Читать книгу Fitting In - Colin Thompson - Страница 63

Then everything changed.

On January 13th 1963, I saw a play on TV, which the BBC have managed to destroy every single copy of. It was called The Madhouse on Castle Street and Bob Dylan spent the time sitting on the stairs playing the guitar and singing.

And very soon after that his first album came out, and bits of me that had been asleep woke up and stayed awake forever.

And it did matter what those words were.

They came from another world too and even when they didn’t make sense they said everything.

I didn’t want to dance around the room.

I didn’t even want to stand up.

I didn’t know why, but I knew that things would never be the same again. And a massive, wonderful sadness woke up inside me and everything seemed to get bigger and bigger.

I saw him play at the Festival Hall, young, nervous, alone and tiny in the middle of a massive stage, and again at the Albert Hall with a group and much later at Earls Court after which he lost his magic and got polluted with religion.

But those early songs have never lost the magic.