October 1942, Fort Gellibrand, Williamstown, near Melbourne. Australian engineers wheeled out a tank with two cannons jammed side by side into a single turret. Both were 25-pounder gun howitzers. Both were rigged to fire at exactly the same instant. There was no room left for a crew.
The trigger was a lanyard pulled from outside the tank. This was not a battle tank. It was not a gimmick. It was an instrument. The engineers needed to know whether their new turret could survive the recoil of the British 17-pounder, the most powerful Allied tank gun then under development. Australia did not own a 17-pounder, so they simulated one.
Two 25-pounders fired together produced roughly 120% of a single 17-pounder’s recoil force. If the tank held, the next tank would carry the real gun. The lanyard was pulled. The tank held. Australia entered the Second World War with 14 tanks, four Vickers Medium Mark II specials from the interwar period, and 10 Vickers Light Mark VI delivered in 1939.
There was no domestic tank industry. There were no military-grade armor plate mills. There was no tank engine production. The country had never built a tank. Then France fell. On June 12th, 1940, Prime Minister Robert Menzies, Director-General of Munitions Essington Lewis, and Lieutenant-General Sir Brudenell White met in Canberra.
According to Yuri Pasholok’s research published in Tank Archives, the strategic situation was clear. After the defeat in France and the start of fighting in North Africa, Australia was no longer a British priority. Australia would have to build its own tanks. The order placed that day called for 859 cruiser tanks.
Britain dispatched Colonel W. D. Watson of the Royal Artillery in October 1940. He traveled via the United States studying American mass production methods alongside Australian engineer Alan Chamberlain. He landed in Australia in late December and was made director of tank design within the Directorate of Mechanization. The General Staff specification arrived in November.
65 mm of frontal armor, 35 mph, 150-mile range, a 2-pounder main gun, and critically a maximum width of 9 ft 4 in dictated by the Australian railway loading gauge. Manufacturing was scattered across organizations that had never built a tank. The New South Wales Government Railways Chullora tank assembly shops handled final assembly. Bradford and Kendall in Sydney cast the hulls.
McKay Massey Harris, a tractor maker, built the running gear. General Motors Holden in Melbourne assembled the engine package. The result was the AC1 Sentinel. It was an extraordinary engineering achievement. 28 tons of cast hull and turret as single pieces made from an experimental nickel-free alloy that substituted zirconium because nickel was rationed for naval armor.
According to Tank Encyclopedia, no other country could cast a tank hull at this scale as a single piece in 1942. 65 AC1s were built between August 1942 and June 1943, but the gun was wrong. The 2-pounder, useful in 1940, was obsolete by the time the first Sentinel rolled off the line. Australian crews called it a popgun.
Britain had no 6-pounders to spare. The hull was excellent. The gun killed it. Watson’s solution did not come from Britain. It came from inside Australia. The Maribyrnong Ordnance Factory in Melbourne was already producing the Ordnance QF 25-pounder, an 87.6 mm gun howitzer. By the end of 1943, 1,527 would be built.
It was the only credible Australian-made gun in the right caliber range. In December 1941, Watson sketched the first 25-pounder tank mount designs. Two test guns arrived in February 1942. The second AC1 prototype was fitted with a new turret housing the 25-pounder and successfully test-fired on June 29th, 1942.
Field Marshal Sir Thomas Blamey took the proposal to the War Cabinet in July. The AC3 Thunderbolt program was authorized. 200 tanks initially, 510 projected over the full production run. The choice of the 25-pounder is widely misunderstood. Tank Encyclopedia is explicit on this point. The gun was selected not for use as a close support weapon, contrary to popular belief, but for the value of its 20-pound armor-piercing shot and its high explosive shell.
Armor-piercing sat between the 2-pounder and the 6-pounder, adequate against Panzer III and early Panzer IV armor at typical engagement ranges, but the high explosive shell weighed 11.34 kg with a substantial bursting charge. It vastly outperformed the 6-pounder, which had no useful HE round, and the American 75 mm M3. The AC3 was the only tank ever built that mounted the 25-pounder as primary armament.
A persistent misconception calls the AC3’s gun a short howitzer. This is wrong. The AC3 carried a lengthened 25-pounder. The barrel was extended by 18 in from 28 calibers to roughly 32. Only the recoil mechanism was shortened from a 40-in stroke to 20 in with a compact recuperator mounted above the barrel in a distinctive bulge in the mantlet.
