money never changed a thing

We heard the Sermon on the Mount and I knew it was too complex
It didn't amount to anything more than the broken glass reflects

When you bite off more than you can chew you pay the penalty
Somebody's got to tell the tale, I guess it must be up to me

Another Self-Portrait

Oh, and here's an interesting article from The Guardian about the newest installment of The Bootleg Series.  The most notorious so-called 'bad' Dylan album is getting deluxe treatment.

Photo from the Deluxe Edition - photographer unknown (to me)

Whatever you think of the original Self Portrait (and you can be forgiven and will never walk alone if you, umm, don't much care for it), you'll probably want to give this collection a chance.  I just listened to a stream of part of it - definitely some worthwhile stuff there: simpler arrangements of material from the Self Portrait/New Morning era, some demos, some live Isle of Wight tracks.  Worth shelling out the bucks for the full 4-disc version?  Reckon that depends on your level of interest.  But I'm happy for even still yet another look behind the scenes at the ideas and processes going on in that (or pretty much any) era of this particular song and dance man.

Still sort of wish his show at Pier A Park last month had been better...

Gray Day in Chelsea

The precursor to the holiday weekend is a gray and rainy one.  

To add to the celebration-worthiness, it's also Bob Dylan's birthday.  The good people at Slate added to the festivities with this nifty map with a pin on (they claim) every location Dylan mentions in any of his songs.  There is definitely some fun to be had playing with that.

If you zoom way in on the NYC area of the map, you'll eventually land on this location, where he claims in this great song, that he wrote this other, even greater, song.

[There is some vintage video and some interesting lyric changes in that live version of Sara linked above.  In case you are interested in that kind of thing.]

Took that shot in front of one of our favorite coffee shops.  Then turned west and took this shot of an even bigger, if less historic, proclamation of Chelsea.

Have a good Memorial Day weekend, everybody.  And happy birthday Bob.

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Memories of English lefties adapting Maggie's Farm as a response to/indictment of Margaret Thatcher sent me down the Dylan rabbit hole once again. 

More on Baroness Thatcher later, but for now, shifting from one quicksilver song to another, I now pose the following query:

Was Dylan writing about someone in particular in the song Queen Jane Approximately?  I got pulled into the song (again) when listening to "Hwy 61 Revisited" the other day.  There's certainly no need to associate it with any particular person in the flesh & blood universe, but I wonder...

I've never held much truck with the notion that it was about Joan Baez.

The idea that it's about literal Queen Jane Seymour has struck me as even more farfetched, though there's something vaguely interesting about thinking that the "smell of roses" has something to do with the War of the Roses, and that he was being extra special clever referring to "all her children" starting to resent her (when she died of complications from the birth of her only child.)

Naaaaah, that's crazy talk.


I have thought that it might have more than a little to do with Edie Sedgwick.

But I am intrigued by the notion I came across while scouring the internets the other day that it might not be this Factory Girl, but actually the Boy who started the Factory, Andy Warhol himself, who's being addressed in the song.  I picked up the idea from one of the sites out there (cheese factories themselves, for the most part) devoted to picking apart song meanings, with a guy calling himself LuckyTown making the case.  Further steps down the rabbit hole led me to this interview Nora Ephron did with Dylan around the time the song came out - it is vintage Bob being random and chaotic and anything but serious or straightforward, but it does contain the quip "Queen Jane is a man."  And he offers this mini rant on art and accessibility:

Great paintings shouldn't be in museums. Have you ever been in a museum? Museums are cemetaries. Paintings should be on the walls of restaurants, in dime stores, in gas stations, in men's rooms. Great paintings should be where people hang out. The only thing where it's happening is on radio and records, that's where people hang out. You can't see great paintings. You pay half a million and hang one in your house and one guest sees it. That's not art. That's a shame, a crime. Music is the only thing that's in tune with what's happening. It's not in book form, it's not on the stage. All this art they've been talking about is nonexistent. It just remains on the shelf. It doesn't make anyone happier. Just think how many people would really feel great if they could see a Picasso in their daily diner. It's not the bomb that has to go, man, it's the museums.

