Let's talk about Bob Dylan.
See, about a month back, us four Birdmonsters were in a Carolina restaurant that served umpteen varieties of burnt pig and a few of us admitted our non-adoration of Mr. Robert Zimmerman. In fact, the suggestion that Tom Petty, Bruce Springsteen, Van Morrison, and Paul Simon are and were superior American songwriters was made. Peter was mortified. I didn't press the issue.
Now, I'm one of those people that like, well, I like liking things.* And regardless of how valley girl that sounded, I'd appreciate it if you stuck with me for a second here. You see, I want to like Bob Dylan. He has roughly three hundred thousand albums, writes phenomenal lyrics, and is basically considered a songwriter of messianic proportions by such an enormous portion of humanity that, not really enjoying him all that much, I'm almost certain I'm missing something. Plus, his band was The Band. That counts for something. So, I have asked Peter to teach me what is essentially Bob Dylan 101: give me a wide variety of this jackass & let me decide once and for all. Ambivalence be damned. Full speed ahead.
But I will taking my time; this is not something to be rushed. I spent my bus ride listening to "Desire," which has that Hurricane song and a shitload of fiddling and Emmylou Harris. Fiddling & Emmylou? Big points there. And like I said, I'm reserving judgment on this album until I've soaked it up like a sponge someone forgot to take out of the sink and so now, it smells like wet dog. Wisdom, as we all know, comes from absorbent mildewy things.**
Last night, we had one of those rare and wonderful practices where everyone is in sync (in stark contrast to the practices when we're all N'Sync, which you really don't want to see, hear, or even attempt to fathom the awesomeness of that proposition) and new songs rear their pretty little heads. Plus, I got to mess around with this pedal that makes my bass sound like a synthesizer. If we ever go through a Faint phase, I am fully, fully prepared. We'll get Pete one of those California Love robot voice things, replace Zach with a twenty dollar drum machine, and make Dave wear raver-goggle-sunglasses and red tank tops. High school girls who feign depression, be prepared.
Alright, friends: I'm done for now. Have fun this weekend. Go to shows. Sleep in. Get a tan. If possible, do all three at once.
*Of course, there are those people who like hating things. And yeah, we've all got a little of that in us. You know that gray haired guy who just won American Idol and went straight into whoring Ford during every other commercial break, wagging his finger in your face, generically demanding that you embrace the "pawsabilaaaateeeees"? I loooove hating that guy. I hope his anus prolapses.
**Well documented: Buddha smelled AWFUL.