Klinger: All right, Mendelsohn, I know that in the past you’ve been somewhat, shall we say, lukewarm to our man Bob here. I’ve just about convinced myself, though, that Blood on the Tracks is the album that will change your tune. No obfuscating abstract lyrics, no fuzzy-ish arrangements, just a stunning display of heartache and loneliness, honed to a diamond-like precision by a man who reveals himself to be a true master of the form.
So I’m eager to hear what you have to say here. Is this the one? Has Bob Dylan finally won you over?
Mendelsohn: This album is very pretty. Very pretty and very sad. I imagine that Blood on the Tracks is useful fodder for any college-age troubadour lothario who enjoys preying on young, innocent, artsy girls who have yet to become jaded at life due to heartbreak at the hands of a guitar-wielding Don Juan.
All the guy has to do is play a couple of these songs while staring deeply into her eyes and the girl will say, “Oh, somebody must have really hurt you. Here, let me make it all better”, and then he’ll say, “Someone did hurt me but most of these songs are about the works of Anton Chekhov”, which immediately results in the girl taking off her pants.
Since I can not play the guitar and am no longer allowed on most college campuses (due to several incidents stemming from my uncontrollable mascot rage), this album, while enjoyable enough to listen to, is of no use to me.