He got the way to move me, Cherry, he got the way to groove me.
Somewhere in the world, possibly in a landfill, or in some dusty basement of a thrift store in Northern California, there is a copy of the Neil Diamond LP September Morn with Neil’s eyes bloodshot by a red Sharpie marker, and a blackened, bleeding red pentagram on his forehead. I’m responsible for that, and for the eye patches, blacked-out teeth, and excessive body and facial hair that adorn the custom-vandalized covers of another 30 or so Neil Diamond records. Something about defacing Diamond’s sage, somber face was funny to me, but it wasn’t done in malice. I was a bored teenager in search of amusement, it’s true, but more importantly, I was a believer…