Bob Dylan’s 1973 album Dylan is a strange artifact: a cobbled-together collection of outtakes, released without his involvement, that finds the most influential songwriter of his generation doing other people’s material. It is not a statement. It is not a concept. It is a stopgap, assembled by Columbia Records to keep the catalog moving while the artist was elsewhere. The record runs nine tracks, almost entirely covers. What it tries to do is simple: extend the shelf life of a brand. What it actually does is freeze a moment of transition, catching Dylan between his country-rock detour and whatever came next.
A Record Dylan Didn’t Want Out
The history matters here. These sessions were recorded years before release and sat in the vault before Columbia pushed them out anyway. The album’s title, Dylan, is almost aggressively generic — a placeholder name for a placeholder release. There is no through-line, no mood that holds from track to track. One moment Dylan is doing a folk standard, the next a pop song, the next a country weeper. It plays less like an album and more like a demo reel.
Walking the Track List
The record opens with “Lily of the West,” a traditional folk ballad. His version is brisk and slightly ragged, the vocal pushed to the front with that familiar nasal bite. It is not a revelation, but it sets a tone: this is Dylan the interpreter, not Dylan the prophet. The song is a murder ballad with a twist — the narrator’s lover saves him from the gallows — and Dylan plays it straight. It works.
“Can’t Help Falling in Love” follows, and this is where things get strange. The original is one of the most recognizable pop songs of the century. Dylan’s take is slow, almost solemn, his voice cracking on the high notes. It is not a cover so much as a dismantling. The tenderness of the original is replaced with something more weary. Some fans hate it. Some find it perversely moving. Both reactions are fair. It is the most talked-about track on the record for a reason.
“Sarah Jane” is a short, cheerful folk number, the kind of thing Dylan could knock out in his sleep. It is pleasant and forgettable, a filler track that earns its place without demanding more. “Mr. Bojangles” is the centerpiece, and it is the best thing here. The song about a dancing man and his dog gets a full treatment. Dylan leans into the story, drawing out the sadness beneath the performance. The vocal is loose, almost conversational. This is the track that justifies the album’s existence.
“The Ballad of Ira Hayes” is the other major statement. The song about a soldier who died in obscurity is a natural fit for Dylan’s protest instincts, even if the protest era had passed. His version is grim and unflinching, the vocal flattened into a monotone that suits the tragedy. It is not easy listening, and it is not meant to be.
The back half of the record is thinner. “Mary Ann” is a folk song that feels like a vacation B-side. “Big Yellow Taxi” gets a rushed, almost throwaway reading. Dylan does not find anything new in it. “A Fool Such as I” is a country standard, and Dylan’s croon is serviceable but unremarkable. The closer, “Spanish Is the Loving Tongue,” is a recitation more than a song, Dylan half-speaking the lyrics over sparse guitar. It is haunting in its way, but it also feels unfinished, like a sketch left on the easel.
The Voice Carries It
What holds Dylan together is not the material. It is the voice. That braying, charismatic instrument is fully present here. Dylan could sing a grocery list and make it sound like a confession. On this record, he sings other people’s songs and makes them sound like his own, even when he is not entirely committed to them.
That is the record’s saving grace. The covers are uneven, the sequencing is random, and the whole project has the air of a contractual obligation. But the vocal performances are never less than interesting. Dylan’s phrasing, his ability to bend a line until it means something new, is on display throughout. “Mr. Bojangles” and “The Ballad of Ira Hayes” are the clear highlights, tracks that reward repeated listening. The rest is minor Dylan, but even minor Dylan has a pull.
The Numbers
- Release year: 1973
- Track count: 9
- Total running time: 28 minutes
Ranking the Tracks
- “Mr. Bojangles” — the centerpiece, full of sadness and loose charm
- “The Ballad of Ira Hayes” — grim, unflinching, and essential
- “Lily of the West” — a solid opener that sets the tone
- “Can’t Help Falling in Love” — strange and divisive, but never dull
- “Spanish Is the Loving Tongue” — haunting, though unfinished
- “Sarah Jane” — pleasant filler
- “A Fool Such as I” — serviceable but unremarkable
- “Mary Ann” — a vacation B-side
- “Big Yellow Taxi” — rushed and forgettable
The Verdict
Dylan is a footnote in a giant career, and it should be judged as one. It is not an album Dylan wanted to make, and it is not an album that needed to exist. But it is not worthless either. The two strong tracks — “Mr. Bojangles” and “The Ballad of Ira Hayes” — are worth the price of admission on their own. The rest is background music, pleasant but thin.
The record’s real value is as a time capsule. It catches Dylan at a moment when he was between identities, drifting away from the protest singer and the country cowboy toward something less defined. The covers are a map of his influences: folk, pop, country. He is trying on voices, testing which one fits.
It does not fit yet.
Dylan gets a 5 out of 10. It is not a failure, but it is not a success either. It is a curiosity, a piece of packaging that outlived its purpose. For completists, it is essential. For everyone else, it is a record to visit once, admire the voice, and move on. The voice remains intriguing. The songs do not always deserve it.
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- Lily of the West3:47
- Can't Help Falling in Love4:19
- Sarah Jane2:51
- Mr. Bojangles5:33
- The Ballad of Ira Hayes
- Mary Ann2:43
- Big Yellow Taxi2:14
- A Fool Such as I2:43
- Spanish Is the Loving Tongue4:13
