April 13th, 1991. Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, Bay 29th Street. It’s just past 7:30 in the evening and the sky over South Brooklyn is doing that thing it does in early spring. Not quite dark, not quite light. That gray hour where shadows start stretching long across the pavement. The man walks out of his front door.
He’s 47 years old, 6’3, built like a wall. For more than a decade, this man had been one of the most quietly terrifying figures in New York’s criminal underworld. He’d survived things that ended other men, shootings, federal indictments, the kind of internal mob politics that have a way of putting people in the ground without explanation. He’d killed for his boss.
He’d put his own body between his boss and danger more times than anyone was counting. He’d sat behind the wheel of a car while FBI agents cataloged him from the street and he’d driven away every single time. He thought the hard part was over. He was 6 feet from his Lincoln Town Car when Frank Lastorino stepped out of the dark and opened up with a .380 automatic. Seven rounds.
He didn’t stop until the gun was empty. Twice in the head, five in the torso. Bobby Barrello hit the asphalt of his own driveway and didn’t move again. Inside the house, his 2-year-old son was sitting in the kitchen. His wife Susan heard noise outside. She thought it was a neighbor argument, the same one Bobby had been having about the driveway for months. She stepped out.
She found her husband face down in a pool of his own blood. The paramedics came fast. It didn’t matter. Bobby Barrello was gone and across the entire New York underworld, one question started moving through every social club, every card game, every quiet conversation in the back of every restaurant. Who had the nerve to touch John Gotti’s bodyguard? The answer, when it finally came, would take 14 years to surface and it would be the most disturbing thing anyone in the history of American organized crime had ever uncovered. To understand what
happened on that driveway, you need to understand the world Bobby Barrello grew up in. He was born March 31st, 1944 in South Brooklyn. And I want to be clear about what that means because people hear Brooklyn today and picture brunch spots and boutique coffee. That’s not this. The Brooklyn of the 1940s and ’50s was a neighborhood ecosystem built on loyalty, violence, and invisible lines that every kid understood before they could read.
Each block had its own power structure. Each corner had men who seemed to operate outside the rules that applied to everyone else. And multiple organized crime families, the Gambinos, the Genoveses, the Colombos, had roots so deep in South Brooklyn they were practically part of the infrastructure. Bobby had a younger brother named Stevie and Stevie ran in tight circles with the Gallo brothers, Joey, Crazy Joe Gallo, Albert, the whole operation that controlled rackets out of Carroll Gardens and Red Hook.
These were genuinely dangerous men. And Bobby, who was physically bigger and harder than almost anyone around him, found his role early. He became muscle, an enforcer in waiting, the kind of guy neighborhoods produce when they need someone to make problems disappear. By his early 20s, he was working for the Gallo gang and his arrest record started piling up fast.
Between 1967 and 1972, six arrests. Weapons possession, assault, larceny, gambling charges. The NYPD knew exactly what Bobby was. The problem, their problem, not his, was that knowing and proving are completely different things. Bobby kept walking out of precinct houses and back onto the same streets. Then came April 7th, 1972 and Umberto’s Clam House, Crazy Joe Gallo was shot dead at the table.
The Gallo operation started fracturing. Stevie did what he could to hold Brooklyn rackets together, but the center had collapsed and Bobby started drifting toward a different gravitational pull. The Gambino family, the single most powerful criminal organization on American soil. And there was a man rising through that organization who Bobby could read immediately.
Someone who spoke a language Bobby understood fluently, John Gotti. In the late 1970s, Gotti was running operations out of the Bergen Hunt and Fish Club in Ozone Park, Queens. He was sharp in every sense of the word. The way he dressed, the way he talked, the way he held a room. He built loyalty through a combination of genuine charisma and the very credible threat of what happened to people who crossed him.
For a man like Bobby Barrello, who had spent his whole life in environments where respect was the only currency that mattered, Gotti made perfect sense. Somewhere in that window between the late ’70s and early ’80s, as Gotti’s standing inside the Gambino family climbed steadily toward the top, Bobby became his man.
Not in the general sense, not just another soldier in orbit. Bobby became Gotti’s personal driver and bodyguard. The man in the front seat, the man who got out of the car first, the man whose entire job, when it came down to it, was to be the last thing standing between the boss and whatever was waiting outside. That position doesn’t exist without total unconditional trust. You know too much.
