The Basement Tapes (1967)

In which we plunge into the deepest swamps of rock mythology, with Minnesotan shot out of a cannon Bob Dylan holing up post-legendary motorcycle accident with his Canadian buddies, affectedly calling themselves The Band (which I wish so much was "the Bob Dylan Band," but I can't explain why), in a pink upstate New York house, Woodstock County (figuratively if not literally, I'm too lazy at the moment to look it up), its basement – natch – set up as recording studio/performance space. Went to work. Produced all this and more. Tracks from which were subsequently covered and bootlegged and covered again and bootlegged again, until finally it occurred to someone at record company Columbia to, um, like, release it. Chief mythologist Greil Marcus provided liner notes for the inside gate sleeve. We were all suitably stunned, those of us without benefit of intimacy with the bootlegs, not least because Blood on the Tracks was also released in approximately the same timeframe. Things like that seem to happen frequently in the career of Bob Dylan. This double set is raw, woodsheddy, hammered together and sturdy, rollicking in a strangely mellow way, and often very funny. The whole thing is basically good. Not kidding. Every song.