Six White Horses

[cripes]

Bo's masterpiece is Mona. Epic in scope.

Here's Buddy Holly doing Mona

[Cat Stevens]

that's right blair, I have somewhere the Rolling Stones playing Mona live in 1964, can't find it, grrr...

[owen]

the shit

[cripes]

The seventies split screen tells me that's from the excellent 1973 concert documentary 'Let The Good Times Roll' which sadly has never been released in any home video format. Also featured are Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, The Five Satins, Bill Haley and The Comets, The Coasters, Danny and The Juniors, The Shirelles, & Chubby Checker.

[manho]

Bo Diddley told me to quit smoking

Funny and eccentric, Bo Diddley was someone everyone wanted to talk to - but not to mess with. Musician John Moore recalls several happy encounters with the rhythm king
John Moore
Friday June 6, 2008
Guardian

One evening in 1981, I knocked on the dressing room door at the Halfmoon in Putney, feeling terribly nervous and extremely foolish, but determined to meet the man who was playing there that evening. I was pretty sure that I'd be sent away with a flea in my ear, but the minuscule possibility of success far outweighed any potential humiliation. I would not return home to Wokingham without at least trying to shake the hand of the great Bo Diddley, one of the pioneers of rock'n'roll.

I was accompanied by my dad's friend, Peter Banham, who was responsible for my musical education. At the age of 10, when I'd first started having guitar lessons, he'd tired of my renditions of Streets of London, and given me some "proper stuff" to learn. Peter had been a teenager in the early 60s and had a fabulous collection of records - mainly purchased at Dobell's Jazz shop on Charing Cross Road in central London. While my schoolfriends listened to Showaddywaddy, Darts and the Rubettes, I had Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Lightnin' Hopkins and Bo Diddley for company.

Having only two small daughters, and delighted at the effect his record collection had had on me, Peter would borrow me from time to time to accompany him to gigs. By the time we got to see Bo Diddley, I was 16. Having somehow succeeded in gaining admittance to the dressing room, I sat quietly, awestruck about being in such close proximity to my hero. He was having his picture taken at the time. I listened to him talk and make jokes: he seemed to laugh a lot.

An American woman sat down next to me and we began to chat. I told her how much I loved Bo, and asked her what she thought my chances were of my getting to speak to him. She said he was very busy, and not to be too disappointed if I didn't get the chance, but she'd try for me. She introduced herself as his wife, Kay. As we waited, I told her I'd been to see where he was born in Mississippi, after persuading my mother we should go on a Freddie Laker Fly-Drive holiday whose itinerary, at my insistence, included the birthplaces of the great bluesmen and rock'n'rollers.

"You know what?" she said, " He's going want to know about that." As soon as he'd finished the photos, she called him over and introduced us, telling him, "This young man's been to McComb."

Talking to Bo Diddley was wonderful. The voice that shouted out "I'm a roadrunner honeyyyyyy" and "What you say man, quit mumblin' and talk out loud" was now directed at me. He told me he wasn't actually born in McComb, but in a tiny place along the highway called Magnolia, Mississippi. That was even better. We'd spent half a day there and he wanted me to tell him all about it. George White, who was writing Bo's biography, took our picture and promised to send it to me: as you can see, he was as good as his word. As we shook hands, I remember thinking how huge Bo's hands were, and his arm felt as if it were made of iron: no wonder he played rhythm guitar.

His tour was passing Reading that weekend, which was just three stops away from my home on the train, and he told me that if I wanted to come, my name would be on the door - an unimaginable honour - and to get there early and come and find him.

I followed his instructions, and backstage I asked him about the song Cops and Robbers -a song about being held at gunpoint by a short-sighted villain and made to act as the getaway driver in a liquor store heist in Chicago. Having robbed the store, the villain runs and jumps into the car, failing to notice it's the wrong one - a police car. This was, Bo told me, all true, except a line about a cigarette: he said he'd never smoked in his life, that he didn't like seeing young people smoke, and that I should quit. The best thing that night was that he let me play his famous rectangular guitar. It was tuned to open E, and he showed me the fingering he used. Moments later, somebody else picked it up without asking. "Nobody touches my guitar unless I tell them it's all right," he shouted.

