“I think it was Columbia politics, Columbia Records politics that, that, Tom Wilson left [Bob Dylan] after “Like A Rolling Stone”.”

In the, uh, ’30s and ’40s, the Brill Building was the hub of, uh, musical activity in Tin Pan Alley in New York City.

The place that I worked I used to joke about it. There was a, every morning at 10:30 I’d come into work and I’d go into this cubicle that had a little upright piano and fake white cork bricks on the wall.

I started in the music business I was first introduced to 1650 Broadway, uh, which was in reality where everything happened in the ’60s.

I liked being challenged by music. It’s good for me.

Bob Dylan said to the producer, turn up the organ. And Tom Wilson said, oh man, that guy’s not an organ player. And Dylan said.

If you’d done a good job you’d just step back and let all these different chemistries interact and let it go.

Every now and then we could steal somebody else’s stuff.

Every day from 10 to 6, we’d go in there and pretend that we were 13 year old girls and write these songs. That was the gig.

At the end of the playback of the take of “Like A Rolling Stone”, or actually during the thing.

Unlike so many Dylan-writer-wannabes and phony ‘encyclopedia’ compilers, Sean Wilentz makes me feel he was in the room when he chronicles events that I participated in.

Musically Bob [Dylan] is a primitive. He’s not a Gershwin, or somebody that uses eloquent music terms.

I believe Irving Berlin was there, and uh, and everything just centered around there.

I don’t care, turn the organ up, and that’s really how I became an organ player.

The very funny thing about “Like A Rolling Stone” is it was a six minute song, there was no music to read from. And there I was playing this unfamiliar instrument.

The “Highway 61” album [of Bob Dylan] was produced by Bob Johnston if I’m not incorrect. And Bob Johnston was an entirely different producer than Tom Wilson.

So I would come in on the upbeat of one. I would wait until the band played the chord, and then as quickly as I could come in play the chord.

Doctors say it’s okay to have sex after a heart attack, provided you close the ambulance door.

I do not care what comes after; I have seen the dragons on the wind of morning.

Life which should be high and full, lived for oneself, but not above all for others those who are at hand and those who are far distant, contemporaries, and those who will come after.

I was really scared to stay home alone when I was kid, and I would freak out whenever there was a noise after my parents left.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.

Why do some people try, try again, and why do some people not? That’s what I’m after.

Love is, after all, a selfish thing; and it throws a black shadow on anything between which and the light it stands.

After money in the bank, a grudge is the next best thing.