SO - is it possible that this is an offer/invitation to the artist of plastic (inevitable) repetition who ran the Factory where his kinda sorta girlfriend spent a lot of her time?

When your mother sends back all your invitations
And your father to your sister he explains
That you're tired of yourself and all of your creations
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you
And the smell of their roses does not remain
And all of your children start to resent you
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all the clowns that you have commissioned
Have died in battle or in vain
And you're sick of all this repetition
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Oh when all of your advisers heave their plastic
At your feet to convince you of your pain
Trying to prove that your conclusions should be more drastic
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all of the bandits that you turn your other cheek to
All lay down their bandanas and complain
And you want somebody you don't have to speak to
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Ah, Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Just askin'.

Happy Birthday Bob!

And not just that, but happy 70th birthday to the singing cowboy who wrote the number that gives this blog its name. Very exciting, and there are some good events to honor the occasion.




First, and most immediately I suppose, is that WBAI is devoting the whole day to archival interviews, studio sessions, and Dylan-related audio artifacts. You can listen to 99.5 FM or stream by clicking the link above. It's their semi-annual beg-a-thon too, so be warned about that. Small price to pay. (Hey, a station's gotta make a living. Especially a station full of dissenters, most of whom volunteer their time.)

Film Forum is showing a couple flicks documenting the early days. Don't Look Back, the D.A. Pennebaker doc that's been around since '67, and Murray Lerner's The Other Side of the Mirror, which covers the performances at the Newport Folk Festival from '63-'65, but was just released in '007. They're playing through June 2, so don't delay too much if you want to catch them.

And, of course, there is no shortage of ways to celebrate online. Articles, editorials, shoutouts, discussions, suggestions, photo essays, tributes, and of course blog entries...

Have at it!

The People vs. The Loudness Wars

Here is a post I've been meaning to write for a while. Since I first saw this article, which covers the rather dry and (to some) utterly uninteresting subject of dynamic range compression in audio recording.

Let me walk you through the headlines, starting, as our writer Sean Curnyn does, with a disavowal of audiophilia:

At the outset, I should say that I am no extreme hi-fi buff, in my own estimation; perhaps not even a moderate hi-fi buff... I don’t spend thousands on speakers or other audio components. I own very basic equipment that works. I care about hearing music properly and I make an effort to do so, but there’s a red line of expense that I’d never personally cross in the pursuit of audio perfection, and that red line figure is quite low.

Additionally, I am no vinyl fetishist. I do not contend that the audio reproduction of a vinyl long-playing record is inherently better than that of a compact disc. Others may claim such; I remain agnostic on the subject.

The italics are mine, to emphasize that I do care pretty deeply about music, but I think it's important to distance ourselves (for the sake of this discussion) from the type of people who spend, say, $15,000 for a mono-specific phono cartridge. That being said, it has become clear that current recording and mastering practices are depriving us of the depth of recorded music in a profound and significant way.

Curnyn later writes:

My first conscious perception of a problem with the sound of Bob Dylan’s recent albums came with Modern Times (my CD copy being purchased in the U.S. at the time of release). What it amounted to was this: The album had some great songs. The musicians’ performances appeared to be excellent. Bob’s voice was great, and he was obviously putting a whole lot of focus and art into his singing. Yet, after the initial excitement of hearing the album faded, I found myself oddly less and less inclined to listen to it.

I had been well-hooked by his article before we got to this section, but it really grabbed my attention here, as it so accurately described my reaction to some of Dylan's most recent releases: these are great songs played by really first rate musicians - why don't I like this record more than I do?

Turns out that it has a lot to do with that aforementioned dry and uninteresting topic. Uninteresting unless and until you happen care about music, and have an interest in hearing it the way that an artist you appreciate intends it to be heard.

More from the article:

Intrigued now, I read up further on the so-called “loudness wars”. The more I read, the more that what I read spoke to me regarding the very problems I seemed to be having listening to the latest Bob Dylan albums. Dynamic range compression reduces the distinction between the quiet parts of a recording and the loudest parts, making every part of the recording sound louder. In some ways, this might seem a good thing, because it means you won’t miss the quiet parts.