You’re everywhere Gotti is, which means you see everything Gotti sees, the secrets, the money, the conversations that don’t get repeated. You are woven into the boss’s life so completely that your fates become inseparable. And it wasn’t purely professional. These men genuinely liked each other. They spent weekends together out on Long Island.
They gambled together. They went to see singer Jay Black perform, a childhood friend of Gotti’s, together. Federal surveillance teams photographed them side by side dozens of times and the agents who built their careers studying the Gambino family understood that Bobby Barrello wasn’t staff.
He was family in every meaningful sense. In December of 1988, it became official. Bobby Barrello was formally inducted as a made member of the Gambino crime family. The ceremony took place on Christmas Eve in an apartment on Mulberry Street in Manhattan at the home of Joe Butch Corrao’s mother. The men brought into that room that night were not minor figures. John Gotti Jr.
, Dominic Pizzonia, Craig DePalma, Nicholas Lassorsa, and Bobby Barrello. The oath was administered by Sammy the Bull Gravano and Pasquale Conte. To be made in the Gambino family in 1988, with Gotti running the show at the absolute height of his power, meant you had reached the center of organized crime in America. Bobby had arrived.
But arrival in that world doesn’t mean safety. It means you’re now fully exposed to everything that world brings with it. Bobby’s crew operated across a wide footprint, trucking contracts, construction rackets, loan sharking across Manhattan, Queens, Staten Island, and South Brooklyn. He had relationships with serious men like Angelo Prisco and Anthony Anastasio.
There was also a strip club pipeline running up and down the East Coast facilitated through a fixer named Steve Kaplan, who paid tribute to both Bobby and Junior Gotti in exchange for operating without interference. The money was substantial. Bobby was also aggressive in ways that occasionally created problems. On one occasion, he opened fire on a Genovese associate named Preston Geritano on a Brooklyn street in broad daylight.
That kind of move from almost anyone else would have been a death sentence. But Bobby had enough standing with Gotti that the families chose to negotiate a settlement rather than escalate. He was that protected. Then came October 4th, 1990 and a job that would put Bobby’s name in federal documents for years afterward.
A Gambino soldier named Louis Milito, wait, actually the soldier in question here was Louie Donno, had secured a major contract to install fireproofing on the internal infrastructure of the World Trade Center. Serious, legitimate money. And Donno had been avoiding Gotti’s summons, refusing to come in and answer for himself.
In the Gambino family, that kind of defiance had exactly one resolution. Gotti gave the contract to Bobby. Bobby carried it out. Louis Donno was shot dead in a parking garage at the World Trade Center on October 4th, 1990. Sammy Gravano absorbed the construction business afterward. The system worked precisely as designed.
By December of 1990, Bobby had been elevated to acting capo of Junior Gotti’s crew, operating out of his social club on Sackett Street in Brooklyn. He was at the peak of his standing, one of the most powerful active figures in the family, especially now that John Gotti himself had been indicted on federal charges and pulled off the street.
Gotti set up a five-man panel to run the family while he fought the case. Bobby, as acting capo, held real operational authority. From the outside, this was the summit. Everything he’d worked toward since those Gallo days in the ’60s. But there was a debt no one had settled and there was a man who never forgot debts.
To understand why Bobby Barillo ended up in that driveway, you have to go back six years. December 16th, 1985, outside Sparks Steak House on East 46th Street in Midtown Manhattan, Gambino boss Paul Castellano and his underboss Tommy Bilotti were shot dead as they stepped out of a car. The hit was designed and ordered by John Gotti.
It was one of the boldest power moves in the history of American organized crime. Gotti killed the sitting boss and took the family for himself. No commission vote, no authorization, just execution. It worked, but it didn’t come without consequences. A Gambino informant later identified Bobby Barillo as one of the participants in the Castellano operation, and that detail mattered enormously because other New York families, particularly the Lucchese family, had been tightly aligned with Castellano. The Lucchese underboss
Anthony Gaspipe Casso did not process that murder as just business. He cataloged it as a personal offense. And Anthony Casso was not the kind of man who filed things away and moved on. Casso was born May 21st, 1942, also in South Brooklyn, practically the same zip code as Bobby. And he was arguably the most lethally prolific figure in New York organized crime during the entire decade of the ’80s.
