Fact #65892
When:
Short story:
Bob Dylan sings his recent composition Blowin' In the Wind, at the Monday night Hoot in Gerde's Folk City, Greenwich Village, New York City, USA.Full article:
David Blue [songwriter, friend of Bob Dylan] : Gerde's was packed with the regular Monday night jam of intense young folk singers and guitar pickers. We fought our way through the crowd down the stairs to the basement where you waited and practiced until your turn to play was called. It was a scene as usual.
Gil Turner [Hoot organiser] finally took a break and came down to the basement to organize the next half of the show. Bob was nervous and he was doing his Chaplin shuffle as he caught Gil's attention. "I got a song you should hear, man,'' Bob said, grinning from ear to ear. ''Sure thing, Bob,'' Gil said. He moved closer to hear better.
A crowd sort of circled the two of them. Bob sang it out with great passion. When he finished there was silence all around. Gil Turner was stunned. "I've got to do that song myself,'' he said. "Now!'' "Sure, Gil, that's great. You want to do it tonight?'' "Yes,'' said Turner, picking up his guitar, teach it to me now."
Bob showed him the chords and Gil roughly learned the words. He took the copy Bob made for him and went upstairs. We followed, excited by the magic that was beginning to spread. Gil mounted the stage and taped the words on to the mike stand. "Ladies and gentlemen,'' he said, "I'd like to sing a new song by one of our great songwriters. It's hot off the pencil and here it goes.''
He sang the song, sometimes straining to read the words off the paper. When he was through, the entire audience stood on its feet and cheered. Bob was leaning against the bar near the back smiling and laughing. Mike Porco bought us a drink. Later in the evening Bob went home with Suze, and l split with some friends.
(Source : (Quoted in Robbie Woliver, Hoot! A 25-Year History of the Greenwich Village Music Scene, New York, 1986)
Lorre Wyatt : In September of 1962, fall of my senior year, I auditioned for the Millburnaires, a perennial singing octet from Millburn High. Ecstatic over making it, I raced to my first rehearsal overflowing with song suggestions like “Dona, Dona” and “500 Miles.”
Several weeks later, I thumbed through the new issue of Sing Out! It was seeded with protest songs which rekindled my songwriting desires. The ideas of one song in particular had an unavoidable impact. They agitated my head, and I made valiant attempt to find my own words. I scribbled feverishly at my heavy blond desk, pressed by the upcoming Millburnaires rehearsal. But the printed words kept looking better and better, and I couldn’t resist trying to piece the tune together.
On October 28th, the eight of us were sitting around Don Larsen’s beige-carpeted living room swapping songs. In my pocket were two sets of words — the original and the song I had hoped would grow out of it. My mind seesawed nervously back and forth between them. Mine wasn’t finished and that song was so good. Maybe I could sing it and not say anything and they’d think I wrote it and be impressed. If they said, “Let’s sing that sometime,” that’d be OK. I’d finish my song by then, and they probably wouldn’t remember the original.
Someone said, “Anybody got a song?” My hands formed a shaky D chord, and a distant voice began, “How many roads . . .” Unexpected silence as I finished. WOW! “Where’d you get that? Did you write that?”
(Why not, I thought, nothing will ever come of it . . .)
Yes. A rush in my brain as the chasm between the simple and the horrible surreal complex evaporated. That moment my old life ended and a new one began.
“Hey, we gotta do that! . . . We could learn it for Thanksgiving!”
“No, no — we can’t — it’s not done yet!”
Thanksgiving assembly. The ONE time we would do the song. My strictest instructions to everyone were not to mention who wrote it, but Don circumvented that by saying, “Here’s a song written by one of the Millburnaires.” At the end of the assembly, people streamed backstage. Somewhere the answer slipped out. I became adamant that we would never sing the song again. My head was swirling.
Next Monday my homeroom teacher asked to see me after school for a “just between you and me” chat. She wondered why I didn’t want to sing that song anymore. I pulled out the answer that I had been toying with all weekend, and told her that I had sold it. But nothing would abate her curiosity. When she asked, “For how much?” I blurted out $1,000. Her surprise led me quickly to add that I had given it away, and “Where?” became C.A.R.E.
I’d begun to make Pinocchio look like he had a pug nose.
While Dylan was taking a flight to Italy to find Suze, I was taking a No. 70 bus to Newark to find his record. My initial reaction was relief! “Wind” wasn’t on it, and he sounded like a loser. Annoyance took over – “$2.79 for this?” I returned it to Bamburgers and told the clerk something was wrong with it. He listened to half a cut. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
January, 1963. On the way to school, a friend jubilantly told me my song had been played on radio. I feigned nonchalance (while munching on my Adam’s apple) and told him I already knew. But the Chad Mitchell Trio single went nowhere. Whew!