A recording so compressed might even sound better and brighter to your ears on first listen. But, especially when abused and taken to extremes, what the process does is flatten out the entire recording, removing all nuance both at the upper and lower levels. What you’re left with is a recording that is stripped of its natural variation and complexity. It is, if you like, static, in the sense of being relatively unchanging, all the way through. It is as if every aspect of the recording is just blaring out at you with equal force.

Interested yet? Starting to see how this matters?

Here's Sean's account of what happened when he got the LP version in the mail:

Now, I do not want to risk overstating it, but, in all honesty, when I put the needle down on Modern Times, and heard 'Thunder On The Mountain,' a chill went up my spine. It went on and on, and into the delicate 'Spirit On The Water,' and in no small way I felt as if I was hearing the album for the very first time.

Mr. Curnyn does us the favor of sharing some graphic illustration of the effect.


This is the CD version of Spirit on the Water


And this is the LP version of the same song.


Let's be clear: we're not talking about an inherent superiority of vinyl over cd, or analog music over digital. Such a superiority may exist (I don't know), but that's not the issue at hand. Digital music is more than capable of handling wide dynamic ranges, and plenty of CDs demonstrate this. But if, as it seems, there is a widespread movement to flatten out dynamics to boost sales by grabbing people's attention with volume, the recording industry is selling us one thing (music created by an artist) and delivering something else (a smooshed-in, i.e. damaged, version of that music). This leads Sean to an interesting conclusion:

I think that there’s a heckuva class-action lawsuit waiting to be brought against the music industry on this issue. Realizing what is going on here makes me lose all sympathy for executives who complain about declining sales and what
online file-sharing is costing them.

And of course he makes the point that had hit me like a ton of bricks back near the beginning of the article, at the instant I realized that record companies are intentionally sabotaging the sound qualities of their own releases:

The most infuriating potential scenario is that, some years down the road, when this issue is more widely understood and accepted, and the era of the “loudness wars” is universally scorned, the record company will actually issue “remastered” versions with great fanfare, so inviting fans to buy the albums all over again. As if they’re doing us all a favor!

I'd say that's a virtual certainty, unless there's some widespread reaction (along the lines of that class-action suit: you can sign me up for that, by the way.)

One other possible conclusion is that all this is simply a sign that perhaps we should not bemoan the imminent death of the record companies after all: they have outlived their usefulness anyway.

I don't think I like that conclusion, but it's tough to deny that it's a possibility.

The Rumors are True

Bob Dylan will be releasing a Christmas Album this year.



There are skeptics, and they have plenty to say, I'm sure. My attitude toward that (said it before, I'll say it again): Dylan's musicianship is singular, and off the charts. If you listen, you'll probably get it. If you sneer dismissively, you probably won't. No matter what you do, I can't make you get it.


So, maybe you'll be excited to hear the singing cowboy strum his way through "Here Comes Santa Claus" and "Little Drummer Boy," and maybe you won't. It comes out on October 13, which is too early for a holiday record, in my opinion, but all Dylan's royalties are going to Feeding America (and he's also partnering with international hunger relief groups) so if the Columbus Day release helps that cause, I guess it's ok. I guess.

The Return of The Singing Cowboy

It is scarcely news if you pay attention to this kind of thing at all, but Bob Dylan is releasing his new album Together Through Life on April 28. I'm guessing we'll have more to say about that then, but for now, take a gander at this interview with Bill Flanagan, which covers Gods and Generals and Presidents, and which includes one of the new songs. Good stuff.

The Lonesome Death of...

William Zantzinger. Who served six months and paid a $500 fine for killing a black maid who didn't serve him a drink fast enough. In Maryland, in 1963, that was a different kind of possible.

Even today, if you poke around the news reports of his life and death, you'll find different tones depending on where you look.

This can't count as "good" news, because that would be morbid and wrong. And of course it turned out that the details of the case were not as cut and dried as the way Dylan painted them.



