Song 102: She's Your Lover Now

A Bob Dylan song!

Of all things ...

Bob Dylan recorded 'She's Your Lover Now' on 21st January 1966. There were 16 takes and he was not satisfied. It was not released until the first Bootleg Series CD in 1991.

That was the 15th take, which is the most renowned, albeit he did not reach the end of the song on that take. He did get to the end on the 16th (substantially musically different) take, and that take emerged in the 2010s, on a later Bootleg.

'She's Your Lover Now' is sometimes my favourite Bob Dylan song.

It is the work of someone at the peak of their evil powers.

But he didn't finish it, and he didn't release it. Did he not rate it?

I think he did rate it. He knew it was a great song. It was one of the first songs he attempted to record for Blonde on Blonde and he gave a whole day to it.

The most famous recording, Take 15, ends with the song breaking down midway through the last of four mammoth verses and a slightly irritated "What?" from Bob.

It turned out that, although they had backed him to famous effect on tour, although they would make the Basement Tapes together, record and tour together again, at that point in early '66, he was dissatisfied with the Hawks/Band in the recording studio (he told as much to his friend Robert Shelton a few weeks later). This aborted attempt to record 'She's Your Lover Now' probably brought an end to Blonde on Blonde being recorded in New York with those musicians. He moved on to Nashville, taking Robbie Robertson but not the rest of the Band, and that is where most of Blonde on Blonde was recorded.

So 'She's Your Lover Now' was a pretty significant failure.

And yet ... the most glorious failure.

The premise of the song - it's a three-hander. The singer, his former partner and her current partner. I've always assumed the former partner is Joan Baez, maybe I read that somewhere, but who knows.

It's a mean song. Maybe his meanest. And that's saying something for Dylan.

I have also heard it said that he left this song behind because he moved on to One of Us Most Know (Sooner of Later), which is similar structurally. Sooner or Later is also a great song, though I prefer this one. Sooner of Later is significantly kinder and more conciliatory. Maybe that's why he went with it.

She's Your Lover Now certainly has the more memorable lines. I won't list them all, but "And you, you just sit around and ask for ashtrays, can't you reach?" (one of the "asides" where he turns with an "And you" to the unfortunate new boyfriend) never fails to amuse.

And, in my opinion, some of Dylan's greatest singing. The reality is that through 65 and 66, Dylan was taking more and more drugs, getting less and less sleep, living closer and closer to the edge. July 29th 1966 was the famous motorcycle accident. It is widely thought the lifestyle break it necessitated was a lifesaver.

That lifestyle is reflected in his singing. 64 and 65 Dylan has a big, strong voice. '66 Dylan is that thin, stoned whine. Truthfully, his voice is more and shot through the course of '66. But 'She's Your Lover Now', from January, still has the power in the lungs of something like Positively Fourth Street or Like a Rolling Stone.

The vocal performance he gives her really does make it even more perplexing that he just discarded the song. It is one of his most passionate, furious performances, In the last verse, just second before the recording stumbles to a finish sings "It's just like a dead man's - last - pistol shot - babyyyyyy" and it's one of the greatest, most intense bits of singing he ever did.

Anyway, there it is - in my opinion, one of the all-time great Dylan lost tracks. I doubt it'll be in Chalamet film ...

Song 101: Danny Callahan

This is one of my favourite songs, has been for over 15 years, but I'm writing a little about it because I suddenly remembered an odd evening I associate it with.

'Danny Callahan' is from Conor Oberst's 2008 solo album 'Conor Oberst'. I've mentioned it before briefly, I think. Of all the songs in the whole world, it is the one that, however many new times I listen to it, never fails to catch me unawares and kick me in the guts.

It manifests as a jaunty tune, and it's not entirely clear, over the first couple of verses, what it's about, with some vaguely philosophical lyrics. Then, after a brief solo, the lyrics focus on what the song is really about, which is about a boy, a real boy Conor Oberst knew, called Danny Callahan, who died of cancer.

The lyrics go

"What gauge measures miracles? And whose heart beats electrical? 

We feign sickness with our modern joy,

but even western medicine, it couldn't save Danny Callahan - 

bad bone marrow, a bald little boy.

But the love you feel he carries inside can be passed.

He lay still, his mother kissed him goodbye said, "Come back!

Where are you going to alone? Where are you going all alone?""

and, I swear, there is really nothing else, over the last 16 years, that has so often brought me back in touch with the tragedy and beauty of life.

Particularly as Conor Oberst, with Bright Eyes, and solo, is often known for vocal and lyrical histrionics, whereas here, he underplays it. It's a beautiful vocal performance, and I think his greatest song, which, considering I played 'First Day of My Life' to the three of us in a momentarily empty and still maternity ward on the day Rosa was born, is not a light compliment.

Well, anyway, there's the song ... I love it. But I remembered one of the first times I heard it, certainly out of the context of my discman, in October 2008, a month or so after the album was released.

