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PostPosted: Tue January 10th, 2012, 03:31 GMT 
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JUST LIKE A WOMAN

Dylan / Cameron Crowe

“I think I was on the road, I think I wrote it in Kansas City or something, on Thanksgiving, yeah I’m pretty sure I did. I was invited over to somebody’s house for Thanssgiving dinner but I didn’t go, didn’t feel like doing anything, I wasn’t hungry. I stayed in my hotel room and wrote this.”

Robert Shelton

Despite this work’s enduring melodic appeal, its view of women is controversial. Marion Meade wrote in The New York Times on 14 March 1971 that “there’s no more complete catalogue of sexist slurs” than this song where Dylan “defines women’s natural traits as greed, hypocrisy, whining and hysteria”. The title is a male platitude that justifiably angers women. I think Dylan is ironically toying with that platitude.

Bill King has called this Dylan’s “finest poem on the failure of human relationships because of illusion created by social myth”. Dylan may be implicitly criticising sexist men as much as the woman, or women, who fail them. Roberta Flack has recorded a vastly different version, in which she converts the song into a compassionate lament for women’s victimisation and depth of feeling. She achieves this through an interpretative shift, but also changes the lyrics’ viewpoint. Perhaps she was trying to write an “answer song” based on the original. Reexamine Just Like A Woman in the light of the imagery of Blood On The Tracks, where rain, pain and thirst are also recurring allusions, but in a context of remorseful self-criticism. Were his later, gentler perforances of Just Like A Woman an attempt to say it had been misinterpreted? One memorable line softens the harsh edges, “I was hungry and it was your world”. For those who find sexist slurs, I recommend Flack’s recording, as either reinterpretation or rejoinder. The song is on the soundtrack of the film Coming Home.

Andy Gill

The euphonious lilt of Just Like A Woman, with Dylan's sly croon borne as if in a sedan chair upon the delicate triplets of acoustic guitar and piano, disguises one of his more controversial songs. In the ground swell of feminist liberation which followed the counter-cultural changes of the late-1960s, Dylan was roundly condemned by some feminist commentators for the song's unflattering portrait of its subject, and the implication in the chorus that grasping, whinging and weakness were "natural" female traits, along with a specific womanly manner of making love. This, however, seems a determinedly literal way of reading a song whose melody – the most overtly "feminine" of the album – and title – a sardonic appropriation of a classic misogynist exclamation – suggest a more ironic intention. It also ignores the fact that the song's delimitations are not between man and woman, but between woman and girl: it's a matter of maturity, rather than gender.

The song was widely believed - not least by her acquaintances among Andy Warhol's Factory retinue - to be about the Factory pin-up girl Edie Sedgwick, a 1960s "ace face" and New York scene-maker with whom Dylan had a brief association in 1965. (Indeed, Robert Margoulef's biopic of Edie, Ciao Manhattan, includes Just Like A Woman on its soundtrack.) A former Boston debutante and model, Sedgwick dedicated herself to meeting beautiful, talented people, with the hope that she herself might develop artistic talent of some sort, or, failing that, serve as an artist's muse. Accordingly, she became one of Warhol's iconic superstars, before transferring her attentions to Dylan, to whom she was introduced at the Kettle Of Fish bar on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village.

Her interest may not have been purely amicable; it was rumored that Albert Grossman was interested in developing her career – though eventually even he was forced to admit defeat as to the means by which to achieve this, when it transpired that Edie was a hopeless singer. A rumored Dylan / Edie movie, meanwhile, never got beyond the talking stage. Warhol himself was apparently annoyed at her defection, as well as paranoid about Dylan's opinion of him: for some time, he apparently believed himself to be the chrome horse-riding diplomat in Like A Rolling Stone (and Edie, therefore, its subject), despite the fact that the song had been written well before Dylan had met either Edie or Andy.

Edie's growing infatuation with Dylan was eventually broken early in 1966 when Warhol, who had learned that Dylan had been secretly married a month or two earlier, took great relish in breaking the news to her. She drifted away from both camps, but not before making an impression on Blonde On Blonde – she was included among the photographs in the original inner sleeve (removed from the CD booklet), and some (including Patti Smith, who wrote a poem about her) believe her to be the inspiration for the album title. It would certainly explain the song's most often queried line, about "her fog, her amphetamine, and her pearls," which in the mid-1960s New York drug culture would have been recognized as references to marijuana, speed and pep-pills.

She eventually died of a barbiturate overdose in 1971, while Just Like A Woman became one of Dylan's most popular songs. Ironically, at a time when his publishers were kept increasingly busy collecting his royalties from the flood of cover-versions of his material – in September 1965, there were no fewer than eight of his songs in the United States Top-40, half of them covers – Just Like A Woman was the only track from Blonde On Blonde to attract significant attention from other artists. It also became the song Dylan performed most often over the subsequent two decades. It is not known for sure, however, exactly when during this period the song's second line was changed from the recorded "Tonight is lost inside the rain" to the less evocative "Tonight as I stand inside the rain," as in the collected Lyrics 1962-1985. In the Biograph annotations, Dylan half-remembers writing the song on the road, in a hotel in Kansas City "or something" the previous Thanksgiving, having declined an offer of dinner at someone's house.

Nigel Williamson

Just Like A Woman has dramatically divided Dylan’s critics over the years. Alan Rinzler in Bob Dylan: The Illustrated Record condemned it as “a devastating character assassination – the most sardonic, nastiest of all Dylan’s put-downs of former lovers”. Another critic dismissed it as a “complete catalogue of sexist slurs”. Yet others, led by the song’s gorgeous melody, regard Just Like A Woman as an affectionate portrait. Paul Williams, for example, has written of the “love” in Dylan’s delivery, which he believes overrides “any confusion aroused by the playful needling in the lyrics”.

The song has long been believed to be about the mentally unstable Edie Sedgwick, and was later included on the soundtrack of Robert Margouleff’s biopic of Edie, Ciao Manhatten. A New York scenemaker, model and acolyte of Andy Warhol (in whose films she appeared), Sedgwick met Dylan at the Kettle Of Fish in Greenwich Village in December 1964 and swiftly became infatuated with him. There was talk of her making a record, a plan which floundered on the simple fact that she could not sing. There was also a suggestion that she and Dylan should co-star in a film, another project that came to nothing. Their relationship came to an end in January 1966 when Warhol told her that Dylan had secretly married Sara Lowndes.

However, Dylan makes clear the sexual attraction he felt towards Sedgwick in lines such as “I was dying here of thirst”. And Sedgwick’s presence can also be detected in another song on Blonde On Blonde. Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat. There have even been suggestions that she was the peroxide-blonde inspiration for the album title.

Clinton Heylin

Published lyrics: Writings and Drawings; Lyrics 1985; Lyrics 2004.
Known studio recordings: Studio A, Nashville, 8 March 1966 [BOB].
First known performance: Vancouver, 26 March 1966.

Just Like a Woman is another song found among the Blonde On Blonde papers, though this time it, is some way away from the finished song, with no evidence of a chorus to be seen for love nor money. What Dylan does have is most of the first verse (minus “from her curls”); a single couplet from the second (“nobody has to guess / baby can't be blessed”); another from the final verse (“when we meet again, introduced as friends / don't let on you knew me when”); and just a single line of the bridge: “I'm dying here of thirst”. All of these lines he tapped out on a single sheet, the last of which is typed the other way up, apparently part of a separate set of lyrics – for yet another menage a trois in song – to which the lines, “how come you both lied to me,” and, “he never said he'd live forever / he'd just make a fuss over all of us / but it's just you and me,” also apparently belonged.

Rather than going further with this line of thought, Dylan takes the “dying here of thirst” line, turns the page over, takes up a pen, and begins to write out what he clearly marks as “(bridge)”: “it was raining from the first / And I'm dying here of thirst / what's worse is this pain in here / I won't stay in here,” to which he attaches an unrelated couplet, “she's my friend / see her again”, But there is still no sign of that memorable chorus, “She takes / aches / breaks just like a woman / little girl.”

In all likelihood, Just Like A Woman was one song Dylan continued writing in his Nashville hotel room (from whence said papers probably came) as Al Kooper sat at the piano playing the melody over and over again. If the draft does come from Nashville, then the song's chorus was another last-minute formulation. Wilentz's recent lecture on the Blonde On Blonde sessions seemingly confirms this. He describes an early take in which Dylan is singing what can only be described as dummy lyrics. As he states, “On several early takes, Dylan sang disconnected lines and semi gibberish. He was unsure about what the person described in the song does that is just like a woman, rejecting “shakes,” “wakes,” and “makes mistakes”.”'

As with his “first” electric session 15 months earlier, Dylan refused to get bogged down by just one song, and around two in the afternoon, he took a break from Just Like A Woman – after trying “a weird, double time fourth take, somewhere between Bo Diddley and Jamaican ska.” Only after recording Pledging My Time does he return to Just Like A Woman, around 9pm. But the song still needed work, being 15 takes away from the finished version.

Dylan has never felt inclined to elucidate what exactly it is “Baby” can learn from “Queen Mary.” The reference to Baby's penchant for “fog – amphetamine and – pearls” (which he originally sang as, “I gave you those pearls”) again suggests Sedgwick, or some similar debutante. Queen Mary herself certainly could be a confidant of the androgynous Queen Jane. And the one time Dylan prefaced the song in concert with a short rap, at the Warfield in San Francisco in November 1980, he implied the song's subject was another “woman'” with jet-pilot eyes:

“The other night I was standing out backstage, and this guy came up to me and said, “Do you remember that woman that came up to you about an hour ago with long red hair?” And I said, “Yes, I remember that woman.” He said, “She sure was pretty, wasn't she?” “Yes, she was alright.” He said, “That was me.” Nobody feels any pain.”

The theory that the “woman” in Just Like A Woman is actually a man has been around since the early-1970s, appearing in the cranl theories section of Michael Gray's (very first) Song And Dance Man. And one should never discount the possibility Dylan was having a little fun at fans' expense in his 1980 rap. But the song was completed within day of' Temporary Like Achilles, which explicitly refers to one character a “hungry like a man in drag.”

