Rock On by Bruce Sterling, Poppy Z. Brite, Norman Spinrad, Elizabeth Hand, Lucius Shepard, Graham Joyce, Michael Swanwick, Charles De Lint, John Shirley, F. Paul Wilson, Howard Waldrop, Alastair Reynolds, Graham Masterton, Caitlin R. Kiernan, David J. Schow, Elizabeth Bear, Edward Bryan, Lawrence C. Connolly, Bradley Denton, Greg Kihn, Pat Cadigan, Marc Laidlaw, Del James, Lewis Shiner Read Free Book Online Page A

I’ve got to sink into the timeline without making any ripples. Bob Dylan will go electric on his next album, just like he did before, but it will be my influence that nudged him to try it. “Mr. Tambourine Man” will be a big hit next summer, just as it’s destined to be, but if things go according to plan, my band’s name will be on the label instead of the Byrds. No ripples. Everything will remain much the same except that over the next few years, Troy Jonson will insinuate himself into the music scene and become a major force there. He will make millions, he will be considered a genius, the toast of both the public and his fellow artists.
    Riding that thought, I drift off to sleep.
    Dylan shows up at the Eighth Wonder the very next night in the middle of my note-perfect imitation of Duane Allman on “Statesboro Blues,” perfect even down to the Coricidin bottle on my slide finger. There’s already a good crowd in, the biggest crowd since we started playing. Word must be getting around that we’re something worth listening to.
    Dylan has about half a dozen scruffy types along with him. I recognize Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso in the entourage. Which gives me an idea.
    “This one’s for the poets in the audience,” I say into the mike; then we jump into Paul Simon’s “Richard Corey,” only I use Van Morrison’s phrasing, you know, with the snicker after the bullet-through-his-head line. I spend the rest of the set being political, interspersing Dylan numbers with “originals” such as “American Tune,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Life During Wartime,” and so on.
    I can tell they’re impressed. More than impressed. Their jaws are hanging open.
    I figure now’s the time to play cool. At the break, instead of heading for the bar, I slip backstage to the doorless, cinder-block-walled cubicle euphemistically known as the dressing room.
    Eventually someone knocks on the doorjamb. It’s a bearded guy I recognize as one of Dylan’s entourage tonight.
    “Great set, man,” he says. “Where’d you get some of those songs?”
    “Stole them,” I say, hardly glancing at him.
    He laughs. “No, seriously, man. They were great. I really like that ‘Southern Man’ number. I mean, like I’ve been makin’ the marches and that says it all, man. You write them?”
    I nod. “Most of them. Not the Dylan numbers.”
    He laughs again. From the glitter in his eyes and his extraordinarily receptive sense of humor, I gather that he’s been smoking a little weed at that rear table.
    “Right! And speaking of Dylan, Bobby wants to talk to you.”
    I decide to act a little paranoid.
    “He’s not pissed, is he? I mean, I know they’re his songs and all, but I thought I’d try to do them a little different, you know. I don’t want him takin’ me to court or—”
    “Hey, it’s cool,” he says. “Bobby digs the way you’re doing his stuff. He just wants to buy you a drink and talk to you about it, that’s all.”
    I resist the urge to pump my fist in the air.
    “Okay,” I say. “I can handle that.”
    “Sure, man. And he wants to talk to you about some rare records he hears you’ve got.”
    Suddenly I’m ice cold.
    “Records?”
    “Yeah, says he heard about some foreign platters you’ve got with some of his songs on ’em.”
    I force a laugh and say, “Oh, he must’ve been talking to Sally! You know how Sally gets. The Speed Queen was really flying when she was going through my records. That wasn’t music she saw, that was a record from Ireland of Dylan Thomas reading his stuff. I think ol’ Sally’s brains are getting scrambled.”
    He nods. “Yeah, it was Sally, all right. She says you treat them things like gold, man. They must be some kinda valuable. But the thing that got to Dylan was, she mentioned a song with ‘tambourine’ in the title, and he says he’s been doodling with something like that.”
    “No kidding?” My voice sounds like a croak.
    “Yeah. So he really