In the winter of 1966 I arrive in New York I am wearing my father’s overcoat, purple pointed-toe Beatle boots, and long hair. There was a lot of music now. An American group called the Byrds released their first album, Mr. Tambourine Man. They took a lot of Bob Dylan songs and made them electric, with harmonies. I must have listened to that record two hundred times. I would listen to the last track, The Bells of Rhymney where Jim McGuinn, the lead guitar player, played the instrumental break, picking high notes over the backing of the band, suddenly jumping one octave so that the notes seemed to suddenly release, spiraling off like birds.
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