The boy sitting at the piano is seven.  He is wearing pajamas and swinging his feet.   Above him is a poster of a mountain village we bought before he was born, when we were still a couple, waiting uneasily for our first child together.  It was dicey for a…

Unbeknownst to Michael Tearson, he discovered me. When I was thirteen years old, living in a Philadelphia suburb with parents whose musical adventures consisted of Harry Bellafonte and Barbara Streisand, I spent many long evenings listening to him. There were some really good DJs in Philly in the late 60s,…

Unbeknownst to Michael Tearson, he discovered me. When I was thirteen years old, living in a Philadelphia suburb with parents whose musical adventures consisted of Harry Bellafonte and Barbara Streisand, I spent many long evenings listening to him. There were some really good DJs in Philly in the late 60s,…

I first met Julie Gold in 1979. I’d been doing A&R for Arista Records for about a year and although we were on opposite sides of the desk, we were more alike than different: a couple of twenty-three year old music-loving kids from Philly trying to make it in New…

Until they showed up in our little office in early 1982, I hadn’t thought about Orleans since I’d seen them open for Jackson Browne in western Massachusetts in the early 70s. My partner, Michael Friedman, and I had quit our jobs at Arista Records to start our own production/publishing company….

I just read a 2011 interview with Bob about a show of his paintings that went up in Europe somewhere.  For opinions of Dylan, the painter, I asked two of my painter buddies who agreed: As a painter, Dylan is a fine songwriter.  I’ve excerpted and commented on Bob’s answers,…

Twice in the early 90s, I went to the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, NY for a songwriting workshop with Rosanne Cash. It was a non-juried event, meaning the first dozen people to call in their credit cards got to spend five days sitting in a circle, trying our stuff out…

A welcome to all who’ve assembled today To honor His Badness, Madame Blobovsky, some would say For he’s turning the corner and entering a new decade With a head full of hair and a spiked lemonade It’s no easy feat to be toasting this man Who could talk a cold…

I’m walking beside them in Pompeii. We’re tourists of course.  I’m thirteen, big lips, blue blazer, man’s trench coat, pair of beginner balls dangling. Every so often, kneeling to touch the ground, I pick something up — keys, coins, a ticket to the locker my mother keeps her superstitions in.What’re…