As kind as he was, nobody could mess with Bo Diddley. He was funny and eccentric and made rock'n'roll records that made everybody feel good, but do anything to offend him and there was a big mean old bluesman waiting to get out. As we parted, his wife gave me their address in Florida and said anytime I was down that way to look them up. Bo then added that he was the sheriff of that town: "So if you mess around down there I'll have to arrest you." Then he laughed.

The next time I met him was seven years later in New York. By that time, having been a member of the Jesus and Mary Chain and fronted my own band, I was living the degenerate rock star life to the best of my abilities, and was not quite as fresh-faced as before. I felt rather guilty about seeing him, especially as he'd just made a heartfelt plea to the crowd at the Ritz not to take drugs - a thing I did from time to time. He was a bit suspicious of me at first: my hair was cropped and bleached, and I may have been wearing a nose ring, and I still hadn't given up smoking. I'd taken along the old photo of us together and passed it to him, asking him to sign it. As he looked at it, then at me, he began to laugh, and called his friends over to have a look. "What the hell happened to you, boy? You wait until my wife sees this." I can't remember whether of not he accused me of having been "whupped with an ugly stick", but I think that was on his mind.

I saw Bo Diddley play many times with various backing bands. He was never less than enthralling: even the last few times where he was evidently too old to really cut loose, you still felt that he might. And now my daughter loves him, with virtually no prompting from me. She's even got a rectangular guitar. Having listened to his songs and seen his picture, she said that he looked like a very nice man, and she liked his sound because it made her feel fizzy inside. I know what she means.

While he was recuperating from illness last year, I sent him a photo and a film of her singing along to Who Do You Love?, along with a copy of the old photo from the Halfmoon in Putney. I hope he got them. Anyway, my story is not so rare. Over the years, Bo Diddley met and inspired thousands of teenage twangers who made it to his dressing room and remembered their manners. Some of them even went on to make records of their own.

Bo Diddley was a one-off. He was a lean, mean, lovable, dangerous, gun-slinging, guitar-playing genius, and as my daughter pointed out, a very nice man. Bo Diddley RIP.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News and Media Limited 2008

[Cat Stevens]

Jun 3, 2008 13:39:10 GMT -5 cripes said:

The seventies split screen tells me that's from the excellent 1973 concert documentary 'Let The Good Times Roll' which sadly has never been released in any home video format. Also featured are Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, The Five Satins, Bill Haley and The Comets, The Coasters, Danny and The Juniors, The Shirelles, & Chubby Checker.

I thought Blair was talking about that '72 London concert with the pretty much same line-up (with addition of Jerry Lee), but I was wrong, anyway here's the London gig, wow man dig --

www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMzCtNCJgyY&feature=related

[Cat Stevens]

more footage of Bo from the film Blair mentioned --

www.youtube.com/watch?v=qZDsLr9J26E

[manho]

Molten hot and scary as thunder

He thrilled teenagers, terrified parents and belted out a beat that crossed continents, cultures and class. Richard Williams on the great Bo Diddley, who died this week
Richard Williams
Wednesday June 4, 2008
Guardian

Back at the dawn of civilisation, when sexual intercourse had just begun and the big beat was emerging from the primordial slime, no self-respecting bunch of young English rhythm-and-blues hounds could call themselves a proper band if their repertoire didn't boast at least one Bo Diddley song. It might be Mona, or Roadrunner, or Pretty Thing, or You Can't Judge a Book. But as long as there was a song with that Bo Diddley beat, then credibility and respect were automatically conferred.

That famous rhythm is most easily explained through the cadence of a single spoken phrase. Say "shave-and-a-haircut (pause) two bits", and you have the single bar of 4/4 time which, repeated ad infinitum, gives you an approximation of what Diddley was up to.

His songs were learned from the precious pages of the holy writ: hard-to-find 45rpm singles, issued first on the black-and-silver London label, then on yellow-and-red Pye R&B. While your big sister was buying the latest from Ruby Murray or Russ Conway, these were your passport to the new world a-comin'. And, eventually, what you wanted to do was learn how to make this music for yourself.

Hundreds of us, eventually thousands, graduated from skiffle groups - a homemade guitar, a tea-chest bass, a washboard and Rock Island Line - to form groups dedicated to the new ideal represented by Bo Diddley's vinyl outpourings. Much more than even the hip-swivelling teen-hop sounds of Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly or Eddie Cochran, they represented a force that would carry us far away from the adult mores of postwar Britain. In the 1960s, I didn't join the Boy Scouts. I joined Bo Diddley.

