Haven't written much, if anything, about Dylan publically. Dylan's one of those people I presume have been mauled on the critical rack so much by college professors to be entirely useless to anyone who gives a damn about pop music as a living thing. More so in fact - I've barely ever deliberately listened to Dylan at all, with most of my experience of the man being purely in the public conciousness.
Sitting in Flann O'Brien's, terrible chain irish pub named after the genius comedic modernist writer, due to Williams dragging the early formative particle of the drinking party there in the ancient history of the evening. That is, around six. I didn't head out until 9, when it was well encroached, in a room where - inevitably - the Pogues will play and men will sing.
Still - drink is drunk and words are swapped and our communal humanity is reinforced, until there's a moment. On this pub jukebox of pub jukeboxes, "Like a Rolling Stone" by Dylan strikes up. The most obvious of his moments. And, for me, his most joyous. His voice all desperate and gasping, falling around this rootsy wall of sound, full of all the confision and full-house of emotions that personify all the best pop. Great joy and great sadness in the same heartbeat and... it's a huge song, a sweeping thing, with the tiny hollow thing of Dylan's voice fumbling over it.
But I'm wandeirng into trad Dyland bollocks. What's important isn't the song here.
I'm leaning up against the window, talking to Jim's beautiful girlfriend Amanda about our origins, and what makes us up and what makes us tick. And it's there which "Like a Rolling Stone" strikes, and I lean back and listen to Amanda - and she has my full attention throughout - as to this moment Walker heads across the bar, hands full of a round of booze. At which point, down the other end, Williams is chatting to Jim. She leans her head forward at the exact moment Rossignol's bottle is being passed her, causing a collision. Everyone leans back, momentary embarassed, before the booze resumes its route to Jim's hand for a brief stopover before heading gulletward. And "HOW DOES IT FEEL" and I smile as to "ON YOUR OWN" everything seems to "NO DIRECTION HOME" click in a way "LIKE A COMPLETE UNKNOWN" that's easier "LIKE A ROLLING STONE" than breathing, as old imitation oak and imitation irish melds and... I could just die.
So I go to the toilet to piss and think, collecting these prior thoughts. And Meer wanders in, laughing to himself self depreciating.
And He says, "Two guys have just asked me for my autograph".
And I huh, non-committely, being trying to transform myself into words.
"They thought I was David Baddiel".
And, stepping away from the urinal, I double-over, punched in the gut by laughter.
I can't stop.
And that's why, occasionally, I can't help but love Dylan.
Kieron Gillen's Workblog, foo'.