Something risque is clearly going on in the song, but Dylan is not saying what. Even 38 years later, he firmly told Robert Hil burn, “Even if I could tell you what it was about I wouldn't. It's up to the listener to figure out what it means to him. This is a very broad song. It's like a lot of blues-based songs. Somebody may be talking about a woman, but they're not really talking about a woman at all. It's a city song. I don't think in lateral terms as a writer. I always try to turn a song on its head. Otherwise I figure I'm wasting the listener's time.”

One thing is apparent: Dylan felt a personal connection to this song from the first. As late as 1995 he was singing it with all the passion and persistence of a still-hungry man. And though it is one of his most covered songs, he told old friend Mary Travers on a 1975 radio show Personally, I don't understand why anybody would want to do it – except me. And yet barely had he written the thing when he turned up at the Whisky a Go Go in Hollywood, hoping to convince Otis Redding he should record it. Sadly he never did, though the little organ intro Redding uses on his version of White Christmas sounds awfully familiar.

Just Like A Woman is also one of just two Dylan songs Van Morrison has consistently performed live. Intriguingly, every time the x elects to sing it (and he was still singing it in 2000), he sings, “There's a queer in here,” instead of, “I can't stay in here.” Does he know some scuttlebutt about the song's composition that he can't resist alluding to. He did, after all, spend a lot of time hanging with the guys from The Band in Woodstock, circa 1969 and 1970.

Any whisper Morrison heard would surely have come from Robbie Robertson, who accompanied Dylan to Nashville and was there when he played the song to Robert Shelton in a Denver hotel room four days after recording it. None of the other Hawks were at the Nashville sessions, nor were they party to any of the 1966 live performances, which were solo acoustic (and intensely introspective). A recent addition to YouTube has been a complete performance of the song from Dublin (the one on the famous While The Establishment Burns bootleg). Anyone who doubts that this is a Song of Experience should just watch this particular harmonica break, which really does sound like a little girl sob-sob-sobbing.

Mike Marqusee

Without doubt, misogyny and sexism are rampant in Dylan's music. In the songs of the mid-1960s, he does see women as an alien species, fascinating, necessary, but not to be trusted. The locus classicus of that prejudice has always been seen as Just Like A Woman. However, any song that begins with the magically drowsy "nobody feels any pain" and climaxes with the howl "what's worse / Is this pain in here" must be more than the sum of its tired patriarchal put-downs. The discovery of the vulnerability of the woman / girl he desires but cannot fully possess touches and angers the singer; he revels in her weakness, seizes on it for the leverage it may give him, but finds that even then she remains elu¬sive. The steady, circular rhythm over which the singer murmurs (the melody is subtly extended and the lyric delicately teased out) gives way to a dramatic bridge of rising frustration, and the singer's emotional collapse, segueing back to the verse with the bathetic "I just can't fit:" It's a plea of utter helplessness. The vulnerability of the woman is in the end the vulnerability of the (male) singer. There is a little boy lost inside that little girl.

Dylan's appearance in these years has often been described as an¬drogynous. (It is one reason why this image remains attractive when so much 1960s machismo has palled.) Apart from Ballad Of A Thin Man, and a handful of references to queens, drag shows, and the like ("The beauty parlor is filled with sailors," "The waitress he was handsome / He wore a powder blue cape," the fifteen jugglers are "all dressed as men"), there is a broader element of sexual ambiguity, of uncertainty about personal identity, in these songs. There is also a camp theatricality in much of Dylan's delivery and self-dramatization, not least in Just Like A Woman.

This song spawned more cover versions than any other track on Blonde on Blonde, including several by women – Judy Collins, Nina Simone, Roberta Flack, Stevie Nicks. My favorite is an obscure one: a jazzy, cabaret-haunted remake by Barbara Gosza, an American per¬former working in Europe. With the aid of a few strategically placed amendments to the lyrics, notably the substitution of “I” for “she” in the final chorus – Gosza remakes the male dirge as a torch-song celebra¬tion of lesbian love. But she could not have done that so successfully if there wasn't, in the original itself, a powerful element of erotic ambiva¬lence.

Mojo 2005 Readers Poll #23

Jimmy Webb – Mojo 100 Greatest Dylan Songs #10

This was when I understood how deep Dylan’s well really was. It was not a folk song, it was not protest, it was just a great love song, which of course had an immediate impact on me. I had just dropped out of college to commit to what I hoped would be the life of a songwriter. I was very much in love with a girl who was inspiring a lot of the music I was writing, and this song seemed to cut right to the heart of what I was feeling emotionally at the time. All these years later, I still marvel at what an absolutely stunning piece of writing it is.

What a fortuitous nexus of rhyme and purpose is the chorus, “She takes just like a woman / She makes love just like a woman / Then she aches just like a woman / But she breaks just like a little girl”. As songwriters, we live for the moment when words fall together like that, as if they have been waiting for just that arrangement. The way everything leads toward that last line is masterful. That would be enough for most writers, but the third verse reveals Dylan’s strategy to be much larger. When he says, “Please don’t let on that you knew me when / I was hungry and it was your world”, he steps on-camera and addresses this person directly to deliver one final twist. There is a lifetime of listening in these details and layered subtleties. Any serious student of songwriting will find a complete education in this one composition.

Oliver Trager

Purportedly inspired by socialite / artiste Edie Sedgwick, an archtypical rich girl gone bad, but probably also alluding to Joan Baez and any number of a number of femmes fatales spinning in his orbit, Just Like A Woman is not only one of Dylan’s most popular songs but also one of his most controversial. Yet whether interpreted as a misgynistic rant or a darkly affectionate testament to eternal misunderstanding between the sexes, Just Like A Woman remains most appealing as a lilting confessional of a faded and perhaps clandestine romance.

This is one of Dylan’s most expertly crafted pop songs, and its radio-friendliness not only translated into significant airplay at the time of its release but has kept it in at least light rotation on those classic rock and golden-oldies FM radio bandwiths. Could such a literal, sharp, and singular song crack the Top-40 today as Just Like A Woman did in 1966? The answer to that question would probably speak to both Dylan’s talents and popular culture’s decay over the course of the past four decades. When released as an A-side single, Just Like A Woman hit #33 on the Billboard chart.

At least as early as the beginning of the 1970s, charges of misogyny were hurled Dylan’s way as reported and described in Robert Shelton’s 1986 Dylan biography, No Direction Home. Feminist critic Marion Meade wrote in the New York Times on 14 March 1971, that “there’s no more complete catalogue of sexist slurs” than Just Like A Woman, and goes on to point out that Dylan “defines women’s natural traits as greed, hypocracy, whining and hysteria.” But while the song’s title, a dismissive male platitude, might easily and justifiably anger women, serving as even more grist for Meade’s arguments, Dylan (a master of irony if ever there was one) was most likely merely toying with that platitude. After all, does not the narrator give at least a vague accounting of his actions and sensitivities in the song’s bridge (always a good place to get to the heart of the matter) when he sings, “It was raining from the first / And I was dying there of thirst / So I came in here / And your long-time curse hurts / But what’s worse / Is this pain in here / I can’t stay in here / Ain’t it clear that ? I just can’t fit ? Yes, I believe it’s time for us to quit”? And if he does not exactly clear things up with surrealisms like “Tonight as I stand inside the rain” or “With her fog, her amphetamines and her pearls” while at the same time shifting the point of view of this state-of-the-sexual-disunion address from the third person to the second person and back again, Dylan does succeed in portraying a defensive but maturing guy genuinely sorry, but not soley guilty, for the way things have turned out. Ultimately, Dylan’s poem on the failure of human relationships can be seen as criticising sexist men as much as much as the woman, or women, who let them down. Would a man who supposedly disrespects women so mich ever inspect the shades of a romantic relationship with the nuanced scrutiny our singer applies to his subject here?

“I think I was on the road, I think I wrote it in Kansas City or something, on Thanksgiving, yeah I’m pretty sure I did. I was invited over to somebody’s house for Thanssgiving dinner but I didn’t go, didn’t feel like doing anything, I wasn’t hungry. I stayed in my hotel room and wrote this.”

Though Dylan has not performed Just Like A Woman as frequently as some of the other classics in his catalogue, the song has barely missed a tour. A certain highlight of his acoustic sets of 1966 and 1974, Just Like A Woman has remained a constant confessional in both semi-acoustic and electric arrangements through just about all of Dylan’s incarnations. As Never Ending Tour fodder, Just Like A Woman became a minor-key honky-tonk tune with the words slurred into nearly incomprehensible gusts, “But she breaks, uh, jusslikealilgirllll.”

Edie Sedgwick (born 30 April 1943, Santa Barbara, California; died 15 November 1971, Santa Barbara) was allegedly the subject of Just Like A Woman. The lyrics concerning the fog, amphetamines, and pearls are seen as directly linked to her. Raised in a wealthy California family with roots in New England’s early history, Sedgwick attached herself to Andy Warhol’s Factory, the artists’ creative sanctuary described by Warhol’s biographer Victor Bockris as “a perpetual happening – a cultural centre, part atelier, part film studio, part experimental theatre, part literary workshop, and Salvation Army for all artists and would-be artists who could not find shelter elsewhere.” At The Factory, Sedgwick became one of Warhol’s first post-modern “it” girls – his urban vamp of the moment.

In Edie: An American Biography, an excellent 1982 oral history of the underground celebrity, author-editor Jean Stein indicates that Edie was having some sort of intimate relationship with Dylan even as he was marrying Sara Lownds. Stein also suggests that much of Blonde On Blonde was written for her. Perhaps she is right – songs like Leopard-Skin, Pill-Box Hat, Just Like A Woman, One Of Us Must Know (Sooner Or Later), and Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine) all dwell on breakup rather than union. After the breakup, Sedgwick had a major affair with Dylan’s crony, Bob Neuwirth, also described in Stein’s book.

