Tag Archives: Bob Dylan

2016 on last.fm

lastfm-2016 Continue reading

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Baby, Let Me Follow You Down

what is San Francisco?

where is it? why is it? who is it?

well, it’s named after St. Francis of Assisi, popularly known as the Italian dude with a weird haircut and lots of animal friends. it is probably not coincidence that today’s Italians, dudes with weird haircuts, and animal friends are all welcome in the little loving boundaries of San Francisco.

i like San Francisco because it’s so walkable. if you really want to, you can walk pretty much anywhere you’re going–just plan an hour or two for the really long distances. but most won’t even take that long.

maybe i’m just antsy, or maybe it’s because this city’s so walkable, but i can’t wait for buses. (don’t talk to me about taxes; nobody has that kind of money, i just bought a summer flight to Europe.) if the bus ain’t coming this very minute, i just start walking. now, the funny thing is that i walk along the bus route, so eventually i hop on the very same bus that i would have hopped on had i just waited at the first stop. i guess i’m just antsy.

after leaving my girlfriend’s house this afternoon, i made it as far as the Fillmore before my bus came. the 31 picked me up, along with a girl/woman i could not even remotely guess the age of (15? 30? 45?) and a father with his little five-year-old sunshine.

i wasn’t even settled onto the bus before this older woman started chatting me up.

“you know, you have very beautiful hair.”

“why, thank you. that’s very sweet.”

“are you married?”

“no… are you?”

“i was. 17 years.”

“that’s a long time.”

“it is. a long time… what’s your name?”


“i’m Cat, but call me ‘Miss Kitty.'”

i didn’t get much of a chance to call her anything, what with the bus rattling to a stop and shuffling passengers in, out, and all around. the father pursued his daughter as she squeezed past me and a few others. when Miss Kitty saw her, our conversation was over: “well hello there little sunshine!”

a few steps forward and i had a bar to lean on. another older woman started talking to me.

“you such have beautiful, brown hair.”

“why tha–”

“i’ve always wanted brown hair.”

“how c–”

“beautiful, brown hair. so long too. i have dark hair, almost jet black. not as nice as brown hair. i’ve always wanted brown hair but you can’t really dye it yourself. you never really do it right when you dye it yourself. suppose you could go get it done but i just don’t know, my eyes are brown so it would probably look nice having brown hair. it’s amazing how brown hair looks.”

eyes glazed over, staring directly out the window, and endlessly chatting… she didn’t need me to respond or even acknowledge anything she was saying. good thing too, considering i could only hear half of her thoughts and words as they enmeshed themselves in the overall sonic landscape of the windy, clunky, wheezy, chatty hell of a bus.

who is San Francisco?

why, where, what? Continue reading

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The Last Waltz

just two posts in blank verse, and it’s already difficult to write normally. every sentence i write–nay–every insignificant gathering of words renders in my head a certain rhythmic value. a-SIR, ten-RHY, thmic-VAL, you see? Ovid has volleyed me off my whatever rickety rocker i had left to lean on.

thankfully, i’ve finally finished reading his Metamorphoses. it’s a bittersweet feeling. sweet because after reading fifteen books, a thousand lines each, about the creation of the universe, the turning of the sun and the moon, the war and peace of brother and sister, the wailing of bloodshed, the blossoming of milk and honey, the reasons why there are birds, the reasons why there are beasts, the madness of men, the madness of the gods… you start to get a bit worn out. bitter, though, because it’s the finest fucking literature i’ve read since i left Oscar Wilde a few months ago. and it’s easily the best poetry i’ve read in the past year.

you know it’s been 2,005 years since the thing was originally published. i mean, Jove!

i feel so peaceful, like when rosy-fingered Aurora first rises in the dawn, but Ovid can’t be completely to blame. Muddy Waters neither. my bass neither. no, the reason has been written on this thing before, and i’m almost afraid to talk about it.

how many times can i talk about it? how many people can i tell? i need a meadow. i need a pasture to wander, so i can sit on stumps, and proclaim my love to any daffodils that would bother to listen.

“there is a girl, my friend,” i’d say, lifting an errant lock of hair away from my face.

“oh?” the daffodil would reply.

“yes, yes, there is a girl, and i do believe i love her.”

“and how is that?”

“well, when my eyes meet her eyes, it’s as if though the skies have fallen to the earth–rain, aether, stars, gods, all–banishing every disharmony in the universe into a puff of nothing that never was and never will be.”