Still, one line keeps coming back to me:

She never done nothin' to William Zanzinger

I always found it interesting that Dylan took the 't' out of his name for the song, calling him 'Zanzinger.' Some kind of very subtle nod to the notion that the song's power comes from the Truth of the story itself, not its factual basis?

uptown/downtown

The argument over whether uptown or downtown yields better art/entertainment is essentially a pretty boring one: uptown art is reputedly commercial, and crassly so, whereas downtown art is presumed to be edgy and authentic. Or: uptown art is professional, highly skilled and attentive to its audience while the downtown variety is shabby, amateurish and self-absorbed.

As it happens, the cliches are true sometimes, but not all the time (shocking!), and that both good and bad stuff happens in both areas, uptown and downtown having as much to do with attitude as geography, especially since much of what used to be 'downtown' Manhattan has all-but-utterly commercialized and much of the exciting new work is being done in the outer boroughs and (gasp!) New Jersey. Yes, there has always been a bunch of crap happening on Broadway, trite, thoughtless pablum aimed at the lowest imaginable common denominator; but there are also fantastic productions put on by true artists, brilliant playwrights and some of the best acting in the English speaking world. And the downtown scene is full of posers who create intentionally oblique nonsense and couldn't put two coherent thoughts together on a bet; but it also provides some of the most adventurous, exciting and vital work I've ever seen. My personal pet peeves from working in the worlds of conventional and experimental theater extend to the stick-up-the-ass cowardice of some of the decision-makers in the more commercial environments, and the crazy disorganization and overwhelming disregard for people's time in the fringy stuff (ok, ok - maybe an inflated sense of respect for scheduling does smack of the patriarchal, but that whole thing about never starting rehearsal on time gets old. Really.)

This all returns us to the shows I started writing about last week. Rock 'n' Roll was one more example of Tom Stoppard bringing it all back home with a team of top-notch artists at the top of their game. The central trio of Rufus Sewell, Brian Cox and Sinead Cusack are impressive in a way you just don't get to see very often. Damn Brits.

And the play itself is one of those shows that you walk away from smarter than when you walked in that night. Don't know much about the history of Communism in Czechoslovakia? You will. Unclear about the progression of British intellectual thought on the subject of the Party before and after the '68 invasion? Serving of mental Windex, live on stage. Wait a minute, wait a minute: you think those subjects might be boring? The use of rock and pop music to tie the scenes to the culture of the time and place isn't sugar to help it go down; it's a dramatic framework that makes an essential connection between popular expression and political environment. The fact that it's an irresistible musical element is a pretty bitchen bonus though.

Couple quick questions: might the show have benefited from some more truly underground or radical music? Not to take anything away from the Stones, Dylan or Pink Floyd, but I'm guessing there were more radical/less 'classic rock' musical forces at play in Prague, as there surely were in London. The Velvet Underground is a little closer to a counter-cultural phenomenon, and The Plastic People of the Universe certainly fit the bill. Maybe it wouldn't have been worth the time to introduce bands that would have required explanation, but I wonder if this uptown play could have used some more downtown sounds to illustrate its points. And where was the Zappa?! Not only was he important to the London scene, and absolutely integral to the Czech scene, his music spurred the very name of The Plastic People of the Universe, and, with the Velvets, was their most important influence both musically and theatrically. He was barely mentioned in the show, and not one note of his music was used. Why not?

And the mention of that musical artist who below-the-belted his way to a permanent spot in the fringe pantheon brings me back to The Nutcracker: Rated R. What a fun show! Not polished to a shiny gleam, the rough edges were part of the point, kinda like the sharp edge of a broken bottle. The fantasy of a bourgeois girl in this version of the Tchaikovsky ballet takes a turn through pre-Giuliani (and mostly pre-Dinkins) New York of the 80s (or at least someone's version of the 80s). Some creative variations on the music were employed, and the dancing had raw energy that got through to the packed audience.

