Three dreams of dead musicians, in like a week-and-a-half:

1) I’m lying on the floor next to Eric Carmen and he’s playing to me on an old radio some songs of the Raspeberries so that I can appreciate their intricate instrumental arrangements, and as he does that, the lyrics also really come out, and they’re about editing (?) and he’s crooning about how it’s “endless” and “keep on going,” and I want to disagree with him about the content of the song, but I’m unsure how to do so, tactfully.

2) Brian Wilson is half a room away from me, and he is young and whole, and I tell him how much his music has meant to me, and how glad I am that he finished “Smile,” and he just seems so open and happy and whole.

3) I’m standing at a table with Joao Gilberto and we're looking at an educational program of bossa nova music, and he is pointing at a slot towards the center of the program, saying that he felt it was important to program the “One Note Samba” since the composer is a woman (?), the implication being that otherwise women wouldn’t have been represented in the program.