July 27, 2002

Accompanied my parents on a road trip out to the North Fork of Long Island (small fishing towns and seafood shacks, farmlands and farmstands); my dad just got a new Camry and he was fixing to take it for a spin. We listened to Dylan's Love and Theft, which I hadn't heard in months. Out in the country, it really sounds beautiful, even though there's very little about the record that's pastoral -- it's all New Orleans jazz and Chicago blues. But it feels like a dewy summer breeze bouncing off a vacationer's cheeks a few days after the other guy's thunderstorm blew through town. I never reviewed Love and Theft because it's just a simple, pleasant sensation that doesn't need weighty deconstruction or strained associations with 9/11. I'd only review it to defend it, because its near-unanimous critical adoration in 2001 has caused a backlash of sorts from people who apparently think Nelly Furtado and Shakira are waaaaaay more "relevant" than old Zimmy.