I catch Dylan's phrasings and intonations in-between cutting the carrots and the parsnips.
There are many ways to meet a song for the first time. I didn’t meet Angelina until I read a novel called The Best Of Adam Sharp, by Graeme Simsion.
One singer is 77 years old. Greying curly hair. One singer is in his early 20s. Flowing ginger locks. Both are sitting at a keyboard, backed by a four piece band.
“Is that all the man sings? ‘How does it feel?’” Hannah, five years old, is making a play-dough birthday cake. Jesse, nearly three, is drawing a map of the world. I’m podding peas.
Over fifteen years, brick by determined brick, we built a life out of thin air and intentions. When I first met you, my mother could not tell her friends her eldest daughter was a lesbian. Talking to her friends, she would shorten my girlfriends’ names to androgynous mysteries. Jo. Nic. Lou.
Sometimes it’s only when you see a girl for the second or third time that you realise how beautiful she is. A song is a bit like that.
All I could think of , as she stood just a metre or two away, unflustered by betting deadlines, was her voice, her laugh, her brown eyes, her cascading hair, her full figure. And the inexperience of my heart (plus anoher vital organ).
I had better things to do than to listen to another song identified by my music-obsessed brother as worthy of listening to. Yet, I was polite, I was always polite. You see, I’d been through this process before.
Vin Maskell Melbourne, Midnight, November 29, 1982 On a piece of foolscap paper, at my desk in my single-bed bedroom or maybe at the small table in the little kitchen at the end of the long hallway, I wrote a little poem. Nothing special.
What is a 14 year old boy to make of Just Like A Woman? What does he know of fog, amphetamines and pearls? What does he know of standing inside the rain, of dying there of thirst, of a long-time curse?