Four more springs later, my therapist listened in amazement as I unraveled the tale of how I picked, by chance, the song that was to become the crowning expression of the “we shall overcome era”. She remarked supportively, “Well…at least you had good taste…”
(Source : New Times Magazine, 1973)
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Gil Turner [Hoot organiser] finally took a break and came down to the basement to organize the next half of the show. Bob was nervous and he was doing his Chaplin shuffle as he caught Gil's attention. "I got a song you should hear, man,'' Bob said, grinning from ear to ear. ''Sure thing, Bob,'' Gil said. He moved closer to hear better.
A crowd sort of circled the two of them. Bob sang it out with great passion. When he finished there was silence all around. Gil Turner was stunned. "I've got to do that song myself,'' he said. "Now!'' "Sure, Gil, that's great. You want to do it tonight?'' "Yes,'' said Turner, picking up his guitar, teach it to me now."
Bob showed him the chords and Gil roughly learned the words. He took the copy Bob made for him and went upstairs. We followed, excited by the magic that was beginning to spread. Gil mounted the stage and taped the words on to the mike stand. "Ladies and gentlemen,'' he said, "I'd like to sing a new song by one of our great songwriters. It's hot off the pencil and here it goes.''
He sang the song, sometimes straining to read the words off the paper. When he was through, the entire audience stood on its feet and cheered. Bob was leaning against the bar near the back smiling and laughing. Mike Porco bought us a drink. Later in the evening Bob went home with Suze, and l split with some friends.
(Source : (Quoted in Robbie Woliver, Hoot! A 25-Year History of the Greenwich Village Music Scene, New York, 1986)
Lorre Wyatt : In September of 1962, fall of my senior year, I auditioned for the Millburnaires, a perennial singing octet from Millburn High. Ecstatic over making it, I raced to my first rehearsal overflowing with song suggestions like “Dona, Dona” and “500 Miles.”
Several weeks later, I thumbed through the new issue of Sing Out! It was seeded with protest songs which rekindled my songwriting desires. The ideas of one song in particular had an unavoidable impact. They agitated my head, and I made valiant attempt to find my own words. I scribbled feverishly at my heavy blond desk, pressed by the upcoming Millburnaires rehearsal. But the printed words kept looking better and better, and I couldn’t resist trying to piece the tune together.
On October 28th, the eight of us were sitting around Don Larsen’s beige-carpeted living room swapping songs. In my pocket were two sets of words — the original and the song I had hoped would grow out of it. My mind seesawed nervously back and forth between them. Mine wasn’t finished and that song was so good. Maybe I could sing it and not say anything and they’d think I wrote it and be impressed. If they said, “Let’s sing that sometime,” that’d be OK. I’d finish my song by then, and they probably wouldn’t remember the original.
Someone said, “Anybody got a song?” My hands formed a shaky D chord, and a distant voice began, “How many roads . . .” Unexpected silence as I finished. WOW! “Where’d you get that? Did you write that?”
(Why not, I thought, nothing will ever come of it . . .)
Yes. A rush in my brain as the chasm between the simple and the horrible surreal complex evaporated. That moment my old life ended and a new one began.
“Hey, we gotta do that! . . . We could learn it for Thanksgiving!”
“No, no — we can’t — it’s not done yet!”
Thanksgiving assembly. The ONE time we would do the song. My strictest instructions to everyone were not to mention who wrote it, but Don circumvented that by saying, “Here’s a song written by one of the Millburnaires.” At the end of the assembly, people streamed backstage. Somewhere the answer slipped out. I became adamant that we would never sing the song again. My head was swirling.
Next Monday my homeroom teacher asked to see me after school for a “just between you and me” chat. She wondered why I didn’t want to sing that song anymore. I pulled out the answer that I had been toying with all weekend, and told her that I had sold it. But nothing would abate her curiosity. When she asked, “For how much?” I blurted out $1,000. Her surprise led me quickly to add that I had given it away, and “Where?” became C.A.R.E.
I’d begun to make Pinocchio look like he had a pug nose.
While Dylan was taking a flight to Italy to find Suze, I was taking a No. 70 bus to Newark to find his record. My initial reaction was relief! “Wind” wasn’t on it, and he sounded like a loser. Annoyance took over – “$2.79 for this?” I returned it to Bamburgers and told the clerk something was wrong with it. He listened to half a cut. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
January, 1963. On the way to school, a friend jubilantly told me my song had been played on radio. I feigned nonchalance (while munching on my Adam’s apple) and told him I already knew. But the Chad Mitchell Trio single went nowhere. Whew!
Four more springs later, my therapist listened in amazement as I unraveled the tale of how I picked, by chance, the song that was to become the crowning expression of the “we shall overcome era”. She remarked supportively, “Well…at least you had good taste…”
(Source : New Times Magazine, 1973)