Five albums, fifty-eight songs, sixty-eight pages of liner notes, one large container, and a title that's as bone-dry academic as anything you'll find sitting atop a legal document - against that backdrop, perhaps the first and most useful thing to say about Bob in the box is: don't be intimidated!

Given the deification of Dylan and the zealous proselytising of his most crazed disciples, the point is worth underlining; 'The Bootleg Series', all surface appearances to the contrary, is most definitely not a release that should be thought of as being exclusively of interest to Dylan obsessives, the kind of people who not only know who Mr. Jones was, but can tell you his seed, breed and inside leg measurements - and worse, will insist on telling you, repeatedly and at length, with that awful gleam shining in their eyes, even after you've threatened them with the most terrible physical consequences for their relative well-being.

Which reminds me of a hitherto unrecognised benefit of the boxed set phenomenon: at the first sign of some wild-eyed son of AJ Weberman trying to tell you that he has a version of 'Farewell, Angelina' with an extra two verses and an infinitely better harmonica solo, you are absolutely entitled, under a little-known statute, to up with the box and deal the bugger a blow to the head that will leave him more senseless than he's ever been.

All of which is by way of saying that while 'The Bootleg Series' - a collection of hi-fidelity cast-offs, outtakes, demos, re-writes, alternative versions, live performances and an embryonic sketch or two - is unquestionably fascinating as historical document, point of comparison and insight into the mechanics and development over time of one artist's creative process, it is, much more fundamentally, a set which justifies its existence entirely on the basis of what's contained within the grooves. And that, my friends, is often compelling and sometimes sensational confirmation of Mr. Robert Dylan's unassailable status as a songwriter without peer over the last quarter of a century.

From the intimate, in-your-ear immediacy of his earliest vocal incarnation on the opening cut 'Hard Times In New York Town', via a bewildering array of gymnastic variations across the yeas, to the growling, in-your-ear abrasiveness of the voice on the Oh Mercy outtake which closes the set, here also is a reminder that while Bob is no Sam Cooke, nobody but nobody, sings a Dylan song quite like the author himself.

58 songs is about 50 too many for the space and deadline-pressed scribe to properly catalogue and critique, so a brief spin through the sides and years, alighting only on cuts which are either representative, surprising or simply outstanding, will have to suffice for the purposes of this review. Take the following, which leaps and bounds in roughly chronological fashion, as a time-saving consumer's guide, a *Go Straight To* for both the eager and the uninitiated.

'No More Auction Block' - a worldly and moving reading of an age-old slave emancipation song, and a revelatory performance given Dylan's tender years; 'Talkin' Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues' - a side-splitting and mordant talking blues which highlights his terrific comic timing and mastery of the form; 'Rambling, Gambling Willie' - great character portrayal, a sharp eye for the telltale details of the card game and a rousing melody which the Clancys would have recognised as 'Brennan On The Moor'; 'Who Killed Davey Moore?' - articulate, hard-hitting anti-boxing diatribe, expressed in the form of denials of any culpability for a death in the ring by management, reporters and hangers-on. (Thinks: wonder if Hurricane Carter even heard this?)...

'Last Thought On Woody Guthrie' - poetry in motion, caught live at the Town hall. Sophisticated construction, brilliant imagery and locomotive pre-rap rhythm, but the somewhat expressionless reading confirms that Dylan words are better sung than recited; 'Farewell, Angelina' - an uneasy transition to the kind of symbolism and surreal imagery which would be better realised on 'Mr Tambourine Man' and others, but some striking lines nonetheless, to go with a heartfelt performance and absolutely gorgeous melody; 'Mama, You Been On My Mind' - another bewitching melody, which, as it pursues its unusual, tumbling course, points to a growing Lennon/Dylan mutual admiration society; 'Subterranean Homesick Blues' - a terrific solo version of a great song. Just voice and guitar and conclusive proof that rock'n'roll can exist without electricity; 'Like A Rolling Stone' - how does it feel... in waltz time? Here's the belatedly-released answer, a rock classic in its birthday suit...

'Angelina' - an outtake from 'Shot Of Love', this haunting ballad draws you in with its inspired opening couplet - *Well it's always been my nature to take chemicals/My right hand drives back while my left advances* - and proceeds to grow more mysterious and captivating by the line; 'Tangled Up In Blue' - hard to believe that Dylan could have bettered what is a candidate for the title of his greatest ever song, but this original version is arguably superior to the one which appeared on 'Blood On The Tracks'. A high, sustained, tingling guitar lick adds a whole new aural dimension, Dylan's voice is more urgent and expressive, especially when he slides down into the lower register for added emphasis, and some of the original lines are of a quality which argues that they should have been retained for the officially released version; 'Blind Willie McTell' - an outtake from 'Infidels' and one of the entire collection's truly astounding revelations. *I'm looking out the window of the St. James Hotel*, Dylan sings as his mind drifts into an inspired reverie on a world of oppression and despair, with some of the song's most vivid images drawn from the topography of the American south, the black people's struggle for freedom and the lifestyle of the travelling bluesman. In an uncertain universe, the singer finally decides, there is only one absolute certainty: *Nobody can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell*. A hauntingly atmospheric song, not least because of its beautiful, elegiac piano, and one of Dylan's best-ever vocal performances. And finally another exhumed masterpiece: 'Series Of Dreams', an outtake from the 'Oh Mercy' sessions, which comes on like Dylan meets U2 meets The Velvet Underground. *A fantastic, turbulent track*, says Daniel Lanois who produced the sessions and argued for its inclusion on the album. He was right.

We've barely scratched the surface of a monumental collection here, but no reviewette would be complete without acknowledging John Bauldie's detailed and informative liner notes. But at the risk of sounding like a Dylan obsessive John, might I humbly point out, that the lines about *fearing to bring children into the world* are from 'Masters Of War' not 'A Hard Rain...' as you suggest.

Dammit, the only thing now, I suppose, is to whack myself over the head.