Fuck! Bob?
Well yeah, he said. As long as you don't call me Otis. How did he know I was thinking that?
Well, I said, you're moustache really got me. There was a brief second when I wondered if you were...you know...and fuck man, you are!
Heh, that's me alright. He looked around. It's a nice house you got man. Really cute. You know that owl reminds me. I was passing through this village you know? Up in the hills. It was around sunset, and the clouds were glowing a brilliant pink, you know...like day-glo candyfloss...when I saw this huge fucking white owl swoop down from the clouds and right at me. I didn't even have time to flinch. It just glided over me, wheeled around, and disappeared in the clouds. Really spooky, that.
I was glowing. To have him say anything about my poor, neglected wooden owl. I still couldn't believe it was happening. Bob meanwhile had leaned back and closed his eyes. He must be really tired, I thought. He looked just like the pictures. That wiry, taut face, that pencil thin 'tache, the remnants of that famous fuzzy head. Here was THE man, here was Zimmerman, sitting in my house! I realised I was gawking and stopped myself.
Instead I said, I love your new album man. It's such a lot of fun. He opened his eyes and gave me a lopsided smile. Yeah, well, my band's the greatest. They can play anything, anything! Sometimes I just give them weird shit to play, just to, you know, test 'em. They do it! It's fucking unbelievable. I mean there was Robbie and the boys all those years ago, and they were pretty hot. But man these guys. They're a fuckin' jukebox! Which ones do you like?
Those blue eyes...
Mississippi. It's beautiful. I'd heard the Sheryl Crow version you know, and even then I'd liked it. Your's has a beautiful weary feel to it. Love your voice on that one.
Yeah? He got up and idly went through my cds. I hate cds, but that's all you have, so...He picked up The Band.
May I?
Of course, sure.
Thanks. It's got some really nice songs.
I know.
'Across the Great Divide' starts playing. "Standing by your window in pain, pistol in your hand..."
I gave Robbie that line. His line was something quite crappy, let's see, uh...
'Standing with my head in my hands,' he croaks. I don't believe this. Really, I say?
Um, look, can I just freshen up? It's been a long ride across that burning plain that I just came through...
That way, I pointed...
*****
Later we are sitting in the kitchen eating baked beans and ham sandwiches. I am telling Bob about the band I had in college and the trouble we had trying to nail 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'.
Haha, munching on a piece of toast. That's nothing man. I went through hell just trying to write it! Days and Days of me repeating 'Johnny's in the basement, mixing up the medicine', and these Nashville guys, them musos, just sitting around looking at the clock in the studio, scratching their ass, smoking, waiting, waiting.
Then...in the hotel...'hoh-tail' he said...me popping pills, filling up my notebook and scratching stuff, and putting stuff in, and sweating sweating...this fever....trying to get it out of my head you know...and they just wouldn't come.
I still have that old bit of cardboard with me somewhere. He rummaged through his bag, brought out a hip flask..."For later," he harrumphed. Rummage some more.
Ah, here it is, my very own Torah of endless permutations....
A red, worn out, hardcover notebook. This here is your song, he said, tapping one thin finger on the cover, right there...
That one book?
Yes siree, all of it. I never worked so hard on a song. I mean, I had to EDIT 'Rolling Stone', but this I couldn't even start putting down on paper...
*****
I just had to wake up then, didn't I?