And, of course, there is the special Patti Smith poem Village ’65 Revisited about Sedgwick from the Village Voice of 27 July 1982, “I don’t know how she did it. Fire. She was shaking all over. It took her hours to put her makeup on. But she did it. Even the false eyelashes. She ordered gin with triple limes. Then a limousine. Everyone knew she was the real heroine of Blonde On Blonde.”

Roger Ford

Of the two mono mixes, the US version has the brushwork on the drums more clearly audible than the UK / Canadian mix, but otherwise they are very similar. As for the stereo versions, none of them seem to have the organ quite as prominent as on the mono releases, but otherwise things go pretty much according to pattern. As on many other tracks, the 1987 remix for CD introduced a slight reverb on the vocal; this is taken away again by the MasterSound mix, which presents the vocal close-up and completely flat. The SACD mix is warmer and seems more alive, more akin in fact to the mono mix, but it still does not quite restore the organ to its former level.

This song was one of those most badly cut on the first, abridged release of the original CD. While this is one of the album's few songs that come to a firm musical conclusion, here it was actually faded out during the final harmonica verse, 12 seconds short of the end.

The 5.1 mix deserves a special note for the astounding realism of the Spanish guitar which plays its arpeggios at the end of each chorus – it is right there in the room with you.

Andrew Wilson, The Independent

To some, she was a just a society heiress who did a lot of drugs. But to Andy Warhol and Bob Dylan, Edie Sedgwick was a muse - a wild blonde superstar who defined the look and excesses of the 1960s. As Sienna Miller prepares to portray her in a forthcoming film, Andrew Wilson tells the story of a short yet extraordinary life.

The peculiar-looking man with a shock of platinum blond hair stood on the margins of the room, transfixed by the spectacle in front of him. The etiolated young woman, dancing in an idiosyncratic fashion, freely mixing classical ballet poses with rock 'n' roll, basked in the attention as she continued to move in a way that observers described as almost Egyptian.

When the couple - pop artist Andy Warhol and 21-year-old socialite Edie Sedgwick - started talking later that night, at the apartment of a New York advertising executive, they began one of the most iconic, and controversial, creative partnerships of the post-war era. During the mid-Sixties Sedgwick, as one of the Factory "superstars", featured in 12 short films directed by Warhol; experimental works such as Vinyl, Space, Restaurant, Kitchen, Chelsea Girls and Outer and Inner Space. And through her appearance in fashion magazines and newspapers, with her crop of dyed blonde hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, gamine figure and her fondness for black tights, she spawned a whole new look.

That style continues to influence designers today (Galliano named her as his muse for his 2005 Dior collection). And the current buzz in the publishing and movie world suggests that she may have a deeper cultural relevance too. Not only is a biography of the model and actress, who died in 1971 age 28, about to be re-issued, but a new film, Factory Girl, starring Sienna Miller as Edie, Guy Pearce as Warhol and Hayden Christensen as a character loosely based on Bob Dylan, is set for release at the end of the year. What is it about this fragile and tragic figure that continues to inspire such interest?

Edith Sedgwick was born in April 1943 in Santa Barbara, California, and grew up surrounded by the spoils of wealth and privilege; her ancestors were the nearest thing to American aristocracy. Yet her father, Francis, known as "Duke" or "Fuzzy", had experienced problems with mental illness as a child and, after a breakdown brought on by manic depression, he was advised by a psychiatrist never to have any children; Francis and his wife Alice went on to have eight.

Edie, the couple's seventh child, was named after her father's favourite aunt, Edith Minturn Stokes, a society beauty painted by John Singer Sargent. Her sense of drama was probably inherited from her grandfather, Henry Dwight "Babbo" Sedgwick, who - when informed by his sweetheart that she would not marry him - tried to shoot himself. Fortunately, he had the wrong ammunition and the marriage duly went ahead. According to his grandson Harry Sedgwick, although Babbo wrote 30 books, mostly biographies and history, "his real career was his life... He closed one of his letters to me, 'Squeeze the flask of life to the dregs'."

From an early age, Babbo's granddaughter Edie devoted herself to nothing else. As a baby, her nursemaid recognised that she had a will of her own and, according to her elder sister Saucie, the child "grew up with a total lack of boundaries, a total lack of a sense of scale about her". At the family's ranch in California, where oil was discovered in the early-1950s, making the Sedgwicks even richer, Edie could gaze across to the horizon and know that all the land she saw belonged to her parents. "Imagine a situation like that where nobody entered who wasn't invited or hired," said Saucie.

The children viewed their parents, especially their father, like Greek gods, physically perfect, distant figures. "The tragedy was that, along with their happiness and their incredible appetite for life, the forces of darkness were always there, although you would never have known it: the surface looked so good," Saucie told Edie's biographer Jean Stein. "So it was a life of extremes - paradise and paradise lost."

According to Edie, her father tried to sleep with her when she was seven years old, and one of her brothers attempted to seduce her. "Nobody told me that incest was a bad thing or anything, but I just didn't feel turned on by incest," she said later. One day, Edie came across her father having sex with another woman. The girl became hysterical and, although she tried to tell her mother about her father's infidelity, nobody believed her. Francis accused her of inventing the whole episode and called a doctor, who prescribed tranquillisers for her. The incident had a profound effect on her, as it gave her a taste for drugs and forced her to question her own reality.

At school she developed anorexia and bulimia, and her mental state was further disturbed when she learnt that her elder brother Minty, an alcoholic by the time he was 15, had been committed to Silver Hill, a psychiatric institution in Connecticut, after bouts of erratic behaviour. In the autumn of 1962, after her father threatened to leave the family if she wasn't institutionalised, Edie too was placed in Silver Hill. For a time, the treatment seemed to help her, but then, towards the end of her stay, she became pregnant and decided to abort the baby.

"I could get an abortion without any hassle at all, just on the grounds of a psychiatric case," she told David Weisman, director of Edie's last film Ciao Manhattan. "So it wasn't too good a first experience with lovemaking. I mean, it kind of screwed up my head, for one thing." By autumn 1963 she had enrolled at Cambridge, Massachusetts, to study art. Almost ghostlike in her paleness, the waif-like figure started to gather around her a coterie of friends, particularly gay men. She frequented the Ritz in Boston, where she would entertain her little audience of new friends by singing Richard Rodgers' Loads Of Love. "I want some money, and then some money, and loads of lovely love," went the lyrics. Although her wealth was bountiful - she came into her inheritance on her 21st birthday – the latter was in short supply.

In order to compensate for this she sought out an audience wherever she went. She adored the fact that people noticed her when she walked into a room. "She was voracious for people," said Chuck Wein, a friend from Harvard who took on the role of Edie's promoter. "It got everybody off their boring number. Here was this glamorous freak. People were willing to let Edie be the star." She dropped out of Cambridge and moved to New York in the summer of 1964, hoping to get some work as a model. She moved into her grandmother's East Side apartment and drove her stylish grey Mercedes around town - sometimes dropping acid as she did so - until she crashed it. From then on, she travelled around Manhattan by limousine. It seemed as though she was determined to make something of herself, to construct an identity that was almost fictional in its extremity.

The deaths of her two brothers - first Minty, who was most likely homosexual and who committed suicide in March 1964, and then Bobby, in a motorbike accident January 1965 - had unbalanced her; yet the loss also made her more determined to live her life at an even more intense pace, as if she knew that she would not have much time left herself.

Warhol cohort Chuck Wein had already told Andy that he should meet Edie. Wein suggested to the artist that his existing "superstar" Baby Jane Holzer, who was featured in his 1964 films Couch and Batman Dracula, was "running out of speed" and that he should replace her with Edie. When the pair finally met, in January 1965, the attraction was instant and Edie started to spend more time at Warhol's Factory, that hothouse of creative anarchy with its foil covered walls, on East 47th Street. Soon Edie started to dress like Andy. She cut her hair into a boyish crop and dyed it blonde. Andy, meanwhile, projected fantasies of his own on to her.

"I think Edie was something Andy would like to have been; he was transposing himself into her à la Pygmalion," claimed Truman Capote. "Andy Warhol would like to have been Edie Sedgwick. He would like to have been a charming, well-born debutante from Boston. He would like to have been anybody except Andy Warhol."

The collaboration made Edie famous. She featured in a Vogue magazine shoot, in which she was dubbed a "youthquaker" and, in October 1965, she was nearly mobbed by college students shouting, "Edie and Andy!" at Warhol's exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Philadelphia. The space in front of a camera seemed like her natural home; friends told Edie that she could be a famous star like Garbo or Monroe and, while she believed it to be possible, she refused to go to Hollywood. Drugs were just as big an addiction as fame and she soon became hooked on speed, cocaine and heroin. "That was the first time I had a shot in each arm. A shot of cocaine and speed, and a shot of heroin. Stripped off all my clothes, leapt downstairs, and ran out on Park Avenue and two blocks down it before my friends caught me. Naked. Naked as a lima bean."

Throughout this, Edie retained her extraordinary looks; Vogue editor Diana Vreeland said she had lovely skin, but then she said every drug addict she had ever seen had wonderful skin. Edie's presence was magnetic, remembers John Cale, co-founder of The Velvet Underground who had a six-week affair with her. "Although desperate and on her last legs with Andy, she still possessed all the elemental magic, frayed beauty and presence of Marilyn Monroe."

In 1966, after meeting and becoming infatuated with Bob Dylan, Edie told Warhol that she had signed a contract with the singer's manager. Warhol was angry that she had left his artistic stable and, perhaps to get his revenge, told her the truth that Dylan - who, it is rumoured, wrote the songs Just Like A Woman and Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat about her - was married. In October 1966, she took one line too many, fell unconscious and woke up to find her apartment on fire. After coming out of hospital, Edie told a friend "I have an accident about every two years, and one day it won't be an accident."

She moved into the Chelsea Hotel and embarked on a relationship with Dylan's friend, the musician, Bob Neuwirth. "I was like a sex slave to this man," said Edie in the tapes made during the filming of Ciao Manhattan. "I could make love for 48 hours without getting tired. But the moment he left me alone, I felt so empty and lost that I would start popping pills."

