Chronicles - Bob Dylan [70]
The night wore on. Out at sea, the lights of a freighter moved by every so often. Bono asked me if I’d had any new songs, any unrecorded ones. It just so happened that I did. I went into the other room and pulled them out of the drawer, brought them back and showed them to him. He looked them over, said I should record them. I said that I wasn’t so sure about that, thought that maybe I should pour lighter fluid over them — said that I had been having a hard time making records, making that work out. He said, “No, no,” and he brought up the name of Daniel Lanois…said that U2 had worked with him and he had been a great partner — that he’d be perfect for me to work with — would have much to scramble into the mix. Lanois had musical ideas that were compatible to mine. Bono picked up the phone and dialed the man, put him on the phone with me and we spoke for a moment. Basically, what Lanois said was that he was working out of New Orleans and told me that if I was ever there, I should look him up. I said that I would do that. To be sure, I was in no hurry to record. Performing was what was on my mind first and foremost. If I ever did make another record, it would have to have something in common with that purpose. I had a clear road ahead and didn’t want to blow the chance to regain my musical freedom. I needed to let things straighten out and not get mixed up anymore.
It was autumn in New Orleans and I was staying at the Marie Antoinette Hotel, sitting around by the pool in the courtyard with G. E. Smith, the guitar player in my band. I was waiting for the arrival of Daniel Lanois. The air was sticky humid. Branches of trees hung overhead near a wooden trellis that climbed a garden wall. Water lilies floated in the dark squared fountain and the stone floor was inlaid with swirling marble squares. We were sitting at a table near a small statue of Cleo with a clipped nose. The statue seemed to know we were there. The courtyard door swung back and Danny came in. G.E., who surveyed the world with a set of unblinking steel-blue eyes, looked up warily and met the gaze of Lanois with a glance. “See ya in a moment,” G.E. said, got up and left. The courtyard was haunted with friendly spirits and with a vague aroma of perfumed roses and lavender. Lanois sat down. He was noir all the way — dark sombrero, black britches, high boots, slip-on gloves — all shadow and silhouette — dimmed out, a black prince from the black hills. He was scuff proof. He orders a beer and I get an aspirin and Coke. He got right down to business, asked what kind of songs I had, what kind of record I had in mind. It wasn’t a real question — just a way to start the conversation.
Over the course of an hour or so, I knew I could work with this guy, had a conviction about him. I didn’t know what kind of record I had in mind. Didn’t even know if the songs were any good. Hadn’t looked at the songs since I’d shown them to Bono, who liked them a lot, but who knows if he really did. Most of them didn’t even have melodies. Danny says to me, “You can make a great record, you know, if you really want to.” I flatly said, “Of course I’ll need your help,” and he nodded. He wanted to know if I had any musicians in mind. When I told him I didn’t, he asked about the band he had heard me play with the night before. “Not this time,” I said. He told me that hit records don’t matter to him, “Miles Davis never made any.” That was fine with me.
At this point, we weren’t thinking of any fixed time to start, we were just putting our heads together in order to see if