All the gold these dreams are made of. Every string vibrates and I hear the music of every rock'n'roll ghost and every hero that I mourn. A needle zigs and zags in the grooves in the plastic and Elvis sings as though it was 1956.
Now the New York Times tries to tell me about whether or not there's any life in the old girl and they attempt to explain that in the final analysis there will be room for only one hero in history and, of course, that hero will be either Elvis or Dylan.
This morning Donald J. Trump, Bernie Sanders and I are all talking trash about The Times.
They refer to it as "rock" fercrissakes!
It's okay for me to speculate on breath in the patient. It's my rock'n'roll.
If you could just take charge based on an authoritative tone, Malcolm McLaren would be king.