“yes, and when i wrap my arm around her little light waist, light as a breeze in golden summer’s heat, the waves sloshing inside my veins tune together into a perfect symphony, beating, racing, pressing on in perfect time.

“i do enjoy a light summer breeze!”

“yes, and when i press my lips against her lips, two eternities of poetry pour from our eager mouths, unheard by neither but felt by both; it is divine, little daffodil, it is divine poetry when we kiss.”

“there is a girl indeed! but i have a question.”

“what is it?”

“though you truly adore this girl to such fiery, passionate ends, how can you stand these moments away from her love?”

“ah, my pretty friend of a daffodil, you funny thing. my love for her knows such great bounds that it rebounds and resounds throughout my life, wherever and whenever i may go. at night, when i bathe alone, dipping my toes into steaming water returns me to her feminine warmth, encircling me like a sleepless lioness in the savannah. in the afternoon, when i bite into the juicy nectarine delivered to my beggar hands by Gaia’s grace, i taste her love. in the morning, when i wake from life-stealing dreams, i breathe in the day’s first breath of life, that is, her love. even now, sitting upon this simple stump in this ordinary pasture, i see her radiant peace resting upon your yellow face.”


“yes, you and the grass at your feet and the soil beneath and the rock further down and the blazing core and burning Helios in heaven and the bright eyes in the night sky and the air we breathe and the water we drink are all otherworldly manifestations of my one true love. she is my death every night and my life every day.”

sometimes i get nervous because i imagine the only people reading these words are either ex-lovers or my lover. if you’re an ex-lover, just know that i love you still. if you’re my lover, ignore that last thing i said.

this weekend, i’m doing that thing where i drive to the suburbs to watch over my friends’ dog and house. i will drink water, eat food, read poetry, play bass, listen to records, savor the hot tub, and hopefully love my love of loves. flying the suburban spacecraft solo is a trip, but i don’t do it solo unless i have to.

this past monday, i bought a Technics SL-1200M3D, meaning i now have two wheels of steel. sunday, i helped plan the next Daft Brunch, our (apparently) quarterly disco party in the Mission sun. saturday, i digitally djed a coworker’s wedding in California wine country. friday, i spun vinyl at a strange “underground” party in the Sunset.

based on this series of events, i’m starting to think i’m actually a dj.

oh yeah, i’ve also decided to host (and dj) the family new year’s party at my house. didn’t really consult anyone but my mom and roommates on that one. it just makes sense. that, as i explained to Natalie the other day, is part of what i consider being a dj. some people might define it as whipping out a laptop (or maybe some other equipment) and combining a bunch of tracks together over some duration so as to make a mix of music. maybe some would take their definitions a step further and declare the purpose of this being to make people move their feet against the ground. it’s so much bigger though. first of all, you’re correct, we’re all djs. anyone that’s ever plugged in their phone in the car to play songs on a roadtrip. hell, anyone that’s ever sat in the back on the roadtrip and said, “please change this piece of shit song.” if you’ve brought speakers or guitars to the park or if you’ve made someone a mix cd, you are a dj. but more… there’s more… if you’ve ever opened your mouth to make a sound, you are a dj. if you’ve ever walked around or brushed past a clangy fence, if you’ve ever felt the wind against your face, if you’ve ever breathed, you are a dj.

we’re all in this together, spinning subtle space tunes. Continue reading

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in which the Tunnel decides to sell Dorothy. Continue reading

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the perfect situation

two mondays in a row, i begun Isis w my bass in the east bay, cueing Brendan to start his cawing, Ariyele to piano her underpinnings, and Jeff to wank his electric lady. and we’re off. through folk desire, furnace room lullaby, stranger blues, and motorcycle chain growls, we found our musical way from happiness to new happiness.

two sundays in a row, i banged my drums in the east bay in beat to the heavy psychedelia emanating from Chris and Cameron’s guitars. a ten minute roar, each and every thing we do, whether desert, rock, or sand. we as silent waterfalls will one day be.

two saturdays in a row, i belonged in mind and body to an east bay girl. four on the floor, a breath. four on the floor, a sip. four on the floor, a glance. four on the floor, embrace. around the world becomes us, we press. Continue reading

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i breathe music

The boy stared at the record. It was Bob Dylan’s second album—he wanted it. For four dollars and fifty cents, the brand new vinyl was his. And it would provide him with years of countless enjoyment. Thousand of miles away, a girl also received a record. Led Zeppelin’s fourth album was given to her from a good friend. This record would also be overplayed. About 15 years later, these two people would have a child. The child, a boy, would grow up to be more obsessed with music (everything from Bob Dylan to Rhapsody in Blue) than both of his parents combined. I am that boy, and this is why I love music.

