Two weeks; it’s written. Greece, seaside. Seaside air, seaside sun, seaside speed and typewriter grease. Who could do it this way? Hell, Dylan did. Call it what you will.
‘Chimes of Freedom’, the first of our steps. Listening to it as I write, bate with it. Jesus, its epic. “Duck in the doorway” as Dylan tree stumps what he wishes were revered. The sound? Lower on the register then the electric studio time they hoped to insulate. Jesus, when will the chimes of freedom flash? How many ears do I have to have before I hear a brother breathe? I care not the color of the skin and nor does the speaker. Look at his track record.
To Ramona’? Listening now. Sensitive, compassionate, the speaker so relates to her pain. Dig it. “There’s no use in trying to deal with the dieting though I cannot explain that in lines.” Write that. Dare ya. It’s a world that just dont exist that she seeks. Dylan is writing solely to himself. Quote me; please.
Let’s finish this as it it is not the top of the cannon. How do you begin a discussion on Its Aint Me Babe?” Simply, how could anyone relate to this young man? A love who is off base and calmly discarded is described. Contain it? Turn the treble down if you must, but lose the electricity. What side of Dylan is this? Maybe his most personal.
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