After that relationship ended she went downhill. Her drug use continued to spiral and she spent more and more time in psychiatric institutions. By the time she next saw her brother Jonathan, in 1968, she was so wasted she could not walk, and was so out of control that she suggested they have sex together. She was arrested for drug possession in 1969 and sent to Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara, the place where she had been born. There she met fellow patient Michael Post with whom she fell in love. "I've really been to the depths, but now I want to start a new life," she said. However, her addiction to fame - and to drugs - proved all-consuming.

Edie continued to shoot Ciao Manhattan, David Weisman's experimental film about her life that he had started in 1967. Rather awkwardly she had had a breast augmentation in the intervening years. In the movie, this is explained in the following exchange. One character turns to Edie and says, "Goddam, your tits sure did get bigger since then," to which the actress replies, "Yeah, I eat better now and I do my exercises." During the filming, Edie had problems with her lines and her mental state degenerated to such an extent that she had to have electric shock therapy, a process she had earlier enacted for Ciao Manhattan. After five months in an institution, she emerged to get married to Michael Post in July 1971.

On the night of 15 November 1971, Edie went to a fashion show at the Santa Barbara Museum where, attracted by the cameras, she was filmed as part of a television programme called An American Family. Afterwards, at a party, she was verbally attacked by a female guest, who accused her of being a heroin addict. Later that night, Michael gave his wife her medication but, the following morning, he woke to find her cold and stiff beside him. An autopsy revealed that she had died from a barbiturate overdose and the coroner recorded a verdict of accidental death/suicide.

According to Factory Girl director George Hickenlooper - whose previous credits include Hearts of Darkness, a documentary about the making of Apocalypse Now - Edie was a universally tragic figure. He sees her as symptomatic of a particularly American phenomenon: "I think Americans suffer from something that's called acute abandonment anxiety, which means they're looking for love outside the family," he says. "[It is] that whole phenomenon of celebrity and fame where people look to be loved by the public because they can't find love at home. And Edie sort of epitomises that."

To some Sedgwick's achievements may appear to be trifling - a couple of fashion spreads in US Vogue, a clutch of roles in Warhol's underground movies and an astounding talent for partying, drug-taking and marathon sex sessions. Sienna Miller herself has described Sedgwick as "an anorexic, speed-freak nut-bag". Meanwhile, actress Chloë Sevigny says: "People always make reference to her when they write about me. And I find it a little offensive, because she was just a rich society girl who did a lot of drugs and didn't accomplish much."

Yet to dismiss her in this way is to overlook the very modern notion that she constructed her life as if it were a piece of performance art, a fact that was acknowledged by serious artists at the time. Roy Lichtenstein regarded Warhol and the Factory set as a work of living art, while Robert Rauschenberg, who met Edie at an opening, said that he always felt intimidated by her, "because she was like art. I mean, she was an object that had been very strongly, effectively created".

Edie was buried in Oak Hill Cemetery, Ballard, a place described by her sister Saucie as a backwater - "no one would go there except to see the veterinarian," she said. Her gravestone, a simple slab of polished red granite, is very different from the imposing structures that mark her family's plot in the Sedgwick burial place in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. An oft-told story, repeated at family gatherings, was how on a summer's evening it was possible to hear the crickets in the graveyard singing "Sedg-wick, Sedg-wick". However, in our celebrity obsessed culture, it is more likely that they are calling out for Edie, than for any of her more respectable, upstanding forebears.

Michael Gray

Edith Minturn Sedgwick was born in Santa Barbara, California, on April 20, 1943, into an etiolated, mentally unstable Old Boston Family. She grew up on the family ranch in California, attended private school and had already suffered two breakdowns by the time she met BOB NEUWIRTH, Bob Dylan’s mid- 1960s sidekick, in December 1964. Neuwirth told her biographer:

‘Bobby Dylan and I occasionally ventured out into the poppy nightlife world. I think somebody who had met Edie said, ‘‘You have to meet this terrific girl.’’ Dylan called her, and she chartered a limousine and came to see us. We spent an hour or two, all laughing and giggling, having a terrific time. I think we met upstairs at the Kettle of Fish on MacDougal Street, which was one of the great places of the Sixties. It was just before the Christmas holidays; it was snowing, and I remember we went to look at the display on Houston Street in front of the Catholic church.

. . . Edie was fantastic. She was always fantastic.’ They met, that is to say, a month before Edie Sedgwick met Andy Warhol, and three months before she starred in her first Factory film, Vinyl, shot in March 1965. That year she also appeared in Space, Restaurant, Poor Little Rich Girl (which is what Warhol always called her, while spending her money), Kitchen, Horse and Beauty 2. In 1966 she was to have been the star of Chelsea Girls, but Warhol supposedly edited her out after she quit the Factory.

The Warhol people—Andy, Paul Morrissey and Gerard Malanga—all felt that she quit because she’d been misled by Neuwirth into believing both that Warhol was exploiting her and that ‘Dylan’s people’ were going to make her a real star. Perhaps in this case, without his knowledge, this meant DA Pennebaker, since he was involved in Dylan’s mid-1960s films, and Neuwirth had been an assistant on the first of them, Don’t Look Back. Pennebaker shot ‘a lot’ of footage of Edie Sedgwick, he said later, simply because she often came round to his studio.

The non-Warhol people tended to feel that Sedgwick quit the Factory because she was provoked, in a row with Warhol in a restaurant in February 1966, when she had announced that she was going to star in a film with Dylan, and Warhol, out of spite, had asked her if she knew that Dylan was married. She left the room, made a phone call (to Dylan, Paul Morrissey assumed) and then left, never to return.

Either way, there’s no evidence—and no real grounds to suppose—that Dylan and Edie had any personal relationship at all, let alone a significant one. She comes into the Dylan equation only because people used to believe that she is the girl whispering in Dylan’s ear in a photograph on the foldout sleeve of the original Blonde on Blonde double-LP, and because of a persistent hunch by many people that, with however light a prompt, she was the ‘blonde on blonde’. Patti Smith said so, in her poem ‘Edie Sedgwick (1943–1971)’: ‘Everyone / knew she was the real heroine of / Blonde on Blonde. . . . / she was white on white / so blonde on blonde’. Smith’s poem goes on to hint, and again this was widely whispered, that Edie Sedgwick was a subject of the album’s song ‘Just Like a Woman’: ‘she broke down / like a little girl / like a baby girl / like a lady.’ It’s also been claimed that she was the woman who wore the ‘Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat’, that she’s the ‘de´butante’ in ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again’. This may all or mostly be untrue; but even if it is all true, it doesn’t signify Sedgwick was a significant person in Dylan’s life—only that she was an interesting spectacle or personality, visually memorable and made more so by the air of tragedy she carried around with her: the fog, perhaps, in ‘her fog, her amphetamines and her pearls’.

It’s also been suggested that she and Warhol were both the subject of an earlier Dylan song, ‘Like a Rolling Stone’—she the addressee who ‘went to the finest school’, he the ‘Napoleon in rags’. Well, to go there is only possible ‘if you’re looking to get silly’. But there’s no doubting that the ghost of Edie Sedgwick hangs around Blonde on Blonde.

Edie’s last film was Ciao! Manhattan, which was filmed partly in 1967 in black and white, and partly in colour very soon before her death. Alternating between the two sets of footage, it alternates between ‘now’ and ‘then’, between ‘fact’ and fiction, between Edie looking the gorgeous young model and Edie the near-comatose self-abasement queen. She died of ‘acute barbituate intoxication’ in bed on the West Coast in the early hours of November 16, 1971. She was 28.

The film Factory Girl, in production in 2005, was going to include the supposed Sedgwick-Dylan ‘affair’, but he threatened legal action unless this theme was dropped. The film is going ahead, starring Sienna Miller as Edie and Guy Pearce as Warhol, but with no ‘Bob Dylan’. According to The Times (October 28, 2005): ‘To fill the void, producers have cast Hayden Christensen and given him messy hair, and sunglasses. ‘‘They aren’t allowed to call him Bob Dylan,’’ says Meredith Ostrom, who plays Velvet Underground collaborator Nico. ‘‘But he is absolutely the young Dylan. It’s obvious.’’’

XXX


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PostPosted: Wed December 5th, 2012, 03:54 GMT 
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Listen at this version from 2006

http://caribbeanwind.tumblr.com/post/37 ... -cork-2006


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PostPosted: Wed December 5th, 2012, 03:59 GMT 
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nellie wrote:
JUST LIKE A WOMAN

Dylan / Cameron Crowe

“I think I was on the road, I think I wrote it in Kansas City or something, on Thanksgiving, yeah I’m pretty sure I did. I was invited over to somebody’s house for Thanssgiving dinner but I didn’t go, didn’t feel like doing anything, I wasn’t hungry. I stayed in my hotel room and wrote this.”

Robert Shelton

Despite this work’s enduring melodic appeal, its view of women is controversial. Marion Meade wrote in The New York Times on 14 March 1971 that “there’s no more complete catalogue of sexist slurs” than this song where Dylan “defines women’s natural traits as greed, hypocrisy, whining and hysteria”. The title is a male platitude that justifiably angers women. I think Dylan is ironically toying with that platitude.

Bill King has called this Dylan’s “finest poem on the failure of human relationships because of illusion created by social myth”. Dylan may be implicitly criticising sexist men as much as the woman, or women, who fail them. Roberta Flack has recorded a vastly different version, in which she converts the song into a compassionate lament for women’s victimisation and depth of feeling. She achieves this through an interpretative shift, but also changes the lyrics’ viewpoint. Perhaps she was trying to write an “answer song” based on the original. Reexamine Just Like A Woman in the light of the imagery of Blood On The Tracks, where rain, pain and thirst are also recurring allusions, but in a context of remorseful self-criticism. Were his later, gentler perforances of Just Like A Woman an attempt to say it had been misinterpreted? One memorable line softens the harsh edges, “I was hungry and it was your world”. For those who find sexist slurs, I recommend Flack’s recording, as either reinterpretation or rejoinder. The song is on the soundtrack of the film Coming Home.

