Dylan Spillin'

What *is* it is about the sainted Roberto Dylan that makes his songs such a magnet for kamikaze inkompetence?

I was at a session last night where we were all singing well in the safety zone - all the tupperware non-descripts that one seldom comes a cropper on: John Denver, Tom Rush, Ralph McTell, that other John - Prime, that's it - and some creep gets up and launches into Dylan's 'Rolling Stone' followed by a medley of others. A *medley*, fer chrissake. Even Dylan himself treads warily over medleys, and they're his own work.

We sat there stunned and then grumpy and then headed for the bar where we talked loudly of the dustmen's strike and the merits of banjo strings on the bouzouki.

But it did remind me of an incident back in my good old Seabold days when all concerned were ever-so much more polite but the wreckage no less great and grotesque: a perfectly nice young man of impeccable pedigree upped and 'delivered' the MOST ghastly rendering of Visions of Johanna.

Oh Lord, I thought that was safely down the memory hole ... must have been good old Larry Dewey emailing me a few weeks back to say hi and remind me of those balmy evenings with the gang in the hallowed Bagels.

Now I look back at that Busker blog, most of June onward has some really nostalgic postings. So perhaps it was worth the price of remembering the excisions of Johanna.