Chronicles, Volume 1 by Dylan, Bob (2004) Hardcover

Chronicles, Volume 1 by Dylan, Bob (2004) Hardcover

Language: English

Pages: 0


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Seeing the Light: Inside the Velvet Underground

An Armenian Sketchbook

Life Could Be Verse: Reflections on Love, Loss, and What Really Matters

Pie 'n' Mash and Prefabs: My 1950s Childhood

Memoirs of a Private Man

















off his bike, he made a U-turn to retrieve it in front of the pack and was instantly killed. That person is gone. That was the end of him. I finished the letter to Reenie and signed it Bobby. That’s how she knew me and always would. Spelling is important. If I would have had to choose between Robert Dillon or Robert Allyn, I would have picked Robert Allyn, because it looked better in print. The name Bob Allyn never would have worked — sounded like a used-car salesman. I’d suspected that Dylan

Rain,” “Gates of Eden,” but those kinds of songs were written under different circumstances, and circumstances never repeat themselves. Not exactly. I couldn’t get to those kinds of songs for him or anyone else. To do it, you’ve got to have power and dominion over the spirits. I had done it once, and once was enough. Someone would come along eventually who would have it again — someone who could see into things, the truth of things — not metaphorically, either — but really see, like seeing into

commercial bent and was energetic, had that thing that people call charisma. Len performed like he was mowing down things. His personality overrode his repertoire. Len also wrote topical songs, front-page things. Paul Clayton occasionally played sets down here, too. Paul got all his versions of songs by adapting transcriptions from old texts. He knew hundreds of songs and must have had a photographic memory. Clayton was unique — elegiac, very princely — part Yankee gentleman and part Southern

personal, historical, or ethereal, you name it. He put everything into a hat and — presto — put a new thing out in the sun. I was greatly influenced by Dave. Later, when I would record my first album, half the cuts on it were renditions of songs that Van Ronk did. It’s not like I planned that, it just happened. Unconsciously I trusted his stuff more than I did mine. Van Ronk’s voice was like rusted shrapnel and he could get a lot of subtle ramifications out of it — delicate, gentle, rough,

me to the poetry of French Symbolist poet Arthur Rimbaud. That was a big deal, too. I came across one of his letters called “Je est un autre,” which translates into “I is someone else.” When I read those words the bells went off. It made perfect sense. I wished someone would have mentioned that to me earlier. It went right along with Johnson’s dark night of the soul and Woody’s hopped-up union meeting sermons and the “Pirate Jenny” framework. Everything was in transition and I was standing in the

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