Mick Jagger shook a pair of maracas, just like Diddley's accomplice, Jerome Green, as he howled Mona (I Need You Baby) with the young Rolling Stones. The Pretty Things, their fellow sharecroppers in the Thames delta, named themselves after another Diddley composition. Up in Newcastle, Eric Burdon and the Animals recorded something they called The Story of Bo Diddley. Teenage guitarists such as Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page heard the screeching hot-rod noises Diddley made with his souped-up axe at the beginning of Roadrunner and experienced a moment of transformation. When the TV show Ready Steady Go! organised a national talent competition for beat groups, it was won by an outfit called the Bo Street Runners.

For a drummer like me, in a band in 1964, the Diddley song was the highlight of any gig. You could abandon the fancy asymmetrical grip on your sticks normally associated with jazz drummers or classical percussionists, turn them around, and use the blunt ends to pile into the tom-toms. Forget the hipster snap of the snare drum, or the sizzle and crash of the cymbals. The raw Diddley beat was a tom-tom thing.

And what happened was that it induced dancers to move in a different way. For three or four minutes, they dropped into a deeper groove, getting in touch with a more fundamental set of instincts. It was the exactly the sort of thing that terrified a generation of parents: the soundtrack to a Dionysian orgy. Each song felt as though it could go on for ever.

In most of Diddley's songs, the chords never changed. The melodies were minimal and the words, although pithy and often pungent, were not the point. He could and did go further than "I'm a roadrunner, honey, and you can't keep up with me", but he never really needed to. What mattered was the beat, and the pioneering sounds of distortion that he wrung from his weird, rectangular-bodied electric guitar.

The songs were like mantras, and their incessant repetition and lack of dynamic variation lent them a kind of hypnotic power that was quite different from the other components of the standard R&B repertoire. Benny Spellman's Fortune Teller, John Lee Hooker's Dimples, Muddy Waters' Hoochie Coochie Man and Little Walter's My Babe were great numbers, coming on a hotline from R&B Central in New Orleans or Chicago. But they had elements of structural variety and decoration that seemed almost prissy. The source of a Diddley song seemed to be somewhere deep within the earth, close to the molten core.

The Diddley beat was a means of summoning thunder, and as such it seemed to hark back further than the recording studios of Chicago, further than the juke joints of the Mississippi delta - all the way back to the west African lands from which slaves had been transported, and to the music they made before their descendants got their hands on trumpets, pianos and electric guitars.

Let's get it absolutely straight: just like Diddley always said, he and Chuck Berry invented rock'n'roll. But while Berry was busy cleaning up his music by incorporating country music's storytelling and a pinch of jazz sophistication into his hugely successful songs, Diddley headed straight back to a primeval heartbeat that gave the music a feral allure that eventually crossed continents and all known frontiers of culture and class.

So, no arguments, the music was invented by black men. But when rock'n'roll came to be reinvented in the Britain of the early 1960s, it was mostly middle-class white boys who did it. Boys such as Mick Jagger, John Lennon and Pete Townshend, who grew up in homes where Handel, Gilbert & Sullivan, George Formby, Gracie Fields or Victor Silvester provided the soundtrack, but who came out of grammar schools and art colleges, responding to the transgressive power of music that could only be heard, like coded messages from another world, via the crackly signal of Radio Luxembourg, or, for a couple of hours each week, the Light Programme's Saturday Club.

Voices that had previously sung Anglican hymns in boy-soprano tones learned to rough themselves up in imitation of the offspring of Mississippi delta sharecroppers. The humble harmonica became an instrument on which notes could be bent and prolonged in imitation of the sound of a distant train whistle, heard through Georgia pines on a sultry summer night. And those of us with a set of drums learned the thrilling art of syncopation.

Diddley's beat, like his name, almost certainly had its origins in Africa. The name came from the diddley bow, a one-string violin made and played by plantation children. He didn't invent the beat - it was already known to some black musicians as the "hambone" rhythm - but he made it his own, and then made it ours.

There was more to Bo Diddley than that - our band, called the Junco Partners after the title of a song by a Louisiana man, James Wayne - performed a great song of his called Mama, Keep Your Big Mouth Shut, which had a completely different riff, though it kept the same rumbling menace (in the originator's hands, at least). But that basic rhythm - which also powers Bruce Springsteen's joyful She's the One, still a staple of the E Street Band's set - saw him through a 50-year career.

