ON THIS DAY – 5 January 1976
Bob Dylan – Desire
Released fifty years ago today, Desire still feels like one of Bob Dylan’s more reckless decisions. And I mean that as a compliment.
This was Dylan swerving hard when most people would have played it safe. No easing you in. No gradual transition. Just a sharp turn and deal with it. Some loved it. Some didn’t. The interesting ones stayed.
I came to Desire second-hand, courtesy of Uncle Paul, who had a knack for putting records in front of you without explanation and letting them get on with it. No context. No lecture. Just “listen to this”. That usually meant it mattered. Desire lodged itself early. Not because it was neat or perfect, but because it sounded like nothing else I owned.
Straight away it’s obvious this isn’t a tidy record. Scarlet Rivera’s violin doesn’t decorate the songs, it hijacks them. It nags, prowls, and occasionally sounds like it’s got its own agenda. The whole album feels like it wants to be moving. On a stage. On the road. Anywhere but politely boxed in. These songs are full of names, places, dodgy decisions and people who don’t hang around long enough to be explained.
A lot of that atmosphere comes from the people around him. Emmylou Harris is on backing vocals throughout and she is sensational. No ego. No showboating. Just quietly lifting everything a notch higher. Once you clock what she’s doing, you realise half the emotional weight of the album sits on her shoulders. It would be a much poorer record without her.
“Hurricane” is the headline grabber and still the one that stops the room. Angry, detailed, and completely uninterested in being subtle. No slogans. No polite distancing. Dylan tells the story and leaves it with you like a dropped glass. “Isis” wanders off into myth, memory and nonsense and never bothers to check back in. “Joey” goes on far too long and absolutely refuses to apologise for it. That lack of discipline is part of the charm. This album does not know when to stop and does not care.
Then there’s “Romance in Durango”, which casually features Eric Clapton turning up, playing exactly what’s needed, and disappearing again without fuss. No grandstanding. No guitar hero nonsense. Which is probably why it works.
What really sets Desire apart is that it sounds like people enjoying themselves. This isn’t Dylan alone, staring at the floor and bleeding onto tape. It’s communal, theatrical, occasionally indulgent, and fully aware of it. You can hear the smiles. You can also hear the excess. Both are doing useful work.
Is it his best album. No. That still belongs to Blood on the Tracks. That record cuts deeper and leaves more scars. But Desire is my second favourite because it refuses to compete on those terms. Where Blood on the Tracks is inward, forensic and brutal, Desire throws the doors open and lets the chaos in.
And then there’s the timing, which still feels faintly absurd. Blood on the Tracks and Desire were released less than a year apart. Less than a year. Two albums, back to back, wildly different in tone, both fully formed, both now essential. One cold and private. The other noisy, roaming and half-unhinged. Are there better two albums released that close together by the same artist. You can try and argue it, but you’d want a second pint before committing.
Fifty years on, Desire still sounds alive. Messy. Overconfident. Occasionally self-indulgent. Full of stories that may or may not be true and could not care less what you think. Passed down, argued over, and returned to. Exactly where it belongs.
A phenomenal LP