He was eventually charged with 15 murders and pled guilty to racketeering, extortion, and murder while cooperating with the government. Federal prosecutors put his actual body count at somewhere near a hundred. He didn’t just want to win, he wanted to eliminate. And Casso had something nobody else in the New York mob had, an asset that gave him capabilities that no amount of street muscle could replicate.
Two of them, actually. Louis Eppolito and Stephen Caracappa were active-duty New York City Police Department detectives. Eppolito was impossible to miss. A former bodybuilder, physically enormous, had even written a book about his own family’s mob connections. Caracappa was the opposite, quiet, methodical, the kind of career detective who spent years embedded in major case squads specifically tracking organized crime homicides.
On paper, both men were exactly what they appeared to be, serious, experienced police officers. They were also on Anthony Casso’s payroll. $4,000 a month starting around 1986. What they provided in exchange for that monthly retainer was something Casso couldn’t put a price on, confidential NYPD intelligence, internal files, the names of informants, home addresses, vehicle registrations.
They were reconnaissance assets in police uniforms feeding verified official information to a man who used it to put people in the ground. Multiple murders were arranged using information Eppolito and Caracappa pulled directly from law enforcement databases and delivered to Casso. By early 1991, Bobby Barillo was on Casso’s list.
The trigger, according to later testimony and court documents, was an audio recording. Eppolito and Caracappa had obtained a tape through NYPD surveillance or other means on which Bobby Barillo could be heard making threats against Casso and his family. Whether the content was as serious as Casso chose to interpret it or whether it was used as pretext for a hit he’d already decided to execute is something only Casso knew.
But the recording sealed it. Now Casso needed confirmation that the family had actually relocated to their new address in Bensonhurst. So Eppolito drove to Bay 29th Street himself in uniform. He knocked on the door. Susan Barillo answered. She later told the New York Post that a large detective pushed his jacket back to display his badge and his gun, asked if Bobby Barillo was home, and when she told him her husband wasn’t there, said he’d come back. He never came back.
He’d gotten everything he needed. The address was confirmed. Eppolito delivered the package to Casso. Casso placed the contract with Lucchese captain Frank Big Frank Lino. Lino assigned it to Frank Lastorino, described in court documents as a reliable and efficient operator who did not leave loose ends.
Bobby spent the afternoon of April 13th at Aqueduct Racetrack. He came home that evening. Susan was in the kitchen with their 2-year-old son, Bobby Jr. Their 11-year-old Patrick was at the movies. Bobby stepped out of his car. He walked toward the house. Lastorino was already there, already waiting in the dark. Seven rounds. He didn’t hesitate.
Twice in the head, five in the torso. Bobby Barillo went down next to the Lincoln that had been his office for years, on the street where he lived, 40 feet from the door his son was sitting behind. Susan heard the noise and thought, as she would say later, that it was another argument about the driveway.
She came outside. She saw Bobby on the ground. She grabbed her son. She called 911. When the police told her he was dead, she collapsed on the spot. Gotti received the news from a jail cell. He was furious. He gave Bobby’s brother Stevie full family authorization to pursue revenge. He also ordered meetings with Genovese leadership about the Geritano matter, tying up every thread he could reach from behind bars.
But nobody could tell Susan Barillo who had done this or why. Not in 1991, not in 1992, not for 14 years. March 2005, Las Vegas. DEA and FBI agents arrested Louis Eppolito and Stephen Caracappa. Both men had retired from the NYPD and were living comfortable, quiet lives in the desert, far from Brooklyn, far from the bodies.
The federal indictment was unlike anything the justice system had ever produced. Eight murders, two attempted murders, conspiracy, obstruction, drug distribution, money laundering. Two decorated NYPD detectives charged with operating as contract killers for the Lucchese crime family for nearly a decade. Bobby Barillo’s killing was documented.
Prosecutors laid out exactly how Eppolito and Caracappa verified his address and handed the information to Casso’s operation. For trial strategy reasons, the Barillo count wasn’t taken to verdict, but it was in the filings, confirmed by cooperating witnesses on the record. Susan Barillo found out the truth when she saw Eppolito’s photo in the newspaper.
She recognized him instantly, the big detective, the badge, the gun. She called prosecutors that same day. Her father, who had been interviewed at the crime scene the night Bobby died, recognized Caracappa as the cop who had questioned him. The men who came to investigate the murder were the men who set it up. Eppolito and Caracappa were convicted on all counts in 2006, life plus 80 years each, over $4 million in fines apiece.
