Grooving on My Own Thing!

I have entered a sort of Howard Hughes-like existence. No, I'm not wealthy, I haven't dated any starlets, I never flew in a wooden plane, never crashed, didn't buy a hotel in Vegas, didn't collect my urine in jars, I'm not fond of Richard Nixon, I'm not overly paranoid, or unkempt, but I am living in a big old mansion with just one furry little creature by my side.

It's sort of a strange existence. I am the caretaker, taking care. I am living in the lap of luxury, spinning Dylan CDs almost exclusively. I am now stuck in Dylan's gospel years. Songs about God, hell, apocalypse, all that fire and brimstone stuff. Dylan fell hook, line and sinker for some of the most extreme evangelical, apocalyptic jumbo-jumbo. A long way from the surreal, Mercury-mouthed, r&r Saint. Kind of otherworldly, disorienting.  Perfect for this time. Seems totally cut-off from the real world. Hell, what's real, anyway?

The days are long. Up early with the chirping birdies. Everything is lush, green, well-manicured. It's quiet around here, except I am blasting Dylan at great volume. Playing the same records over and over. I am now convinced Dylan's "born-again" years are some of his best. He is singing with such conviction, in fine voice, supported by incredible musicians, a man lit on fire by belief. Pretty awesome, awe-inspiring.

The immediate post conversion records are extraordinary too. So the soundtrack goes like this: Slow Train Coming, Saved, Shot of Love, Infidels & Oh Mercy. Fabulous. Grooving on great work from Mark Knopler, Mick Taylor, Sly Dunbar, Robbie Shakespeare, Tim Drummond, Fred Tackett, Clydie King, Daniel Lanois. The Muscle Shoals ensemble. The legendary producer Jerry Wexler.

Music from another time and place. Living in another time and place. I have fallen into some strange cocoon of existence. It's a fine life, a bit unreal, a bit dislocated, a bit disorienting, but enjoyable too. Grooving on my own thing.