1001 Albums Summary

There's definitely some overly repetitive parts, but that's only an issue if you're giving the album 100% of your attention and just sitting around. It's infectious.

A 33 minute album that feels like an hour with one good song, and two or three mediocre songs. I've been listening to a bunch of albums which came out in 67 to see who could hang with the Beatles' Sgt Pepper. Cream absolutely could not sit at the big boy table with the Beatles. Jimi Hendrix Are you You Experienced apparently predates this by half a year. I guess, I'll have to look up some old man on YouTube to explain the importance of this record to me because I don't get it. *edit I've bumped this up to a 2, since I actually fully enjoyed at least two songs, which is 2 more than I can claim for any Bob Dylan record.

I eat tacos with sour cream. I'm a certified melanin deficient individual. I prefer Fear of a Black Planet. I feel like this record loses some steam in the last third. Still fun though.

It's the middle of summer. Drenched in sweat, you make your way back from the field to your grandparent's porch. Gramgram hands you a glass of Flavor-Aid. She'd buy kool-aid, but funds are tight, and she and Peepaw can't taste the difference anyway once the pitcher has been filled with an abundance of sugar. You climb into one of the porch chairs, spilling a bit of the sugar water towards the ground. Television is a foreign concept in this home. There are no other children for miles. Your body is exhausted, but your mind is racing for engagement. You are bored. You huff, sigh, and stare around for what feels like minutes. They are only moments. "I'm bored Peepaw," you say in the general direction of the decrepit origin of your father. "Aight, little man. How's 'bout I play you some good music?" He bends over and picks up his guitar. It seems to be missing a string. It won't matter, he won't notice it's missing anyways. Peepaw begins to strum his guitar. Not much is going on, but he's at least good at keeping the monotonous pace. He forces his lips open and begins to halfheartedly sing. At times it even seems he's just talking. You would say the feeling of his performance was ominous, if you knew what that meant. It's no Monkees or Beatles, but his performance is so personal, so intimate, that you can't help but be entranced. After about two minutes, Peepaw reaches around and pulls a harmonica out of his trousers, much like you pick your stained underwear out of your butt. He then proceeds to shove the harmonica right up his nose and just breathes into it. The noise is absolutely awful, and the mood has been ruined just like the grocery store aisle is ruined whenever your mother crop-dust in it. This continues for twelve more songs. This is the Freewheelin' Bob Dylan experience. For what it's worth, of the four Dylan albums I've experience, this is probably the best. Just listen to actually skilled musicians cover him if you want to hear his lyrics that badly.