Remember innocent optimism? The Beatles, 1965, the coolest humans ever born, making the finest music of our times.

I knew that if I lived long enough, someday this would make sense.
Happy Plague, everyone.

Quarantined? Put on your red dress, baby.
Paralysed by existential angst? Take a lesson from Robert Higginbotham.

This is the way the world the world ends, this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with Jeff babbling about the demigods playing ping-pong.
Wishing all of us, everywhere, health and peace of mind.

James Taylor: “When you’re 20, you’ve just been issued the equipment you’re going to be using for a whole lifetime—the body, the mind, the skills, the talents, the appetites…” It’s also when you face the awful truth about this life: Something’s Wrong.

Dylan, not as a kid pretending to be a cotton-picker in Greenwich Village; not him embarrassing himself as an Evangelist preacher; not as an old fool croaking standards–this is Dylan at his creative pinnacle.
It’s another side of Bob Dylan — unmasked, naked and vulnerable. We’re idiots, babe, it’s a wonder that we still know how to breathe.

In March, 1968, Laura Nyro wrote and sang about the joy of sex—not as a companion, an addendum, a decoration, but as a Woman–breaking the glass ceiling in popular music.

Bob Dylan at his best. Which is to say the art of our time at its best. For time capsules, for satellites to distant universes, for future generations: this is what we had to offer.