Andy Gill

The euphonious lilt of Just Like A Woman, with Dylan's sly croon borne as if in a sedan chair upon the delicate triplets of acoustic guitar and piano, disguises one of his more controversial songs. In the ground swell of feminist liberation which followed the counter-cultural changes of the late-1960s, Dylan was roundly condemned by some feminist commentators for the song's unflattering portrait of its subject, and the implication in the chorus that grasping, whinging and weakness were "natural" female traits, along with a specific womanly manner of making love. This, however, seems a determinedly literal way of reading a song whose melody – the most overtly "feminine" of the album – and title – a sardonic appropriation of a classic misogynist exclamation – suggest a more ironic intention. It also ignores the fact that the song's delimitations are not between man and woman, but between woman and girl: it's a matter of maturity, rather than gender.

The song was widely believed - not least by her acquaintances among Andy Warhol's Factory retinue - to be about the Factory pin-up girl Edie Sedgwick, a 1960s "ace face" and New York scene-maker with whom Dylan had a brief association in 1965. (Indeed, Robert Margoulef's biopic of Edie, Ciao Manhattan, includes Just Like A Woman on its soundtrack.) A former Boston debutante and model, Sedgwick dedicated herself to meeting beautiful, talented people, with the hope that she herself might develop artistic talent of some sort, or, failing that, serve as an artist's muse. Accordingly, she became one of Warhol's iconic superstars, before transferring her attentions to Dylan, to whom she was introduced at the Kettle Of Fish bar on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village.

Her interest may not have been purely amicable; it was rumored that Albert Grossman was interested in developing her career – though eventually even he was forced to admit defeat as to the means by which to achieve this, when it transpired that Edie was a hopeless singer. A rumored Dylan / Edie movie, meanwhile, never got beyond the talking stage. Warhol himself was apparently annoyed at her defection, as well as paranoid about Dylan's opinion of him: for some time, he apparently believed himself to be the chrome horse-riding diplomat in Like A Rolling Stone (and Edie, therefore, its subject), despite the fact that the song had been written well before Dylan had met either Edie or Andy.

Edie's growing infatuation with Dylan was eventually broken early in 1966 when Warhol, who had learned that Dylan had been secretly married a month or two earlier, took great relish in breaking the news to her. She drifted away from both camps, but not before making an impression on Blonde On Blonde – she was included among the photographs in the original inner sleeve (removed from the CD booklet), and some (including Patti Smith, who wrote a poem about her) believe her to be the inspiration for the album title. It would certainly explain the song's most often queried line, about "her fog, her amphetamine, and her pearls," which in the mid-1960s New York drug culture would have been recognized as references to marijuana, speed and pep-pills.

She eventually died of a barbiturate overdose in 1971, while Just Like A Woman became one of Dylan's most popular songs. Ironically, at a time when his publishers were kept increasingly busy collecting his royalties from the flood of cover-versions of his material – in September 1965, there were no fewer than eight of his songs in the United States Top-40, half of them covers – Just Like A Woman was the only track from Blonde On Blonde to attract significant attention from other artists. It also became the song Dylan performed most often over the subsequent two decades. It is not known for sure, however, exactly when during this period the song's second line was changed from the recorded "Tonight is lost inside the rain" to the less evocative "Tonight as I stand inside the rain," as in the collected Lyrics 1962-1985. In the Biograph annotations, Dylan half-remembers writing the song on the road, in a hotel in Kansas City "or something" the previous Thanksgiving, having declined an offer of dinner at someone's house.

Nigel Williamson

Just Like A Woman has dramatically divided Dylan’s critics over the years. Alan Rinzler in Bob Dylan: The Illustrated Record condemned it as “a devastating character assassination – the most sardonic, nastiest of all Dylan’s put-downs of former lovers”. Another critic dismissed it as a “complete catalogue of sexist slurs”. Yet others, led by the song’s gorgeous melody, regard Just Like A Woman as an affectionate portrait. Paul Williams, for example, has written of the “love” in Dylan’s delivery, which he believes overrides “any confusion aroused by the playful needling in the lyrics”.

The song has long been believed to be about the mentally unstable Edie Sedgwick, and was later included on the soundtrack of Robert Margouleff’s biopic of Edie, Ciao Manhatten. A New York scenemaker, model and acolyte of Andy Warhol (in whose films she appeared), Sedgwick met Dylan at the Kettle Of Fish in Greenwich Village in December 1964 and swiftly became infatuated with him. There was talk of her making a record, a plan which floundered on the simple fact that she could not sing. There was also a suggestion that she and Dylan should co-star in a film, another project that came to nothing. Their relationship came to an end in January 1966 when Warhol told her that Dylan had secretly married Sara Lowndes.

However, Dylan makes clear the sexual attraction he felt towards Sedgwick in lines such as “I was dying here of thirst”. And Sedgwick’s presence can also be detected in another song on Blonde On Blonde. Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat. There have even been suggestions that she was the peroxide-blonde inspiration for the album title.

Clinton Heylin

Published lyrics: Writings and Drawings; Lyrics 1985; Lyrics 2004.
Known studio recordings: Studio A, Nashville, 8 March 1966 [BOB].
First known performance: Vancouver, 26 March 1966.

Just Like a Woman is another song found among the Blonde On Blonde papers, though this time it, is some way away from the finished song, with no evidence of a chorus to be seen for love nor money. What Dylan does have is most of the first verse (minus “from her curls”); a single couplet from the second (“nobody has to guess / baby can't be blessed”); another from the final verse (“when we meet again, introduced as friends / don't let on you knew me when”); and just a single line of the bridge: “I'm dying here of thirst”. All of these lines he tapped out on a single sheet, the last of which is typed the other way up, apparently part of a separate set of lyrics – for yet another menage a trois in song – to which the lines, “how come you both lied to me,” and, “he never said he'd live forever / he'd just make a fuss over all of us / but it's just you and me,” also apparently belonged.

Rather than going further with this line of thought, Dylan takes the “dying here of thirst” line, turns the page over, takes up a pen, and begins to write out what he clearly marks as “(bridge)”: “it was raining from the first / And I'm dying here of thirst / what's worse is this pain in here / I won't stay in here,” to which he attaches an unrelated couplet, “she's my friend / see her again”, But there is still no sign of that memorable chorus, “She takes / aches / breaks just like a woman / little girl.”

In all likelihood, Just Like A Woman was one song Dylan continued writing in his Nashville hotel room (from whence said papers probably came) as Al Kooper sat at the piano playing the melody over and over again. If the draft does come from Nashville, then the song's chorus was another last-minute formulation. Wilentz's recent lecture on the Blonde On Blonde sessions seemingly confirms this. He describes an early take in which Dylan is singing what can only be described as dummy lyrics. As he states, “On several early takes, Dylan sang disconnected lines and semi gibberish. He was unsure about what the person described in the song does that is just like a woman, rejecting “shakes,” “wakes,” and “makes mistakes”.”'

As with his “first” electric session 15 months earlier, Dylan refused to get bogged down by just one song, and around two in the afternoon, he took a break from Just Like A Woman – after trying “a weird, double time fourth take, somewhere between Bo Diddley and Jamaican ska.” Only after recording Pledging My Time does he return to Just Like A Woman, around 9pm. But the song still needed work, being 15 takes away from the finished version.

Dylan has never felt inclined to elucidate what exactly it is “Baby” can learn from “Queen Mary.” The reference to Baby's penchant for “fog – amphetamine and – pearls” (which he originally sang as, “I gave you those pearls”) again suggests Sedgwick, or some similar debutante. Queen Mary herself certainly could be a confidant of the androgynous Queen Jane. And the one time Dylan prefaced the song in concert with a short rap, at the Warfield in San Francisco in November 1980, he implied the song's subject was another “woman'” with jet-pilot eyes:

“The other night I was standing out backstage, and this guy came up to me and said, “Do you remember that woman that came up to you about an hour ago with long red hair?” And I said, “Yes, I remember that woman.” He said, “She sure was pretty, wasn't she?” “Yes, she was alright.” He said, “That was me.” Nobody feels any pain.”

The theory that the “woman” in Just Like A Woman is actually a man has been around since the early-1970s, appearing in the cranl theories section of Michael Gray's (very first) Song And Dance Man. And one should never discount the possibility Dylan was having a little fun at fans' expense in his 1980 rap. But the song was completed within day of' Temporary Like Achilles, which explicitly refers to one character a “hungry like a man in drag.”

Something risque is clearly going on in the song, but Dylan is not saying what. Even 38 years later, he firmly told Robert Hil burn, “Even if I could tell you what it was about I wouldn't. It's up to the listener to figure out what it means to him. This is a very broad song. It's like a lot of blues-based songs. Somebody may be talking about a woman, but they're not really talking about a woman at all. It's a city song. I don't think in lateral terms as a writer. I always try to turn a song on its head. Otherwise I figure I'm wasting the listener's time.”

One thing is apparent: Dylan felt a personal connection to this song from the first. As late as 1995 he was singing it with all the passion and persistence of a still-hungry man. And though it is one of his most covered songs, he told old friend Mary Travers on a 1975 radio show Personally, I don't understand why anybody would want to do it – except me. And yet barely had he written the thing when he turned up at the Whisky a Go Go in Hollywood, hoping to convince Otis Redding he should record it. Sadly he never did, though the little organ intro Redding uses on his version of White Christmas sounds awfully familiar.

Just Like A Woman is also one of just two Dylan songs Van Morrison has consistently performed live. Intriguingly, every time the x elects to sing it (and he was still singing it in 2000), he sings, “There's a queer in here,” instead of, “I can't stay in here.” Does he know some scuttlebutt about the song's composition that he can't resist alluding to. He did, after all, spend a lot of time hanging with the guys from The Band in Woodstock, circa 1969 and 1970.

