrics but removing that double edge. In any case, "It Ain't Me Babe" would be the iconic track of this album, and the best along with "Chimes of Freedom."
In short, it's still an acoustic album, with strong folk roots, but Bob Dylan is already beginning to distance himself from his own legend, seeking to do what he wants, not what people expect of him. Why the hell would I make an album about social injustice if right now my heart is in pieces and I want to sing about it? People perhaps didn't understand it at the time, and while there weren't reproaches on the level of 1965, there was some annoyance from fans. But this step was necessary, as I said, a bridge. You can't make a Freeheelin' I, II, and III. By 1964, only the Beatles and Bob Dylan clearly understood that they needed to start modifying their sound with each album if they wanted to transcend. The Big Bang came about 20 days after the release of this album, when the Beatles and Bob met in person at the Delmonico Hotel in New York, causing perhaps the greatest musical revolution of the early 1960s. From that hotel room, filled with marijuana smoke, Lennon emerged determined to write deeper lyrics and redefine his sound, while Bob returned to his apartment and plugged in his electric guitar. But that's another story.
By Corvan
Jun/9/2026