Casso had flipped in 1994, pled guilty to 70 crimes including 15 murders, and was sentenced to 455 years. He died in federal custody on December 15th, 2020. Lastorino pled guilty to multiple murders and racketeering. Gotti was convicted in April 1992, life no parole. He died in a federal prison medical center on June 10th, 2002. He never walked free.
Susan Barillo spent 14 years without an answer. She got it from a photograph in a newspaper. The men who knocked on her door, the men who showed their badges, the men who stood in her home and asked where her husband was, they were the ones who put him in the ground.
QQ4 Bob Dylan and Keith Richards have been close friends for nearly 40 years. The friendship began on a live television program in November of 1986 in the 11 seconds after Bob Dylan called Keith Richards music derivative on camera. Keith Richard’s response to that assessment, one sentence said without anger, without performance, with the specific directness of a man who has nothing to prove and knows it made Bob Dylan laugh.
Then made Bob Dylan go quiet. then made Bob Dylan say two words that people who know Bob Dylan say he almost never said to anyone. This is the story of those 11 seconds and the 40 years that followed them. The program was a live music interview special broadcast on an American network on the evening of November 3rd, 1986. The format was simple.
Two musicians, a host, an hour of conversation about music and the state of it. The producers had assembled the pairing of Bob Dylan and Keith Richards with the specific calculation of television producers who understand that two people with equally strong and potentially incompatible views about what music is and what it should do will produce better television than two people who agree about everything.
The calculation was correct, though not in the way the producers had anticipated. Bob Dylan was 45 years old in November of 1986. Bob Dylan had released Empire Burlesque the previous year and had been on the road for most of the intervening period as part of the True Confessions tour with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
Bob Dylan was in November of 1986 in one of the most prolific and restless phases of a career that had consisted almost entirely of prolific and restless phases. A career that had moved through folk, rock, country, gospel, and back again, that had been declared finished at least six times by the music press, and at each time continued with the serene indifference of a river to the opinions of people standing on its banks.
Bob Dylan had been redefining what music could be. Since 1962, Bob Dylan had invented and reinvented himself so many times that reinvention had become his defining characteristic, not in the superficial sense of a performer changing costumes, but in the deeper sense of a musician who had never allowed his work to settle into a form that could be anticipated or categorized from the outside.
Bob Dylan understood influence and originality and the relationship between them better than almost anyone alive in 1986. Bob Dylan had spent 24 years thinking carefully and specifically about where music came from and where music was going and what it meant that those two things were always in constant conversation with each other.
Keith Richards was 42 years old in November of 1986. Keith Richards had been playing guitar professionally since 1962. Keith Richards had built a career on a foundation of American blues and rhythm and blues. A foundation that Keith Richards had studied with the systematic devotion of someone who understood that the tradition he was building on was not incidental to the music he was making, but essential to it.
that you could not understand what Keith Richards did without understanding where Keith Richards had come from and what Keith Richards had been listening to since he was a teenager in Dartford with American Import Records and a secondhand guitar and no teacher except the recordings themselves. Keith Richards had never pretended otherwise. Keith Richards had in fact spent considerable energy across his career making the lineage explicit, naming the artists, citing the recordings, insisting on the acknowledgement of influence that the mainstream music
industry had a long history of suppressing or ignoring or crediting to the wrong people. If anything, Keith Richards was more transparent about his sources than most musicians of his generation. Keith Richards had always said openly that the Rolling Stones came directly from the blues, that Muddy Waters and Robert Johnson and the specific tradition of the Mississippi Delta were not background influences, but foundational ones.
The music Keith Richards made was in direct and sustained conversation with that tradition, something Keith Richards considered not a limitation, but a responsibility and a form of respect. The interview had been running for 8 minutes when the host asked Bob Dylan about the current state of rock and roll.
Bob Dylan answered with the density and the indirection that characterized Bob Dylan’s responses to direct questions, turning the question over, approaching it from an unexpected angle, finding his way to what he actually thought through a series of observations that moved like a river rather than a road. Bob Dylan was not a straightforward interview subject.
Bob Dylan had been asked about rock and roll in hundreds of interviews across 24 years and had developed the habit of treating the question as an invitation to think out loud rather than a request for a prepared position. The producer Gerald Sherman said afterward that in the first 8 minutes of the interview, he had been slightly anxious, not because anything was going wrong, but because nothing was going anywhere in particular yet.