There was a nasty line in the cold for the box office, in spite of our having bought tix in advance online, that I'd have liked to avoid (ah, the downside of downtown). But I digress. The show was worth the wait, however aggravating. Good primal energy in service of good arty entertainment. The sexuality could have gone farther without crossing any dangerous line (and this show sort of tempts one to cross dangerous lines - at the very least, it advertises itself as 'R-rated' ) but they delved into different dance forms and style choices with exuberant abandon, and made living contact with the audience that, well, that you don't always get.
Not so sure about the pat anti-drug message-y kind of resolution. (Did you know that coke can give you a sense of euphoria and energy to party all night? But that then it might kill you? I know, so did everyone else.) But they had to end it one way or another, and those after-school specials were part of the 80s too. There were some sound problems early on in the performance I saw, which caused the company to stop for repairs and start over, but I actually think the way they handled it was pretty perfect, and if anything juiced the dancers up to give a little extra on this cold and rainy matinee day. Way to have a show ready to weather any storm. Good luck bringing it back next year!

Who's there?

Ira Kaplan is guest hosting a late night show on WFMU, and I'm tapping away at the laptop while listening to his sonic choices (the current offering sound like some kind of mix between Serge Gainsbourg and the space-age bachelor pad offerings of Esquivel. One could do worse at 11 on a Tuesday night.

For the last few days I've been coiling up to react to I'm Not There, the Bob Dylan movie Todd Haynes made with 6 actors playing Dylan in various incarnations at varying eras. A fun house mirrorview of a man who won't keep still. Saw it on Saturday night, still steeped in the remnants of Thanksgiving.

I'm not saying it was perfect (just as I'm not saying Dylan is, was, or ever shall be perfect), but I am saying it's worth watching. In fact, I'll probably go back and see it again after I let it settle in for a few more days.

Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child's balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying.

Different actors cover different facets of the Dylan diamond. No impersonation required, though Cate Blanchett does a pretty much note-perfect reading of his Bringing it All Back Home/Don't Look Back persona. Richard Gere comes closest to today's Singing Cowboy - Billy the Kid camping out in Riddle, Missouri, having faked his own execution.

His clothes are dirty, but his hands are clean

One of those films that may stick with you for a while, ride with you on the subway, go with you through your day.



It's funny to me how often people just don't get it, with all kinds of things, Dylan being one of the most obvious. I mean, yeah, he has TONS of fans, with nigh-religious devotion, and many music critics likewise treat his body of work like some kind of Holy Grail. But his detractors can be just as fervent - usually starting with some kind of resistance to his voice, then moving on to attack the cultishness of his followers.

Reminds me of a conversation I had with a Croatian co-worker of mine a few years back: this guy was and is super smart, but just did not get Dylan, especially the vocal stylings (and I gotta tell you, his Croatian accented Dylan immitation was pretty hilarious. "Mneeyeh, mnyeeaahh!") This was a dayjob co-worker, but he knew me (and, I think it's fair to say, admired me) as an actor and vocal artist, and when I put in a strong defense of Dylan's powerful vocal interpretation and blindingly original styling, he just couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"So, what are you telling me?" (you've got to try to hear a piercing Eastern European accent and attitude in this questioning. Think of an apoplectic James Bond villain.) "You are telling me that this whiny, wheezing insect has a good voice?!"

"I didn't say he has a good voice."

"Oh, you didn't?"

"No I didn't"

"You didn't say he has a good voice?"

"No, I didn't say he has a good voice. I said he has a great voice."


At this point the veins started bulging out of his neck and forehead, and a poor innocent fellow worker rolled her eyes and stood clear as he proceeded to explicate the ways he wanted to rip my artistic intestines out and knit himself a noose out of them.

It was pretty fun.

The cracked bells and washed-out horns
Blow into my face with scorn,
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you.

It's not a frivolous distinction. Dylan's voice is peerlessly powerful, while not having anything to do with the smoothness and shine of Great Vocalists like Sinatra or Cole or Caruso. And the opera notion makes me think of Maria Callas, whom many would call the Best Female Singer of the Century. Yet her voice is not really the kind of 'beautiful' that is usually associated with operatic sopranos. A Great Voice, not a good one.