The famous short 25-pounder pack howitzer used later in New Guinea inherited the tank’s recoil system, but was a separate, genuinely shorter weapon developed afterwards. The AC3 weighed 29 long tons, 65 mm of cast frontal armor, 45 mm on the sides. Crew of four, reduced from five by deleting the hull machine gun position to make room for 120 rounds of 25-pounder ammunition.
Top road speed of 35 mph, range 200 miles. Turret traverse upgraded to a 110-V electrical system. The most arresting feature was the engine. Australia had no tank engine industry. Pratt & Whitney aircraft radials were committed elsewhere. A pair of GM 6-71 diesels was rejected as inadequate. The Cadillac Series 75 V8, a 5.
7-L side-valve luxury car engine, was readily available. A single one delivered only 135 horsepower, hopelessly inadequate for a 29-ton tank. Watson’s team tripled it. The AC1 used a cloverleaf arrangement, two engines abreast, a third behind, each with its own drive shaft and radiator, all feeding a common transfer box. It worked.
330 horsepower, but the rear engine suffered chronic cooling problems, and the transfer box bled mechanical losses. Pasholok calls it the Achilles’ heel of the Sentinel. For the AC3, French engineer Robert Perrier, who’d escaped to Australia from Japan in 1941 and brought Hotchkiss design experience with him, developed something elegant.
All three V8s mounted on a single welded steel monoblock crankcase in a triangular delta, one engine on top, two below at 60° to either side. A common combining gear took the three crankshafts into a single output shaft. Each engine could be decoupled individually. One radiator replaced three. The Perrier Cadillac 41-75, 24 cylinders, 397 horsepower, 17 L of displacement.
Max Motor City Garage describes it as a WW24. The flatter engine deck allowed extra fuel tanks. Cooling was solved. Tank Encyclopedia notes the Perrier Cadillac performed significantly better than the earlier engine in terms of torque and horsepower, particularly at lower rpm. The suspension came from a different country again.
The horizontal volute spring system was lifted from the French Hotchkiss H35 and H39, almost certainly via Perrier’s pre-war work at Hotchkiss. The Australian War Memorial’s curatorial record is explicit that the suspension was copied from the French Hotchkiss design of the 1930s. It is unrelated to American HVSS despite the similar name and predates American HVSS Shermans by years.
By February 1943, the AC3 pilot model passed evaluation. The Director of Artillery’s report on turret-mounted firing recorded one of the more memorable observations of any wartime tank trial. Accuracy, the report stated, was superior to that of a field mounting. Noise and blast within the turret was minimal, similar to that of a big air rifle.
Once laid, successive shots could be fired on target without needing to relay the gun. Quick moment here. If you’re enjoying this deep dive into a corner of armored warfare most channels skip, a like genuinely helps. Now, back to the test that everyone remembers, the one with two guns. The tank that fired two 25-pounders was not in fact an AC3.
This is the single most important correction to the popular record. The vehicle was the ACE1, the very first AC1 development hull, made of multi-piece mild steel rather than cast armor, modified in October 1942 with a new prototype turret whose ring had been enlarged from 54 to 64 in. The new turret was purpose-built to host a 17-pounder.
The twin 25-pounders were a placeholder. No 17-pounder existed in Australia. Britain had only just begun 17-pounder production in early 1942. Every gun was committed to eighth Army anti-tank batteries in North Africa. The Maribyrnong Ordnance Factory’s first locally manufactured 17-pounders did not emerge until October and November 1942.
Watson and the Directorate of AFV production needed to validate the new turret structure, the mantlet, the ring, and the hull mountings before committing to AC4 production tooling. So, they improvised. Two 25-pounder gun howitzers were mounted side by side in a single mantlet on a shared recoil system. Firing one fired both.
The arrangement filled the majority of the turret interior. There was no room for crew during firing. The guns were fired remotely by lanyard running out the rear of the turret. Tank Encyclopedia and Secret Projects Forum both cite the same engineering figure. Simultaneous firing of two 25-pounders produced approximately 120% of a single 17-pounder’s recoil force, a deliberate over-simulation building a roughly 20% safety margin into the test, the 17-pounder’s recoil stroke was around 40 in, which the Australian over barrel recuperator was designed to compress.
The trial took place at Fort Gellibrand at Williamstown near Melbourne. Tank Encyclopedia dates the trials to October 1942. A specific firing date of November 2, 1942 is recorded for the twin 25 configuration. Both are likely correct, indicating preliminary October trials followed by the formally recorded firing.
The result against expectations of breathless drama was an engineering success without anecdote. The tank survived intact. No primary source describes structural failure, cracking of the turret, dislodgement, or damage to the turret ring or hull. The simultaneous discharge produced its expected 120% of 17-pounder recoil, and the structure absorbed it.
