I’ve tried to avoid that all my life. When I wrote about soldiers in Vietnam, I wasn’t trying to make a political statement. I was trying to write about how screwed things were for soldiers, and how they still are.
It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in / There’s an old man sitting next to me making love to his tonic and gin / He says, ‘Son, can you play me a memory?
When I was 19, I made my first good week’s pay as a club musician. It was enough money for me to quit my job at the factory and still pay the rent and buy some food. I freaked.