As for the movie, the critics' responses have been predictibly fervent, pro and con, at least if the tiny bit of reading I've done is any indication. Once again, I'm staggered at how many people miss the point. I'm tempted to tear into one particular critic, but that's always a downward spiral and a half. Plus, I try (at least here) to sort of follow the Mother's Dictum "If you can't say anything nice about someone, don't say anything at all."

Yeah, I don't always succeed on that score.

The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town

To the people who wonder why a filmmaker would make a 'biopic' that doesn't try to pin down and explain its subject, I say that a biopic is not what Haynes was making. To those who ask why said subject doesn't clearly define his 'character' for your benefit, I suggest that to some artists there is little that is more boring than trying to explain oneself. Much more fun to tweak some expectations, stir things up, and create. Hey, it's almost 400 years later and people are still trying to figure out who Shakespeare was.

Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself.
I am large, I contain multitudes.

And, to the nameless clueless critic: that puke you've got on your chest? I think it's Aristotle's. You may want to clean that up.

It's alright, Ma, I'm only sighing.

And as with anything, you can't make people get it.

The film spurred at least one enthusiast to, um, back up some data for a friend:

Could write more on this subject, but I've subjected you to enough for now...

Back to the Roo(ts)

Ok, now that we've had a couple interludes in the worlds of comedy and politics, I'll get back to the matter at hand.

That being: Bonnaroo

That meaning: the Roots



Remember when I wrote that not all the acts were transcendent? Well, some of them were. And this was the act that first made possible the change from a fun weekend to something important if not life-changing for the people involved.

Jason and I had a good spot on the grass off to the left of the soundboard and back a bit. And the Roots came though with flying colors: power, passion, incredible musicianship and performance energy. Black Thought proved his mastery as an M.C.; ?uestlove was amazing on drums and percussion, at home in every rhythm; the horns were supertight and on point; guitars and keys rode the waves of hip hop, rock and funk. Everybody is a Star, and it felt that way, with live musicians in the physical universe, not a sampler in sight. The kind of show that reminds you why you love to go to shows - infectious in all the right ways.

What do we want?
Roots Crew!
When do we want it?
Right Now!

At one point Black Thought and the horns left the stage, leaving the rhythm section and Captain Kirk Douglas on guitar as the core for a mini set that took us all by the neck, shook us around, opened our eyes, cleaned the debris from the wrinkles in our brains and when they finally let go of our throats we found we could breathe better than ever.

The centerpiece of this set was a version of Dylan's Masters of War which opened to the tune of the Star Spangled Banner. Sing along now:

Where you'd start 'Oh say, can you see,' instead begin:

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs

'Whose broad stripes...'

You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

'And the rockets red glare...' now

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy

'Oh say, does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave'

You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes

And here we devote all the vocal attention anyone ever gave to the word 'free' to the word 'run'

And you turn and run
When the fast bullets fly

Hendrix had nothing on them. Ok, he did guitar-wise, but in terms of significance of interpretation and activist theatrical performance, not an inch.

Then they finished off the song with Dylan's melody, of course inserting their own musical elements.

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

They did spend a little extra time on the final line of that verse. It bore repeating.

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could?
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead

I guess it can be effective once in a while to give vent to rage, can't it? Thanks for bearing with the long quotation.

The full Roots Crew eventually made it back to the stage and they funked up the joint like crazy. I know i'm making it sound like they are a full-out political band, but they're not. They have a political side, natch, but they don't go too far with it, and they never forget about having fun. When they finally wrapped, after the encore, I found Sherin and J.P. and started planning our next moves. J.P. stopped me and said - "Wait a minute. Dude. The Roots. Was that just incredible?!"

Yes dude. It was.

But I'm sure those folks at the Lily Allen show had a really good time too ;)

Dylan in Europe

From the dylan rumor mill...

His european tour started the other day, and apparently he's pulled out the electric guitar again (having been keeping himself to the electric piano for the last couple years).

So that's exciting. You know, if you get excited about that kind of thing.