Bob Dylan is, to the best of my knowledge, the only songwriter to successfully rhyme outrageous and contagious, which doesn’t explain why I knew I could never be a successful songwriter in this life.
The explanation is far simpler, it was when Leonard Cohen served me tea and apricots, said he hated the river even living in Montreal and said I should pack off to Florida or California if I wanted oranges, though he said, if I ever visited China, if I’d see where their oranges came from.
We’re all older now, Leonard is dead and even Bob admits he’s not sure he’s younger now, but he says, Bob that is, that I need to get over keeping up with the Joneses, because in the final analysis, we are all Jones at the end.
It should be the stories behind the stories that get told. We have to blame the songwriters I suppose, telling only the part of the story they choose, leaving us to sit and wonder, no answers, forthcoming. We all know what happened to Billie Joe and the damned Talahatchee Bridge, but how did Becky Thompson snare the brother and for that matter, why Tupelo? And Mr. Jones, how does he know what’s happening and not know what it is, and why in the hell is he so thin? But Suzanne, she was a real piece of work, always with the river, but ask all you want and she won’t say what river it is and Jesus says, simply, come back later, you’re not a sailor yet.
He says, “I write songs without music, my head is a libretto warehouse.” She says, “You string words like random beads, no two strands the same.” He says, “Symmetry is for those with linear minds, who can’t see out of the tunnel.” She said, “Dysentery is a disease to be avoided particularly by poets.” He says, “I’ll sing a song for you, if I can only find the notes.” Se says, “fine, but know it is the silent spaces between the notes where music truly lives.