Diddley didn't get what he deserved. Like most black musicians of his era, he recorded for businessmen who believed they could get away with paying their black artists a royalty of no more than 2-3% of the price of the record, and that the precise accounting of those royalties was nobody's business but their own. For years, Diddley didn't have a clue that his records were even being sold outside the US. If he had received a proper royalty - say 12-15% - of every record sold under his name around the world, whether on 78, 45 or 33rpm vinyl disc, tape or compact disc, he would have been able to afford a brand new Cadillac every day of the year.

Those who learned from him were the ones who reaped the rewards. And when they heard of his death this week, every one of them - the ones with mansions, as well as those who let the drum kit go back to the hire-purchase company the day they got a proper job - should have felt a pang of conscience, along with the fathomless gratitude for a gift beyond price.


Letters: Barbed words of Bo the Road Runner

Saturday June 7, 2008
Guardian

Richard Williams's list of Bo Diddley songs in the repertoire of fledgling British R&B bands (G2, June 4) omitted Diddley Daddy, Nursery Rhyme and Doing the Crawdaddy, the last of which gave its name to the Rolling Stones' Sunday night sessions at the Station hotel, Richmond - the Crawdaddy Club. Along with Mona, Pretty Thing and Roadrunner, the Stones performed them all. Their composer may not have received all the royalties due from these songs, but by the time he toured UK in September 1963, his material was not only familiar to R&B fans but sounded exhilaratingly up-to-the-minute. At Watford, where I saw the Stones, it was bill-toppers the Everly Brothers, a decade younger than Bo, who seemed to belong to an older generation. Which is why I cheered Bo and - an uncomfortable memory - barracked the peerless harmonies of Don and Phil.
John Pidgeon
Canterbury, Kent

Richard Williams says Bo Diddley's "melodies were minimal" and his words "were not the point". He certainly makes his scary point with the lyrics of Who Do You Love?, eg "I walked 47 miles of barbed wire / I use a cobra snake as a necktie / I got a brand new house by the roadside / and it's made from rattlesnake hide". As to melodies, didn't he write Love is Strange?
DBC Reed
Northampton

Amid his occasional disillusionment, it's easy to forget Bo's often deliciously self-mocking sense of humour. I remember him telling the crowd with a rumbling chuckle at the last gig I saw, as he put a new string on his guitar: "A professor of music once told me: 'Bo, don't bother tuning it, as you can't play for shit!'"
Giles Oakley
London
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News and Media Limited 2008

[manho]

Obituary: Larry Levine

Recording engineer who was Phil Spector's righthand man during the Wall of Sound era
Richard Williams
Saturday June 7, 2008
Guardian

If Phil Spector was the architect of the Wall of Sound, Larry Levine was the bricklayer. Spector's records were created in the studio, and had no life outside the grooves of a seven-inch 45rpm single. Levine, who has died at the age of 80, was Spector's studio engineer during the brief golden age that ran from the Crystals' He's a Rebel in 1962 through the Ronettes' Be My Baby and the Righteous Brothers' You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin' to Ike and Tina Turner's River Deep - Mountain High in 1966. It was he who devised the techniques that allowed the brilliant young producer to turn the sounds in his head into Top 40 masterpieces.

There are bootleg recordings of the whole elaborate and infinitely painstaking process whereby Spector and Levine would subject dozens of musicians and singers to every trick of recording technology in order to create the celebrated "little symphonies for the kids". The Crystals' Da Doo Ron Ron is among those tracks whose gestation has been preserved. As the session continues, Spector can be heard ensuring that the tempo is exactly right and that the dynamics rise and fall exactly in accordance with his wishes. His interjections are constant, admonishing the pianists or telling the drummer to move his snare two inches to the left. Time and again his voice breaks through on the talkback microphone, halting a take. "No!" he shouts. "Nothing happened! Nothing happened! It's supposed to be 'one two three Da doo ron BAAAAAHH!' What happened? One guy played it right and one guy played it wrong!" And from behind the mixing desk, the patient voice of Levine comes through: "Take 25 ... "

Among Spector's favourite techniques was the lavish use of echo, which he slathered over everything to blur the distinctions between individual instruments, making the finished record sound even bigger. Levine was the one who explored the many possibilities of various forms of echo, before presenting them for the producer's use.

