On my return from Dylan’s recital, I read again the opening fragment of the brown notebook he gave me when he bid farewell. Seeing 1st of April ´67 puts my life into perspective. Intuition inflamed in a blinding flash, it sheds light on what is a sad revelation.
That all these years I have followed his career closely, been at many of his concerts and crossed several continents to the rhythm of his tours, always burdened by the writing of other books, unable to tackle the one awaiting me, germinating in the darkness of a suitcase.
And that it is only now, watching and listening to him soar over the relative coolness of a Central European stage in his performance tonight, his harmonica moving me like never before – not more, but somehow different. Only now, when the idea of another form of farewell settles itself over that leave taken at my caravan door, and heightens my thankfulness for that written gift; only now, will I take on the writing of this; will I dare amalgamate his texts with mine, sift them together with a catalogue of goodbye songs-stories which started in '67 and have only deepened with time.
I decide to recreate conversations, atmospheres, reinvent a world of happy days assisting the prodigy, days which the company of summer ´67 helped bring about so many evenings in a basement, out of which four conspiratorial musicians look on impatiently at Dylan on the stairs, going up, coming down, sitting sometimes on a step -tilted head, a pencil in one hand a typed page in the other- knowing that they were sharing a treasure.