Any whisper Morrison heard would surely have come from Robbie Robertson, who accompanied Dylan to Nashville and was there when he played the song to Robert Shelton in a Denver hotel room four days after recording it. None of the other Hawks were at the Nashville sessions, nor were they party to any of the 1966 live performances, which were solo acoustic (and intensely introspective). A recent addition to YouTube has been a complete performance of the song from Dublin (the one on the famous While The Establishment Burns bootleg). Anyone who doubts that this is a Song of Experience should just watch this particular harmonica break, which really does sound like a little girl sob-sob-sobbing.

Mike Marqusee

Without doubt, misogyny and sexism are rampant in Dylan's music. In the songs of the mid-1960s, he does see women as an alien species, fascinating, necessary, but not to be trusted. The locus classicus of that prejudice has always been seen as Just Like A Woman. However, any song that begins with the magically drowsy "nobody feels any pain" and climaxes with the howl "what's worse / Is this pain in here" must be more than the sum of its tired patriarchal put-downs. The discovery of the vulnerability of the woman / girl he desires but cannot fully possess touches and angers the singer; he revels in her weakness, seizes on it for the leverage it may give him, but finds that even then she remains elu¬sive. The steady, circular rhythm over which the singer murmurs (the melody is subtly extended and the lyric delicately teased out) gives way to a dramatic bridge of rising frustration, and the singer's emotional collapse, segueing back to the verse with the bathetic "I just can't fit:" It's a plea of utter helplessness. The vulnerability of the woman is in the end the vulnerability of the (male) singer. There is a little boy lost inside that little girl.

Dylan's appearance in these years has often been described as an¬drogynous. (It is one reason why this image remains attractive when so much 1960s machismo has palled.) Apart from Ballad Of A Thin Man, and a handful of references to queens, drag shows, and the like ("The beauty parlor is filled with sailors," "The waitress he was handsome / He wore a powder blue cape," the fifteen jugglers are "all dressed as men"), there is a broader element of sexual ambiguity, of uncertainty about personal identity, in these songs. There is also a camp theatricality in much of Dylan's delivery and self-dramatization, not least in Just Like A Woman.

This song spawned more cover versions than any other track on Blonde on Blonde, including several by women – Judy Collins, Nina Simone, Roberta Flack, Stevie Nicks. My favorite is an obscure one: a jazzy, cabaret-haunted remake by Barbara Gosza, an American per¬former working in Europe. With the aid of a few strategically placed amendments to the lyrics, notably the substitution of “I” for “she” in the final chorus – Gosza remakes the male dirge as a torch-song celebra¬tion of lesbian love. But she could not have done that so successfully if there wasn't, in the original itself, a powerful element of erotic ambiva¬lence.

Mojo 2005 Readers Poll #23

Jimmy Webb – Mojo 100 Greatest Dylan Songs #10

This was when I understood how deep Dylan’s well really was. It was not a folk song, it was not protest, it was just a great love song, which of course had an immediate impact on me. I had just dropped out of college to commit to what I hoped would be the life of a songwriter. I was very much in love with a girl who was inspiring a lot of the music I was writing, and this song seemed to cut right to the heart of what I was feeling emotionally at the time. All these years later, I still marvel at what an absolutely stunning piece of writing it is.

What a fortuitous nexus of rhyme and purpose is the chorus, “She takes just like a woman / She makes love just like a woman / Then she aches just like a woman / But she breaks just like a little girl”. As songwriters, we live for the moment when words fall together like that, as if they have been waiting for just that arrangement. The way everything leads toward that last line is masterful. That would be enough for most writers, but the third verse reveals Dylan’s strategy to be much larger. When he says, “Please don’t let on that you knew me when / I was hungry and it was your world”, he steps on-camera and addresses this person directly to deliver one final twist. There is a lifetime of listening in these details and layered subtleties. Any serious student of songwriting will find a complete education in this one composition.

Oliver Trager

Purportedly inspired by socialite / artiste Edie Sedgwick, an archtypical rich girl gone bad, but probably also alluding to Joan Baez and any number of a number of femmes fatales spinning in his orbit, Just Like A Woman is not only one of Dylan’s most popular songs but also one of his most controversial. Yet whether interpreted as a misgynistic rant or a darkly affectionate testament to eternal misunderstanding between the sexes, Just Like A Woman remains most appealing as a lilting confessional of a faded and perhaps clandestine romance.

This is one of Dylan’s most expertly crafted pop songs, and its radio-friendliness not only translated into significant airplay at the time of its release but has kept it in at least light rotation on those classic rock and golden-oldies FM radio bandwiths. Could such a literal, sharp, and singular song crack the Top-40 today as Just Like A Woman did in 1966? The answer to that question would probably speak to both Dylan’s talents and popular culture’s decay over the course of the past four decades. When released as an A-side single, Just Like A Woman hit #33 on the Billboard chart.

At least as early as the beginning of the 1970s, charges of misogyny were hurled Dylan’s way as reported and described in Robert Shelton’s 1986 Dylan biography, No Direction Home. Feminist critic Marion Meade wrote in the New York Times on 14 March 1971, that “there’s no more complete catalogue of sexist slurs” than Just Like A Woman, and goes on to point out that Dylan “defines women’s natural traits as greed, hypocracy, whining and hysteria.” But while the song’s title, a dismissive male platitude, might easily and justifiably anger women, serving as even more grist for Meade’s arguments, Dylan (a master of irony if ever there was one) was most likely merely toying with that platitude. After all, does not the narrator give at least a vague accounting of his actions and sensitivities in the song’s bridge (always a good place to get to the heart of the matter) when he sings, “It was raining from the first / And I was dying there of thirst / So I came in here / And your long-time curse hurts / But what’s worse / Is this pain in here / I can’t stay in here / Ain’t it clear that ? I just can’t fit ? Yes, I believe it’s time for us to quit”? And if he does not exactly clear things up with surrealisms like “Tonight as I stand inside the rain” or “With her fog, her amphetamines and her pearls” while at the same time shifting the point of view of this state-of-the-sexual-disunion address from the third person to the second person and back again, Dylan does succeed in portraying a defensive but maturing guy genuinely sorry, but not soley guilty, for the way things have turned out. Ultimately, Dylan’s poem on the failure of human relationships can be seen as criticising sexist men as much as much as the woman, or women, who let them down. Would a man who supposedly disrespects women so mich ever inspect the shades of a romantic relationship with the nuanced scrutiny our singer applies to his subject here?

“I think I was on the road, I think I wrote it in Kansas City or something, on Thanksgiving, yeah I’m pretty sure I did. I was invited over to somebody’s house for Thanssgiving dinner but I didn’t go, didn’t feel like doing anything, I wasn’t hungry. I stayed in my hotel room and wrote this.”

Though Dylan has not performed Just Like A Woman as frequently as some of the other classics in his catalogue, the song has barely missed a tour. A certain highlight of his acoustic sets of 1966 and 1974, Just Like A Woman has remained a constant confessional in both semi-acoustic and electric arrangements through just about all of Dylan’s incarnations. As Never Ending Tour fodder, Just Like A Woman became a minor-key honky-tonk tune with the words slurred into nearly incomprehensible gusts, “But she breaks, uh, jusslikealilgirllll.”

Edie Sedgwick (born 30 April 1943, Santa Barbara, California; died 15 November 1971, Santa Barbara) was allegedly the subject of Just Like A Woman. The lyrics concerning the fog, amphetamines, and pearls are seen as directly linked to her. Raised in a wealthy California family with roots in New England’s early history, Sedgwick attached herself to Andy Warhol’s Factory, the artists’ creative sanctuary described by Warhol’s biographer Victor Bockris as “a perpetual happening – a cultural centre, part atelier, part film studio, part experimental theatre, part literary workshop, and Salvation Army for all artists and would-be artists who could not find shelter elsewhere.” At The Factory, Sedgwick became one of Warhol’s first post-modern “it” girls – his urban vamp of the moment.

In Edie: An American Biography, an excellent 1982 oral history of the underground celebrity, author-editor Jean Stein indicates that Edie was having some sort of intimate relationship with Dylan even as he was marrying Sara Lownds. Stein also suggests that much of Blonde On Blonde was written for her. Perhaps she is right – songs like Leopard-Skin, Pill-Box Hat, Just Like A Woman, One Of Us Must Know (Sooner Or Later), and Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine) all dwell on breakup rather than union. After the breakup, Sedgwick had a major affair with Dylan’s crony, Bob Neuwirth, also described in Stein’s book.

And, of course, there is the special Patti Smith poem Village ’65 Revisited about Sedgwick from the Village Voice of 27 July 1982, “I don’t know how she did it. Fire. She was shaking all over. It took her hours to put her makeup on. But she did it. Even the false eyelashes. She ordered gin with triple limes. Then a limousine. Everyone knew she was the real heroine of Blonde On Blonde.”

Roger Ford

Of the two mono mixes, the US version has the brushwork on the drums more clearly audible than the UK / Canadian mix, but otherwise they are very similar. As for the stereo versions, none of them seem to have the organ quite as prominent as on the mono releases, but otherwise things go pretty much according to pattern. As on many other tracks, the 1987 remix for CD introduced a slight reverb on the vocal; this is taken away again by the MasterSound mix, which presents the vocal close-up and completely flat. The SACD mix is warmer and seems more alive, more akin in fact to the mono mix, but it still does not quite restore the organ to its former level.

This song was one of those most badly cut on the first, abridged release of the original CD. While this is one of the album's few songs that come to a firm musical conclusion, here it was actually faded out during the final harmonica verse, 12 seconds short of the end.

The 5.1 mix deserves a special note for the astounding realism of the Spanish guitar which plays its arpeggios at the end of each chorus – it is right there in the room with you.

Andrew Wilson, The Independent

To some, she was a just a society heiress who did a lot of drugs. But to Andy Warhol and Bob Dylan, Edie Sedgwick was a muse - a wild blonde superstar who defined the look and excesses of the 1960s. As Sienna Miller prepares to portray her in a forthcoming film, Andrew Wilson tells the story of a short yet extraordinary life.

