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The chronicles of Ruin, continued. Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do. Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here. 10 September 2009 22:59
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8 comments:
They certainly are and they certainly have. Absolutely fucking ghastly. Was he being ironic do you think? I do hope so.
I prefer the Manchester 1965 version and I would post a link to it if the old git hadn't had all his stuff taken down.
the arse-scratching riffs were impeccable
a rather flat and unrhythmic rendition - was he trying to say something?
Dylan: what an atonal git. Gets me angry because I had to pretend to like this shit in order to get in the pants of a certain class of female in my yoof.
Mr I: isn't he a clansman or some such, or one of that ilk now?
I don't know about his affiliations, mr mike, I don't keep up.
Some of his 'sixties concert performances, though, were those of a magician, mr mike, of God, Himself, breathing out; Highway 61 Revisited is the creative climax of rock'n'roll, a work of spontaneous, collective genius, unmatchable and irrepeatable.
Playing for the President is what they all love to do, Monroe, Sinatra, Fleetwood Mac, Springsteen and now Bob Dylan. Even Jesus would never forgive what they do.
Maybe his money will buy him forgiveness, Mr I. It was truly horrible. He wants to get one of those Val Doonican sweaters. Maybe skip a few steps with a lady from the audience a la that other bastard from dim memory, Andy Fucking Williams. "Moon River", now there's a proper tune.
Dear, dear. Clearly, I have lived too long.
It raises an interesting point, mr m, about who truly owns the copyright of songs - is it the audience, who adopted and colonised their landscapes, who bought them many times over, in endless formats, or do they remain the exclusive property of the person who happened to write them down, once upon a time?
the guy never played for me...
is it coz i iz white?
hell, i feel like writing a god-damned protesst song.
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