Born in New York, Levine grew up in Los Angeles and served in the US army during the Korean war. After demobilisation, he began working for his cousin, Stan Ross, the co-owner of a Hollywood recording studio called Gold Star. Located at 6252 Santa Monica Boulevard, near the corner of Vine Street, the studio had quickly become famous for its concrete-lined echo chambers, designed by Ross's partner, David Gold. Eddie Cochran's big hits - C'mon Everybody, Summertime Blues and Three Steps to Heaven - were recorded there, with Levine assisting, between 1958 and the singer's death in 1960. And when Spector grew tired of the cynicism of New York's session musicians and relocated to Los Angeles, he headed for Gold Star.

For his first session for his Philles record label in Hollywood, on July 13 1962, he scheduled a song by Gene Pitney called He's a Rebel. Spector had expected Ross to be the engineer, and was disconcerted to discover that he was on holiday and Levine had been assigned to the session instead. "When I walked into a session of that magnitude, I was a little nervous," Levine said a few years later. "I thought I was going to blow it. I was a little frightened by the new sound, and I didn't get a good feeling from Phil. He looked like a creepy kid to me. But eventually we worked up an understanding."

Spector discovered that, like the LA musicians, the young engineer was not contemptuous of music aimed at teenagers and was unafraid to experiment with sound. "You really needed somebody good alongside of you," Spector remembered, "and Larry was really helpful. In those days, for what I was doing, he was invaluable. We were breaking every rule there was to break." After He's a Rebel, Levine engineered every record Spector made for the next eight years.

The brief golden age closed with the commercial failure of River Deep - Mountain High, possibly as a result of distributors and disc jockeys taking a covert reprisal against what they saw as Spector's arrogance. It put an end to Philles records, but not to the partnership between Spector and Levine. The latter had already enhanced his reputation by working with Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass, winning a Grammy for his contribution to their hit version of A Taste of Honey, and when Alpert formed his own label, A&M, he invited Levine to be their staff engineer. When Spector produced a group called the Checkmates Ltd for A&M in 1969, the two men were reunited.

"Phil can do anything if he wants to do it bad enough," Levine said around that time, "but I don't think he's hungry enough to try hard now. He got hung up on the image that was built around him. But if he ever wants to, he can make it back again."

Such optimism was misplaced. Although they were to collaborate again, first in 1977 on Leonard Cohen's unfairly maligned Death of a Ladies' Man and then in 1980 on the Ramones' End of the Century, both sessions were disrupted when an increasingly unstable Spector pulled a gun in the studio. And, in any case, the Wall of Sound was already a museum piece.

Levine, who leaves a widow and three sons, died at his home in Encino, California, on his 80th birthday.

· Larry Levine, recording engineer, born May 8 1928; died May 8 2008
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News and Media Limited 2008

[cripes]

i was really surprised when I found out that Harvey didn't produce The Righteous Brothers' other big hit (You're My) Soul & Inspiration. Production credit was given to Bill Medley, but I think hats should go off to Larry. What a relief right? You can get the Harvey sound without Harvey.

[Cat Stevens]

more from the Let the Good Times Roll doc. with Bo & Chuck --

www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9586G04mfw&feature=related

[manho]

Will Elder

Paul Gravett
Friday June 13, 2008
The Guardian

It was on MAD magazine that the solo artistry of the cartoonist Will Elder soared. Initially conceived in 1952 by his business partner Harvey Kurtzman, MAD, from the Entertaining Comics (EC) group, was a blast of fresh air amid the conformity of the cold war, and a prime influence on many 1960s rebels.

From Kurtzman's scripts and layouts, Elder, who has died aged 86, would elaborate satires that undermined comics, popular culture and the consumer society. Mickey Mouse shows his true colours as Mickey Rodent, disposing of his annoying rival Darnold Duck, while squeaky clean Archie, "America's typical teenager", becomes the juvenile delinquent Starchie. In MAD's companion PANIC, Elder wrote and drew all his own stories. In the first issue he parodied Father Christmas - leading to a ban by the Massachusetts attorney general.

Article continues
In the 1960s Elder co-created the satirical Little Annie Fanny for Playboy. He was an illustrator who peppered his panels with hidden sight gags, puns, signs and referential details, which took multiple readings to discover. He called these extras "chicken fat" - "the part of the chicken soup that's bad for you, yet gives the soup its delicious flavour". His overloaded approach inspired film directors from Louis Malle in Zazie dans le Métro to the Zucker brothers in Airplane! and the Naked Gun trilogy, and inspired the comic artists Robert Crumb and Art Spiegelman.