The interview had the feeling of two conversations happening simultaneously. Bob Dylan’s internal one and the external one visible to the cameras. And Gerald Sherman was not certain in those first eight minutes that the two conversations would converge into something. Bob Dylan talked about influence. Bob Dylan talked about originality.
Bob Dylan talked about the difference between music that absorbed a tradition and transformed it and music that absorbed a tradition and reproduced it. And then Bob Dylan made his assessment. And then Bob Dylan said with the precision of a man making a musical assessment rather than a personal judgment that the Rolling Stones work, and Bob Dylan was specific, naming Keith Richards as the guitarist whose approach he was discussing was derivative in a way that Bob Dylan found limiting.
Bob Dylan said it without hostility. Bob Dylan said it as a technical observation about the relationship between source material and the work that came from it. Bob Dylan said that Keith Richards played the blues the way the blues had already been played, rather than using the blues as a starting point for something that had not yet been played.
Keith Richards had been listening to this with the specific attention Keith Richards gave to things being said about music by people who knew music. Keith Richards did not interrupt. Keith Richards did not shift in his chair or display any of the visible signals of a person preparing a defensive response. Keith Richards listened to Bob Dylan’s complete observation all the way to its conclusion without interrupting and without displaying any visible signal of preparing a response.
Then Keith Richards said one sentence. The sentence was not a rebuttal. The sentence did not defend Keith Richards music or argue for its originality or challenge Bob Dylan’s characterization of what the blues meant in the context of rock and roll. The sentence was something else entirely, something that required a specific kind of confidence to say.
The confidence of a person who has spent long enough thinking about the same things as the person they are talking to that they can locate the exact point where their thinking diverges and say something useful about that point rather than simply defending their own position. The sentence acknowledged everything Bob Dylan had said, the assessment, the distinction Bob Dylan was drawing, the specific musical concern underlying the observation, and then turned it 90°.
Keith Richards took Bob Dylan’s own framework, the one Bob Dylan had used to analyze Keith Richards relationship to the blues tradition, and applied it back to Bob Dylan’s work with the same precision Bob Dylan had used to apply it to Keith Richards. Spare aimed. The sentence asked Bob Dylan something about Bob Dylan’s own music, about the relationship between Bob Dylan’s sources and Bob Dylan’s output that Bob Dylan had not been asked on television before.
The sentence did not attack. The sentence illuminated. Bob Dylan laughed. The laugh was not the polite laugh of someone responding to a joke. The laugh was the involuntary laugh of someone who has been genuinely surprised. The specific kind of surprise that a person of exceptional intelligence experiences when someone else’s intelligence exceeds their expectations.
Bob Dylan laughed for 4 seconds. Then Bob Dylan stopped laughing. Then Bob Dylan was quiet for 3 seconds in the way that Bob Dylan was quiet when Bob Dylan was thinking rather than performing thought. Then Bob Dylan said, “You’re right.” The producer in the booth, a man named Gerald Sherman, who had been working in television for 14 years, said afterward that in 14 years of live television production, he had never heard Bob Dylan say those two words in a public forum.
Gerald Sherman said he had worked with Bob Dylan on two previous occasions and had observed Bob Dylan in numerous other contexts and that you’re right was not a phrase that Bob Dylan deployed easily or often because Bob Dylan had spent 24 years being right about music in ways that other people eventually caught up with. And the experience of being right ahead of everyone else does not generally produce a man who says you’re right readily when someone else makes a point.
The host of the program, a journalist named Patricia Wells, who had been interviewing musicians for 12 years, said afterward that the 11 seconds between Bob Dylan’s assessment and Bob Dylan saying, “You’re right,” were the most extraordinary 11 seconds of television she had been present for. Patricia Wells said that what she witnessed in those 11 seconds was not a debate or a confrontation or a celebrity exchange of competing opinions.
Patricia Wells said what she witnessed was one musician recognizing another musician as an equal, which was in the specific context of Bob Dylan in 1986, not something that happened in public very often. The interview continued for another 42 minutes after those 11 seconds. The conversation between Bob Dylan and Keith Richards in the remaining 42 minutes was described by everyone who watched it as fundamentally different from the first 8 minutes.
The host, Patricia Wells, who had been conducting music interviews for 12 years and understood the difference between the performance of conversation and actual conversation, said that at approximately the 9-minute mark, something shifted in the studio. That the formal interview, architecture dissolved, and what replaced it was something less structured and more genuine.