I was in Chicago. I went to Chicago with three other people, one of whom was a friend of mine, the other two who were friends of my friend, to run the Chicago Marathon. We ran the marathon. For me, it went pretty badly, nowhere near as well as I hoped. It was very hot, my body didn't work properly. I made it to the finish without stopping, because if I'd stopped, I'd have been in the middle of Chicago, cramped and parched, without a map or the strength to get myself started again.

So I was proud to finish my first marathon (4hr3, perfectly fine, really, but on a good, cold, wet, day with an injury-free preparation, I had a 3h20 in me, I'm sure of it) but in a slightly weird, slf-recriminatory and sulky mood. We still had a week in Chicago, and after weeks, if not months, of taking care with food and drink, I was now not.

One of my friend's friends was a really nice guy and also his brother lived in Chicago, and so he knew, and was able to arrange, some really good restaurants to eat in.

One of them was, I'm pretty certain - this place https://www.alinearestaurant.com/, fairly recently opened at that point, and already Michelin-starred, and within a few years judged the best restaurant in the world.

I say I'm pretty certain ... I'm 99% certain that was the place, but that week is one of those weeks where my memories are a bit surreal.

I remember the atmosphere was low-key, chilled, the food was stunning, the wine was flowing, and on the stereo came Conor Oberst's solo album in its entirety - a soundtrack I was absolutely delighted with. Sounds like an ideal evening, right?

But I haven't mentioned my friend's other friend, yet, have I? 

Look, I'm not one for being mean about someone in public, but I haven't seen this person since, in fact haven't seen any of them for many years, I'll use no names, there is not a cat in hell's chance anyone associated will ever read this. I feel ok about it.

There had already been signs. This person did not agree with tipping. Well, perhaps, on the grand scale, this is fair enough. American service staff are made to rely too much on tips and not paid enough. But that, I don't think, was this person's point. It was just that they got too much. Well, each to their own, except, when we had all got a taxi, and I had provided the tip at whatever the generous American rate I had researched was, the person literally grabbed some of the money out of the driver's hand as I was giving it to him, snarling "Too much!".

So it was in the restaurant, the relaxed, hospitable, not overly pricy considering it was on the cusp of global acclaim, restaurant, as the evening went on, the person became increasingly, loudly contemptuous of the decor, the food, the service staff.

I remember at one point just sitting back and realising with dread that the rest of the restaurant had fallen silent and our dining companion was the only voice that could be heard, against the background of Conor Oberst's poignant tunes. Ah, Brits are great, I'm sure they were all thinking. 

Often, particularly in recent years as I've become almost entirely re-un-socialised, I tell myself I'm super-weird, have always been weird, have no graces, am uncomfortable to be around, and that's my problem. But when I remember evenings like this, I really can tell myself that, no, it was always, and is always, other people that are weird and bad, not me, and if I have, in the end, reacted to that by giving up on trying, so be it.

Busy guy, small world

I'd like to briefly sing the praises of two small albums I love, which are quite similar.

One is 

Surf - Roddy Frame, from 2002

The other is

Busy Guy - Stephen Fretwell, from 2021

The superficial links are interesting - both Frame and Fretwell with their alliterative, guitary surnames.

Both had a song uses as theme for a gentle BBC comedy - Frame's 'Small World', from this very album, was the theme to 'Early Doors' (early McAvoy...)

while Fretwell's 'Run' from 2004's 'Magpie' was used as theme to a little BBC3 comedy called 'Gavin and Stacey'. Fretwell has said that, though he was ambivalent about the song being used, it has been invaluable to his finances, akin to having a part-time job.

For Fretwell has not "done well". 'Busy Guy' is not the album of a guy that has done well. Nor did it do well.

Nor, particularly, did 'Surf'. Has Roddy Frame done well? Not sure, relatively speaking. I expect 'Somewhere in My Heart' has kept him in shirts, but considering his faultless voice, his guitar expertise, the fact he wrote 'Oblivious' when he was, like, 18. and that's one of the greatest songs ever written, you might have expected him to be as famous as George Michael, or at least Marti Pellow. Which he's not.

But he is one of the great British songwriters, and 'Surf' is his masterpiece.

'Surf' is a break-up, or post-relationship, album, which is pretty much entirely just Frame and his guitar, set in London. I love that about it. It's got a real sense of place, of Soho and Notting Hill and such like.

The same is true of 'Busy Guy' - it's a post-relationship album, set in London. The songs are exquisite - they have titls like 'Oval' and 'Embankment'.

It feels like there used to be, or ought to be, thousands of these kinds of albums, but there are perishingly few now. Albums by people who are good enough at the basic, all-inclusive art of writing and singing songs that they can hold your attention and your heart for 40 minutes on their own.

The title track on 'Surf' is, in particular, a wonder. I've been listening to it a lot this year. It feels like one of the songs that invented songs. The melody and the lyric just curl around, then soar, then sink, and reach their natural stopping point and break your heart.

Anyway, that's all. Real deal albums, like 'Blue', these are. Get them, if you like sad guys.