Lost in the Grooves is a bi-weekly column where we revisit overlooked, underappreciated, and downright strange entries in artists’ back catalogues.

With 40 studio records, 21 live albums, and 18 released volumes of outtakes, plus multiple EPs, compilation albums, and soundtracks, Bob Dylan is the definition of a prolific artist. However, for most people, he may as well have stopped making music after “Blonde on Blonde” in 1966. Other than a few songs throughout the rest of the 60’s and his universally acclaimed 1974 effort, “Blood on the Tracks,” the preceding 40 years plus of Dylan’s music never made an impact anywhere near that of his prime output.

Even for seasoned Dylan listeners, not many dare venture past the mid to late 70’s, and, by the release of “Shot of Love” in 1981, the conclusion to a trilogy of increasingly fire-and-brimstone born-again Christian albums, things were looking bleak. Then, enter “Infidels” in 1983. Both a response to and an evolution of his religious music, “Infidels” is the return of an inspired Dylan, for better and for worse, and is the boldest set of songs he had, and would, put out in years.

If you’ve only ever heard Dylan’s music from the 1960’s, “Infidels” will be a shock to the system. Dylan had long ditched his acoustic guitar by this point, but “Infidels” is a hodge-podge of 80’s guitar rock, big reverberated drum sounds, reggae percussion, and, of course, Dylan’s harmonica playing and increasingly strained, nasally delivery.

The album’s direction was fronted by producer Mark Knopfler, lead singer and guitarist of the British rock band Dire Straits, who recruited former Rolling Stones lead guitarist Mick Taylor, as well as famed reggae producers and recording artists Robbie Shakespeare and Sly Dunbar, to play bass and drums.

Shakespeare and Dunbar are really the unsung heroes of the album. Their lively bass playing and percussion add a much-needed energy and unique edge to the record, and their presence is immediately felt on the opening track, “Jokerman.”

Quite possibly the best song on the album, “Jokerman” is “Infidels” firing on all cylinders. Dylan flawlessly spits out lines of biblical beat poetry without breaking a sweat, perfectly marrying them to his vocal delivery.

“Well, the Book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy / The law of the jungle and the sea are your only teachers / In the smoke of the twilight on a milk-white steed / Michelangelo could have indeed carved out your features.”

It’s also the first of several songs on the album focused on manipulators and anti-Christ-like figures who disguise themselves with righteousness. However, unlike his previous three albums, “Jokerman” isn’t weighed down by its use of religious allegory. It’s Dylan tapping back into the magic of songs like “Desolation Row” or “Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again,” where he effortlessly pulls from a collective consciousness of characters and symbols and bends them to his whim.

There’s also a pretty incredible performance of this song on Letterman from 1984, where Dylan transforms the song into a new-wave rock song and is backed by Los Angeles Latino punk band, The Plugz. It’s an all-timer Dylan song and performance, in my book.

Things get complicated, though, as we move into the next two songs, “Sweetheart Like You” and the egregious “Neighborhood Bully.”

“Sweetheart Like You” isn’t all that bad of a song. It has some nice lead guitar playing, with a pretty good solo in the outro, and the track’s overall sentiment is sweet, but it’s unfortunately bogged down by some lyrics whose opaque intentions read as misogynistic.

“You know a woman like you should be at home / That’s where you belong / Taking care of somebody nice / Who don’t know how to do you wrong / Just how much abuse will you be able to take? / Well, there’s no way to tell by that first kiss / What’s a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?”

There’s a way to read this song as Dylan mourning the Christian church’s deviation from spiritual truth, but it doesn’t exonerate it of its shortcomings. Even Dylan himself said in a 1984 interview with Rolling Stone that the line didn’t come out the way he wanted it to.

Then comes “Neighborhood Bully,” a truly unfortunate stain on the album, where Dylan defends the state of Israel in a drawn-out, sarcastic metaphor. Dylan isn’t new to political songs, and based on his pretty amazing track record, “Neighborhood Bully” should at the very least be interesting, but he trips into the pitfalls of dogmatism, casually spouting jingoistic and bitter characterizations of an issue whose complexity could never be carefully discussed in 4/4 time.

“The neighborhood bully he just lives to survive / He’s criticized and condemned for being alive / He’s not supposed to fight back, he’s supposed to have thick skin / He’s supposed to lay down and die when his door is kicked in / He’s the neighborhood bully.”

In that same interview with Rolling Stone mentioned earlier, Dylan denies that the song has any political leaning. Still, it’s difficult to tell if he’s being genuine in his response or is dodging the question, as he’d been known to do throughout his career.

“Just because somebody feels a certain way, you can’t come around and stick some political party slogan on it. If you listen closely, it really could be about other things,” said Dylan. “It’s simple and easy to define it, so you got it pegged, and you can deal with it in that certain kinda way. However, I wouldn’t do that. ‘Cause I don’t know what the politics of Israel are. I just don’t know.”

The song’s presence on the album feels especially strange given the next two songs, “License to Kill” and “Man of Peace,” almost directly contradict what Dylan preaches on “Neighborhood Bully.”

“He got a sweet gift of gab / He got a harmonious tongue / He knows every song of love that has ever been sung / Good intentions can be evil / Both hands can be full of grease / You know that sometimes Satan comes as a man of peace.”

The album, however, more than lands on its feet. The penultimate track, “I and I,” finds Dylan reckoning with the mythical appearance he’s built up throughout his career. Dylan is, of course, very enigmatic in his approach here; the soul-baring is still guised in various metaphors and parables.

“Think I’ll go out for a walk / Not much happenin’ here, nothin’ ever does / Besides, if she wakes up now, she’ll just want me to talk / I got nothin’ to say, ‘specially about whatever was.”

It took a while for me to come around to “Infidels.” When it works, it really works and feels lyrically reminiscent of some of Dylan’s best work. The one-two punch of “Sweetheart Like You” and “Neighborhood Bully” really bog it down, the latter being unreconcilably bad, and a song I automatically skip when listening to the album. Dylan thankfully recovers pretty quickly, and the rest of the record is smooth sailing, except for the mostly forgettable “Union Sundown.”

There’s a pretty big bar to entry here, too. Unlike his earlier efforts, where it always felt like the music and lyrics were in tune with each other, the music on “Infidels” is a bit more of an acquired taste, something you have to adjust to before you get to really enjoy the record. Also, if you’re not already a Bob Dylan fan, this album is very unlikely to convince you otherwise. If you think Dylan’s voice was grating in the 60’s, boy, do I have news for you.

Dylan is a fascinating artist, and someone who never rested on their laurels when it came to making music he thought was interesting and important. “Infidels” is a leading, albeit flawed, example of that commitment to artistry. It doesn’t always lead him in the right direction, but his boldness is pretty amazing to witness and more than justifies the price of admission.