Born the youngest of five children to Polish Jews in the Bronx, New York, the slight Wolfgang Eisenberg fended off bullies and garnered popularity by honing his caricaturing skills and playing pranks. Once, when he failed to turn up at school, his teacher found him in the cloakroom, seemingly hanged by the neck, his face pale with chalk dust. At home, he put the blackened soles of his father's shoes on the end of a broomstick to capture footsteps walking across the ceiling. His relatives called him Meshuggah Villy, Yiddish for Crazy Willy.

While studying at the New York high school of music and art, he befriended Kurtzman. Enlisting in the armed forces in 1942, Elder became a topographical engineer and drew maps, including several for the D-day landings.

Back from the war, he changed his name to Elder - a homage to Pieter Breughel the Elder - and in 1946 set up with Kurtzman and artist Charles Stern as the Charles William Harvey Studio. Joining in over the years were cartoonist and writer Jules Feiffer and René Goscinny, later the author of Asterix. Elder's comic book career from 1947 led to him inking another studio regular, penciller John Severin, notably on American Eagle in Prize Comics Western and, through Kurtzman, on EC's war titles Frontline Combat and Two-Fisted Tales, as well as the science-fiction series Weird Fantasy.

Elder and Kurtzman moved on from MAD in 1956 to launch Trump, a slicker, more adult satirical magazine for Playboy publisher Hugh Hefner. When this folded after two issues, they and their colleagues financed 11 issues of their own, more modest title, Humbug. Whatever style was required, whether Chester Gould's Dick Tracy, a Norman Rockwell oil painting, Picasso's cubism or an ad campaign, Elder would pour extraordinary effort into mimicking it precisely and then warping it for maximum comedy impact.

Their next collaborations were in Help! for Jim Warren in 1960, where they revamped Kurtzman's Goodman Beaver in a string of parodies. In Goodman Goes Playboy, they returned to Archie, sending him and his pals for a night of drinking, smoking and sex at the Playboy mansion. This time, Archie's publishers sued and won, but it prompted Hefner to invite the pair to create a big-budget female version of Goodman for Playboy. Elder's suggestion of a mix of Marilyn Monroe and Brigitte Bardot resulted in the pneumatic blonde Little Annie Fanny, a sexed-up version of Harold Gray's blank-eyed Little Orphan Annie. Toiling in the loft at Hefner's Chicago mansion, later with assistants, Elder painted exquisite watercolours for each panel, completing 107 episodes from 1962 to his retirement in 1988.

He briefly returned to MAD in 1985 with Kurtzman. His work lived on in paperbacks, hardback archives and CD-roms, and Humbug and Trump are shortly to be reprinted. In his later years, graphic novelists such as Daniel Clowes hailed his influence and Fantagraphics issued a sumptuous art book, Will Elder: The MAD Playboy of Art (2003).

His wife, Jean, whom he married in 1948, died in 2005. He is survived by his daughter Nancy, his son Martin, his brother Irving Eisenberg and two grandchildren.

· Will Elder (Wolfgang William Eisenberg), cartoonist, born September 22 1921; died May 15 2008

[cripes]

Their next collaborations were in Help! for Jim Warren in 1960

R. Crumb's very first published work is in this magazine:

[dino]

they all look like my brothers

[owen]

web.archive.org/web/*hh_/pool.dylantree.com/

[dino]

02-December-04
Just copying and pasting from Expecting Rain: "Bob Dylan will be interviewed on CBS' "60 Minutes" Sunday 5 December". Holiday cheers!

yeah great find owen

[Cat Stevens]

tom & whet in the chatroom

web.archive.org/web/20040204194944/pool.dylantree.com/

damn, I miss the pool

[dino]

23-November-03 setlist

Bob pulled out all the stops and played what has been described as "one of the greatest shows of all time" tonight from London! Songs played included Quinn the Eskimo, It Takes a Lot to Laugh, Million Miles, Tough Mama, Dear Landlord, and Jokerman!

he! and the night after he played Romance in durango, so that must have been the greatest greatest show of all the times

yeah, good times old times

[owen]

"is your son a very homely child?

."
web.archive.org/web/20060828024053/pool.dylantree.com/phorum5/read.php?1,624110

yep, good times

[cripes]

Nice find owey....good times indeed......*sniff*