My love for music is rooted in my parents’ love for music. They were lucky enough to follow music as it through different types of technology. From the * to the record player to the cassette player to the CD player (and even to this day) to the mp3 player—my dad invested in each one. Though they do not purchase music as often these days, hundreds of records and CDs are still scattered about the house from when they did.

So, as one can infer, I listened to all of their music. On the fifteen minute drive to my elementary school, my mom would play oldies on 99.7 KFRC. I still love The Supremes. Or on Saturday mornings, while my mom was cooking breakfast, my dad would play some “Thriller” or “Billie Jean.” I wish I could still remember the first time I heard those brilliant pop songs.

As the years went on, an even more significant factor began to influence me: my older brother, Billy. Billy was a lot like teenagers in the 90s. He loved alternative rock or grunge, you know, the rebellious stuff purposely made to irritate your parents. Nirvana or Green Day would spill out of the speakers as he and his friends played air guitar; sometimes, I was even let in on the fun. So, approaching the huge milestone of ten-years old, I had already grown a fondness for catchy lyrics, ripping guitars, and smashing drums.

In fact, around age 7, I began begging for a drum set; be it Christmas or my birthday, that was what I wanted. My parents finally granted me my wish about five years later. Also, my older brother received an electric guitar (complete with amplifier) and my younger brother received a keyboard. In addition, we would all receive lessons. After six weeks, while my brothers, beginning to favor rap over rock, had gotten bored of their instruments, I was still going strong; I continued my drum lessons for about a year, joined band at school, and actually used my instrument. I tried learning songs I had been listening to for years and even played with my cousins sometimes. Though there would be a long period of time where the drums simply collected dust, like the guitar and keyboard had, it would be used extensively once again, just a few years later. My cousins and I shared very similar tastes in music, and formed bands based on those interests. I am still in a band, Wronger, with my older cousin, Chris.

This is where I am now. I love music. Just a few months ago, I dug up all of my parents’ old vinyl and took everything I liked: The Beatles, Bob Dylan, etc. The records sit in my bookcase, next to CDs and tapes alike, not collecting dust—I play them all the time. The record player is under my bed. The CD changer is on my dresser. My headphones, portable CD player, portable tape player, and iPod are all situated on my bookcase. Ridiculous amounts of music are stored in my computer. My weekends revolve around shopping for music or going to concerts or just plain sitting and listening to music. My love for music evolved past a simple enjoyment of it, like my parents had. Music is what I dream about. Music is not just what I hear, but what I see, taste, smell, and feel too. I breathe music. Continue reading

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hey, i just met you

two weeks. strange clubs. strange streets. Valencia. Phoenix. sausages. Irish sausages rolling along and $1 vinyl. basslines all day long, twisty spine through my life from now on. dada, duh, even when it sucks. it doesn’t always suck. what if we trick the masses? what if we make them believe? two weeks. strange clubs. strange streets. old friends that were never even friends. Greek food, Johnnie Walker, self-induced nostalgic indulgence. shitty bands? fuck a shitty band. give them their money and hand me my bass. basslines all day long, straight spine through my life from now on. a luau. aluau. a limbo. akimbo. African-influenced Oakland rhythms with a side of bacon burger and near-consciousness. strange streets. strange clubs. two weeks. Continue reading

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as it turns out, they wrote quite a few songs about saying goodbye. it’s like we just vomit this shit, it’s all natural. even if we’re fumbling in the dark, lost and confused, there’s little doubt that we’re doing what … Continue reading

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apostrophe banana chicken dog elephant first gun have i jolly koala log monkey neut Osiris penis quail ruckus silver tug Ufabulum veer while xylophone yellow zebra.

stream of consciousness. it’s just after 0500 on the day of rest, and Donna Summer is trying very hard to convince me of her love for me. i slept early after a long day of… buying and listening to Amoeba records, eating (burrito, ramen, pizza), and cleaning. a girl once said that i am better at being a primate, not only because i pressed her to say so.

lacking an apostrophe, i love food, i love animals, because it’s the first word you hear that starts with the letter “f” when you try to think of the first word you hear that starts with the letter “f,” god knows why, i don’t know, only i know, only i am, only i sleep, sunrise is afterlife, love it want it need it have it, cause it, it,


and your mind will be set free. Love to Love You Baby. Continue reading

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Bob Dylan & Auto-Tune

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