A persistent legend claims the twin gun firing blew the turret off or injured observers. This is not supported by any primary source. The lanyard firing was a precaution, not evidence the test went wrong. The Australian War Memorial’s curatorial record, Mellor’s official history, and Hopkins’ 1978 account all describe the trial as a routine engineering success.
The dramatic version appears to be internet folklore, conflating fired remotely from outside with something went wrong. With the structural test passed, the actual 17-pounder, one of the first manufactured at Maribyrnong, was installed in the same turret on the same AC1 hull. The first 17-pounder firing took place on November 11th, 1942.
This made the AC1 one of the very first Allied tanks ever to mount and fire a 17-pounder gun. It predated British Challenger trials. It predated the Sherman Firefly. How does this compare to what else was rolling around battlefields in the same window of the war? The AC3’s 25-pounder armor-piercing shot achieved roughly 63 mm of penetration at 500 m and 58 at 1,000.
The American Sherman 75 mm to M3 managed 60 to 76 at 500. The German Panzer 4 with the long-barreled L/43 gun reached around 91 at 500. The Panzer 4 with the L/48, around 104. The British Cromwell carried similar guns to the Sherman. None of these came close to the 17-pounder’s intended AC4 performance, which projected 130 to 163 mm at 500 m and 119 to 150 at 1,000.
But, this comparison sells the 25-pounder short on a different metric. Its high explosive shell, with 5.2 kg of high explosive in an 11.4 kg projectile, was substantially more lethal than the Sherman 75 M3 HE. For the Pacific theater’s actual mission, bunkers, troops, light Japanese armor, the Sentinel’s gun was arguably better suited than what the Sherman carried.
The Sentinel program ended in July 1943, not because the engineering failed. Lend-Lease worked. American M3 Lee tanks were arriving in Australia in volume, 757 by December 1942. British Matildas were available from mid-1942. Australian skilled labor was needed for landing craft, locomotives, and aircraft.
By mid-1943, the threat of Japanese invasion had passed. The Pacific war required jungle infantry support, not cruiser tanks slugging it out with Panzers. The Australian War Memorial’s curatorial note on AC3 serial 8066 puts it elegantly. With the supply of American and British tanks exceeding requirements, the AC series became unnecessary and an extravagant use of Australia’s limited resources.
A planned AC4 would have weighed 30 long tons, mounted the 17-pounder with up to 74 rounds, used a redesigned 70-in turret ring, and incorporated an 18-round mechanical magazine for ammunition. Director of AFV production AR Code’s report from July 21, 1943, dated within days of cancellation, described the magazine in detail.
None of it was built. The legacy is small, but specific. One Sentinel AC3 exists, serial 8066, the only Thunderbolt ever completed, held at the Australian War Memorial’s Treloar Technology Centre in Canberra. Two AC1 survive, one running at the Royal Australian Armoured Corps Memorial at Puckapunyal in Victoria, and one at the Bovington Tank Museum in Dorset.
The AC1, the twin gun test hull, was traced to the Melbourne Tank Museum until its closure in 2006. According to Tank Encyclopedia, its eventual fate is not known. Almost certainly scrapped. But, Watson returned to Britain in 1943 carrying photographs and drawings of the Australian 17-pounder mounting.
He met Sir Claude Gibb, the Australian-born Director-General of AFVs. According to Tank Encyclopedia’s Australian sources, the over barrel short recoil recuperator system the Australians developed for the AC1 17-pounder shows up in the Sherman Firefly’s mounting design. The precise extent of the technology transfer remains a subject for further archival research, but the connection is not nothing.
October 1942, a tank with two cannons, a lanyard pulled from outside the turret, two guns firing as one, generating 120% of the recoil of a gun Australia did not yet possess. The turret held. That afternoon at Fort Gellibrand was not a stunt. It was a country with no tank tradition, given 2 years in a railway workshop, building the world’s first single-piece cast tank hull in a nickel-free alloy, then mounting an artillery piece in its turret, then mounting two artillery pieces in a successor turret, then mounting an actual 17-pounder before
most British tanks had one. The AC4 never fought. It never needed to. The Sentinel made itself unnecessary by helping to demonstrate that an Allied victory was now an industrial certainty. Two guns fired at Fort Gellibrand on a Wednesday in 1942 and proved the tank could survive a gun it would never carry.
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.
Share this with someone who needs to be reminded that the right sentence said at the right moment can completely change the entire direction of a relationship. Ring the notification bell for more untold stories about the extraordinary human beings behind music’s greatest legends.
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