Bob Dylan and Keith Richards talked about influence and originality and the blues and what it meant to build on a tradition without being consumed by it. They talked about specific recordings and specific musicians with the specificity of two people who had spent their entire adult lives thinking about these things and rarely found another person who had thought about them with equivalent care.
They talked about where music came from and where music was going and whether those two questions were actually one question or two. Patricia Wells said afterward that she had asked approximately four questions in the remaining 42 minutes because Bob Dylan and Keith Richards did not require questions. They required only a room and a camera and the shared understanding that what they were saying together was worth recording carefully.
She said it was the best interview she had ever conducted and that she had conducted the smallest part of it. After the program, Bob Dylan and Keith Richards were in the corridor outside the studio when the host Patricia Wells passed them. Patricia Wells said she did not stop because she did not want to interrupt.
She observed them for approximately 30 seconds from a distance. She said they were talking with the ease of people who had known each other for years rather than people who had met for the first time 2 hours earlier. She said that something had shifted between them during the broadcast that the broadcast had made permanent rather than temporary.
She continued down the corridor and did not look back. She said in her account of that evening that she had decided in that moment not to interrupt the conversation because some conversations are more valuable than any question a journalist might ask and that the conversation she had observed for 30 seconds in the corridor outside the studio was one of them.
She had been a music journalist for 12 years. She recognized the difference. Bob Dylan and Keith Richards have maintained their friendship across four decades. They have appeared together at various events, most significantly at the concert for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1995, where people who were present described them as inseparable for most of the evening, occupying the same corner of the backstage area and talking with the concentrated attention of people who only have a limited amount of time together and intend to use it
well. Bob Dylan has spoken about Keith Richards in interviews with the specific thoughtful care that Bob Dylan reserves for musicians whose work Bob Dylan considers genuinely important rather than merely culturally prominent. Keith Richards has spoken about Bob Dylan in similar terms with the specific respect of someone who recognizes in another person a commitment to music that goes deeper than career.
Neither Bob Dylan nor Keith Richards has made a public statement specifically about how the friendship began or about the November 1986 interview. Bob Dylan has not mentioned the 11 seconds. Keith Richards has not mentioned the sentence. The interview exists in the archive. The 11 seconds are there. The laugh is there. The two words are there.
What is also there for anyone who watches the interview from its beginning and pays attention to the shift that happens at the 9-minute mark is the specific moment when two people who thought they were appearing on a television program discovered they were actually talking to each other. What Keith Richards said in that one sentence has never been officially reported.
The people who were in the studio that evening, Gerald Sherman, Patricia Wells, the floor crew, the two camera operators, the makeup artist who was watching from the side of the set, have described the sentence in consistent terms. They have described its effect. They have described Bob Dylan’s laugh and Bob Dylan’s silence and Bob Dylan’s two words.
They have not repeated the sentence itself in the specific understanding that the sentence was said between two musicians on a television program and that its power resided in the specific context of that exchange and would not survive removal from it intact. What can be said is this. Keith Richards said something to Bob Dylan about Bob Dylan’s music that used Bob Dylan’s own observation about Keith Richards as its starting point and arrived somewhere that Bob Dylan had not anticipated.
Keith Richards turned Bob Dylan’s assessment 90° and showed Bob Dylan something about the music they had both spent their lives making that Bob Dylan recognized immediately as true. And Bob Dylan said, “You’re right.” Two words said by Bob Dylan in public on live television in 1986 to Keith Richards in response to a single sentence Keith Richards had said about music.
Two words that Gerald Sherman, who had worked with Bob Dylan on two previous occasions, said he had never heard Bob Dylan say in a public forum. Two words that Patricia Wells, who had been interviewing musicians for 12 years, said were the most significant two words she had heard in those 12 years. Not because of their content, but because of who said them and what it cost to say them and what it meant that Keith Richards had produced them in 11 seconds from a conversation that began with Bob Dylan calling Keith Richards’s music derivative. And Keith Richards and
Bob Dylan have been close friends for nearly 40 years. The sentence did its work in 11 seconds on the evening of November 3rd, 1986. The work has been ongoing ever since. If this story moved you, subscribe and leave a comment below. Have you ever said something to someone that turned a potential disagreement into an unexpected and lasting connection? Tell us about it in the comments below.
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