The peculiar-looking man with a shock of platinum blond hair stood on the margins of the room, transfixed by the spectacle in front of him. The etiolated young woman, dancing in an idiosyncratic fashion, freely mixing classical ballet poses with rock 'n' roll, basked in the attention as she continued to move in a way that observers described as almost Egyptian.

When the couple - pop artist Andy Warhol and 21-year-old socialite Edie Sedgwick - started talking later that night, at the apartment of a New York advertising executive, they began one of the most iconic, and controversial, creative partnerships of the post-war era. During the mid-Sixties Sedgwick, as one of the Factory "superstars", featured in 12 short films directed by Warhol; experimental works such as Vinyl, Space, Restaurant, Kitchen, Chelsea Girls and Outer and Inner Space. And through her appearance in fashion magazines and newspapers, with her crop of dyed blonde hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, gamine figure and her fondness for black tights, she spawned a whole new look.

That style continues to influence designers today (Galliano named her as his muse for his 2005 Dior collection). And the current buzz in the publishing and movie world suggests that she may have a deeper cultural relevance too. Not only is a biography of the model and actress, who died in 1971 age 28, about to be re-issued, but a new film, Factory Girl, starring Sienna Miller as Edie, Guy Pearce as Warhol and Hayden Christensen as a character loosely based on Bob Dylan, is set for release at the end of the year. What is it about this fragile and tragic figure that continues to inspire such interest?

Edith Sedgwick was born in April 1943 in Santa Barbara, California, and grew up surrounded by the spoils of wealth and privilege; her ancestors were the nearest thing to American aristocracy. Yet her father, Francis, known as "Duke" or "Fuzzy", had experienced problems with mental illness as a child and, after a breakdown brought on by manic depression, he was advised by a psychiatrist never to have any children; Francis and his wife Alice went on to have eight.

Edie, the couple's seventh child, was named after her father's favourite aunt, Edith Minturn Stokes, a society beauty painted by John Singer Sargent. Her sense of drama was probably inherited from her grandfather, Henry Dwight "Babbo" Sedgwick, who - when informed by his sweetheart that she would not marry him - tried to shoot himself. Fortunately, he had the wrong ammunition and the marriage duly went ahead. According to his grandson Harry Sedgwick, although Babbo wrote 30 books, mostly biographies and history, "his real career was his life... He closed one of his letters to me, 'Squeeze the flask of life to the dregs'."

From an early age, Babbo's granddaughter Edie devoted herself to nothing else. As a baby, her nursemaid recognised that she had a will of her own and, according to her elder sister Saucie, the child "grew up with a total lack of boundaries, a total lack of a sense of scale about her". At the family's ranch in California, where oil was discovered in the early-1950s, making the Sedgwicks even richer, Edie could gaze across to the horizon and know that all the land she saw belonged to her parents. "Imagine a situation like that where nobody entered who wasn't invited or hired," said Saucie.

The children viewed their parents, especially their father, like Greek gods, physically perfect, distant figures. "The tragedy was that, along with their happiness and their incredible appetite for life, the forces of darkness were always there, although you would never have known it: the surface looked so good," Saucie told Edie's biographer Jean Stein. "So it was a life of extremes - paradise and paradise lost."

According to Edie, her father tried to sleep with her when she was seven years old, and one of her brothers attempted to seduce her. "Nobody told me that incest was a bad thing or anything, but I just didn't feel turned on by incest," she said later. One day, Edie came across her father having sex with another woman. The girl became hysterical and, although she tried to tell her mother about her father's infidelity, nobody believed her. Francis accused her of inventing the whole episode and called a doctor, who prescribed tranquillisers for her. The incident had a profound effect on her, as it gave her a taste for drugs and forced her to question her own reality.

At school she developed anorexia and bulimia, and her mental state was further disturbed when she learnt that her elder brother Minty, an alcoholic by the time he was 15, had been committed to Silver Hill, a psychiatric institution in Connecticut, after bouts of erratic behaviour. In the autumn of 1962, after her father threatened to leave the family if she wasn't institutionalised, Edie too was placed in Silver Hill. For a time, the treatment seemed to help her, but then, towards the end of her stay, she became pregnant and decided to abort the baby.

"I could get an abortion without any hassle at all, just on the grounds of a psychiatric case," she told David Weisman, director of Edie's last film Ciao Manhattan. "So it wasn't too good a first experience with lovemaking. I mean, it kind of screwed up my head, for one thing." By autumn 1963 she had enrolled at Cambridge, Massachusetts, to study art. Almost ghostlike in her paleness, the waif-like figure started to gather around her a coterie of friends, particularly gay men. She frequented the Ritz in Boston, where she would entertain her little audience of new friends by singing Richard Rodgers' Loads Of Love. "I want some money, and then some money, and loads of lovely love," went the lyrics. Although her wealth was bountiful - she came into her inheritance on her 21st birthday – the latter was in short supply.

In order to compensate for this she sought out an audience wherever she went. She adored the fact that people noticed her when she walked into a room. "She was voracious for people," said Chuck Wein, a friend from Harvard who took on the role of Edie's promoter. "It got everybody off their boring number. Here was this glamorous freak. People were willing to let Edie be the star." She dropped out of Cambridge and moved to New York in the summer of 1964, hoping to get some work as a model. She moved into her grandmother's East Side apartment and drove her stylish grey Mercedes around town - sometimes dropping acid as she did so - until she crashed it. From then on, she travelled around Manhattan by limousine. It seemed as though she was determined to make something of herself, to construct an identity that was almost fictional in its extremity.

The deaths of her two brothers - first Minty, who was most likely homosexual and who committed suicide in March 1964, and then Bobby, in a motorbike accident January 1965 - had unbalanced her; yet the loss also made her more determined to live her life at an even more intense pace, as if she knew that she would not have much time left herself.

Warhol cohort Chuck Wein had already told Andy that he should meet Edie. Wein suggested to the artist that his existing "superstar" Baby Jane Holzer, who was featured in his 1964 films Couch and Batman Dracula, was "running out of speed" and that he should replace her with Edie. When the pair finally met, in January 1965, the attraction was instant and Edie started to spend more time at Warhol's Factory, that hothouse of creative anarchy with its foil covered walls, on East 47th Street. Soon Edie started to dress like Andy. She cut her hair into a boyish crop and dyed it blonde. Andy, meanwhile, projected fantasies of his own on to her.

"I think Edie was something Andy would like to have been; he was transposing himself into her à la Pygmalion," claimed Truman Capote. "Andy Warhol would like to have been Edie Sedgwick. He would like to have been a charming, well-born debutante from Boston. He would like to have been anybody except Andy Warhol."

The collaboration made Edie famous. She featured in a Vogue magazine shoot, in which she was dubbed a "youthquaker" and, in October 1965, she was nearly mobbed by college students shouting, "Edie and Andy!" at Warhol's exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Philadelphia. The space in front of a camera seemed like her natural home; friends told Edie that she could be a famous star like Garbo or Monroe and, while she believed it to be possible, she refused to go to Hollywood. Drugs were just as big an addiction as fame and she soon became hooked on speed, cocaine and heroin. "That was the first time I had a shot in each arm. A shot of cocaine and speed, and a shot of heroin. Stripped off all my clothes, leapt downstairs, and ran out on Park Avenue and two blocks down it before my friends caught me. Naked. Naked as a lima bean."

Throughout this, Edie retained her extraordinary looks; Vogue editor Diana Vreeland said she had lovely skin, but then she said every drug addict she had ever seen had wonderful skin. Edie's presence was magnetic, remembers John Cale, co-founder of The Velvet Underground who had a six-week affair with her. "Although desperate and on her last legs with Andy, she still possessed all the elemental magic, frayed beauty and presence of Marilyn Monroe."

In 1966, after meeting and becoming infatuated with Bob Dylan, Edie told Warhol that she had signed a contract with the singer's manager. Warhol was angry that she had left his artistic stable and, perhaps to get his revenge, told her the truth that Dylan - who, it is rumoured, wrote the songs Just Like A Woman and Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat about her - was married. In October 1966, she took one line too many, fell unconscious and woke up to find her apartment on fire. After coming out of hospital, Edie told a friend "I have an accident about every two years, and one day it won't be an accident."

She moved into the Chelsea Hotel and embarked on a relationship with Dylan's friend, the musician, Bob Neuwirth. "I was like a sex slave to this man," said Edie in the tapes made during the filming of Ciao Manhattan. "I could make love for 48 hours without getting tired. But the moment he left me alone, I felt so empty and lost that I would start popping pills."

After that relationship ended she went downhill. Her drug use continued to spiral and she spent more and more time in psychiatric institutions. By the time she next saw her brother Jonathan, in 1968, she was so wasted she could not walk, and was so out of control that she suggested they have sex together. She was arrested for drug possession in 1969 and sent to Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara, the place where she had been born. There she met fellow patient Michael Post with whom she fell in love. "I've really been to the depths, but now I want to start a new life," she said. However, her addiction to fame - and to drugs - proved all-consuming.

Edie continued to shoot Ciao Manhattan, David Weisman's experimental film about her life that he had started in 1967. Rather awkwardly she had had a breast augmentation in the intervening years. In the movie, this is explained in the following exchange. One character turns to Edie and says, "Goddam, your tits sure did get bigger since then," to which the actress replies, "Yeah, I eat better now and I do my exercises." During the filming, Edie had problems with her lines and her mental state degenerated to such an extent that she had to have electric shock therapy, a process she had earlier enacted for Ciao Manhattan. After five months in an institution, she emerged to get married to Michael Post in July 1971.

On the night of 15 November 1971, Edie went to a fashion show at the Santa Barbara Museum where, attracted by the cameras, she was filmed as part of a television programme called An American Family. Afterwards, at a party, she was verbally attacked by a female guest, who accused her of being a heroin addict. Later that night, Michael gave his wife her medication but, the following morning, he woke to find her cold and stiff beside him. An autopsy revealed that she had died from a barbiturate overdose and the coroner recorded a verdict of accidental death/suicide.

According to Factory Girl director George Hickenlooper - whose previous credits include Hearts of Darkness, a documentary about the making of Apocalypse Now - Edie was a universally tragic figure. He sees her as symptomatic of a particularly American phenomenon: "I think Americans suffer from something that's called acute abandonment anxiety, which means they're looking for love outside the family," he says. "[It is] that whole phenomenon of celebrity and fame where people look to be loved by the public because they can't find love at home. And Edie sort of epitomises that."

To some Sedgwick's achievements may appear to be trifling - a couple of fashion spreads in US Vogue, a clutch of roles in Warhol's underground movies and an astounding talent for partying, drug-taking and marathon sex sessions. Sienna Miller herself has described Sedgwick as "an anorexic, speed-freak nut-bag". Meanwhile, actress Chloë Sevigny says: "People always make reference to her when they write about me. And I find it a little offensive, because she was just a rich society girl who did a lot of drugs and didn't accomplish much."

Yet to dismiss her in this way is to overlook the very modern notion that she constructed her life as if it were a piece of performance art, a fact that was acknowledged by serious artists at the time. Roy Lichtenstein regarded Warhol and the Factory set as a work of living art, while Robert Rauschenberg, who met Edie at an opening, said that he always felt intimidated by her, "because she was like art. I mean, she was an object that had been very strongly, effectively created".

Edie was buried in Oak Hill Cemetery, Ballard, a place described by her sister Saucie as a backwater - "no one would go there except to see the veterinarian," she said. Her gravestone, a simple slab of polished red granite, is very different from the imposing structures that mark her family's plot in the Sedgwick burial place in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. An oft-told story, repeated at family gatherings, was how on a summer's evening it was possible to hear the crickets in the graveyard singing "Sedg-wick, Sedg-wick". However, in our celebrity obsessed culture, it is more likely that they are calling out for Edie, than for any of her more respectable, upstanding forebears.

Michael Gray

Edith Minturn Sedgwick was born in Santa Barbara, California, on April 20, 1943, into an etiolated, mentally unstable Old Boston Family. She grew up on the family ranch in California, attended private school and had already suffered two breakdowns by the time she met BOB NEUWIRTH, Bob Dylan’s mid- 1960s sidekick, in December 1964. Neuwirth told her biographer:

‘Bobby Dylan and I occasionally ventured out into the poppy nightlife world. I think somebody who had met Edie said, ‘‘You have to meet this terrific girl.’’ Dylan called her, and she chartered a limousine and came to see us. We spent an hour or two, all laughing and giggling, having a terrific time. I think we met upstairs at the Kettle of Fish on MacDougal Street, which was one of the great places of the Sixties. It was just before the Christmas holidays; it was snowing, and I remember we went to look at the display on Houston Street in front of the Catholic church.

. . . Edie was fantastic. She was always fantastic.’ They met, that is to say, a month before Edie Sedgwick met Andy Warhol, and three months before she starred in her first Factory film, Vinyl, shot in March 1965. That year she also appeared in Space, Restaurant, Poor Little Rich Girl (which is what Warhol always called her, while spending her money), Kitchen, Horse and Beauty 2. In 1966 she was to have been the star of Chelsea Girls, but Warhol supposedly edited her out after she quit the Factory.

The Warhol people—Andy, Paul Morrissey and Gerard Malanga—all felt that she quit because she’d been misled by Neuwirth into believing both that Warhol was exploiting her and that ‘Dylan’s people’ were going to make her a real star. Perhaps in this case, without his knowledge, this meant DA Pennebaker, since he was involved in Dylan’s mid-1960s films, and Neuwirth had been an assistant on the first of them, Don’t Look Back. Pennebaker shot ‘a lot’ of footage of Edie Sedgwick, he said later, simply because she often came round to his studio.

The non-Warhol people tended to feel that Sedgwick quit the Factory because she was provoked, in a row with Warhol in a restaurant in February 1966, when she had announced that she was going to star in a film with Dylan, and Warhol, out of spite, had asked her if she knew that Dylan was married. She left the room, made a phone call (to Dylan, Paul Morrissey assumed) and then left, never to return.

Either way, there’s no evidence—and no real grounds to suppose—that Dylan and Edie had any personal relationship at all, let alone a significant one. She comes into the Dylan equation only because people used to believe that she is the girl whispering in Dylan’s ear in a photograph on the foldout sleeve of the original Blonde on Blonde double-LP, and because of a persistent hunch by many people that, with however light a prompt, she was the ‘blonde on blonde’. Patti Smith said so, in her poem ‘Edie Sedgwick (1943–1971)’: ‘Everyone / knew she was the real heroine of / Blonde on Blonde. . . . / she was white on white / so blonde on blonde’. Smith’s poem goes on to hint, and again this was widely whispered, that Edie Sedgwick was a subject of the album’s song ‘Just Like a Woman’: ‘she broke down / like a little girl / like a baby girl / like a lady.’ It’s also been claimed that she was the woman who wore the ‘Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat’, that she’s the ‘de´butante’ in ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again’. This may all or mostly be untrue; but even if it is all true, it doesn’t signify Sedgwick was a significant person in Dylan’s life—only that she was an interesting spectacle or personality, visually memorable and made more so by the air of tragedy she carried around with her: the fog, perhaps, in ‘her fog, her amphetamines and her pearls’.

It’s also been suggested that she and Warhol were both the subject of an earlier Dylan song, ‘Like a Rolling Stone’—she the addressee who ‘went to the finest school’, he the ‘Napoleon in rags’. Well, to go there is only possible ‘if you’re looking to get silly’. But there’s no doubting that the ghost of Edie Sedgwick hangs around Blonde on Blonde.

Edie’s last film was Ciao! Manhattan, which was filmed partly in 1967 in black and white, and partly in colour very soon before her death. Alternating between the two sets of footage, it alternates between ‘now’ and ‘then’, between ‘fact’ and fiction, between Edie looking the gorgeous young model and Edie the near-comatose self-abasement queen. She died of ‘acute barbituate intoxication’ in bed on the West Coast in the early hours of November 16, 1971. She was 28.

The film Factory Girl, in production in 2005, was going to include the supposed Sedgwick-Dylan ‘affair’, but he threatened legal action unless this theme was dropped. The film is going ahead, starring Sienna Miller as Edie and Guy Pearce as Warhol, but with no ‘Bob Dylan’. According to The Times (October 28, 2005): ‘To fill the void, producers have cast Hayden Christensen and given him messy hair, and sunglasses. ‘‘They aren’t allowed to call him Bob Dylan,’’ says Meredith Ostrom, who plays Velvet Underground collaborator Nico. ‘‘But he is absolutely the young Dylan. It’s obvious.’’’

XXX


Thanks for the post, but after reading all of that I feel like throwing up.


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PostPosted: Thu January 3rd, 2013, 00:25 GMT 
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Ok, in what version does he say during the chorus, "She EVEN makes love, just like a woman" ?


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PostPosted: Thu January 3rd, 2013, 00:28 GMT 
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Jal015 wrote:
Ok, in what version does he say during the chorus, "She EVEN makes love, just like a woman" ?


He does it in the 1975 bootleg, but I feel like he does it somewhere else too..


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PostPosted: Thu January 3rd, 2013, 01:12 GMT 
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Giada wrote:
Just listened to the Live '66 version. It sounds like a howl of pain.

Indeed. And not in a good way.


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PostPosted: Thu January 3rd, 2013, 01:24 GMT 
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The Saw wrote:
Giada wrote:
Just listened to Live '66. It sounds like a howl of pain.

Indeed. And not in a good way.

Agreed


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PostPosted: Thu January 3rd, 2013, 01:25 GMT 
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love how he starts into the song on bootleg 5 ("alright,we'll give a try) and then he nails it perfectly. awesome vocals on that version.


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PostPosted: Thu January 3rd, 2013, 01:31 GMT 
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Untrodden Path wrote:
The Saw wrote:
Indeed. And not in a good way.

Agreed

Then I bet we're also on the same page that the studio version is amazing. :wink:


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PostPosted: Thu January 3rd, 2013, 09:16 GMT 

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Never really understand why people call it "politically incorrect" or sexist? Any thoughts.?


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PostPosted: Sat January 5th, 2013, 18:10 GMT 
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One of my favorite songs of all time. My band played this song at one of our shows. The drummer in my band isn't a huge fan of Bob Dylan, but he's always down for playing this one. I love singing it and playing it just as much as I love listening to it.


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PostPosted: Sun January 6th, 2013, 00:10 GMT 
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Great song and I think I've heard enough of it for this lifetime, thank you very much.


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PostPosted: Sun January 6th, 2013, 04:25 GMT 
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Still Go Barefoot wrote:
Great song and I think I've heard enough of it for this lifetime, thank you very much.

I cannot hear it enough.


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PostPosted: Sun February 28th, 2016, 15:26 GMT 
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Clearwater, Florida 1976

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1WyMnV ... VtrxaOTYEL


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PostPosted: Sun February 28th, 2016, 21:15 GMT 
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Favourite years of mine for that song:
1978 (Budokan!)
1981 (Earls Court)
1986 (Hard to Handle, Australia
1995 ( Brussels)


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PostPosted: Wed June 13th, 2018, 21:08 GMT 
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Came across this Louis Jordan track and I wonder if it slightly influenced Bob. He undoubtedly heard it in his travels.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fd3qXfF7hqE


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PostPosted: Fri June 29th, 2018, 21:59 GMT 

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meuse2208 wrote:
Favourite years of mine for that song:
1978 (Budokan!)


Ou hey, ou hey, wait until hear the Charlotte version!


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PostPosted: Fri June 29th, 2018, 22:35 GMT 
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Untrodden Path wrote:
The Saw wrote:
Indeed. And not in a good way.

Agreed

The Saw wrote:
Then I bet we're also on the same page that the studio version is amazing. :wink:

That would be a losing bet for you... But I suspect you already knew what I was thinking.


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