What Did Eric And Dylan Say In The Library
Harris then walked back over to the other side of the table where Townsend lay dead. Behind the table, a 16-year-old girl named Kelly Fleming had, like Bree Pasquale, sat next to the table rather than beneath it due to a lack of space. Harris shot Fleming with his shotgun, hitting her in the back and killing her. He shot at the table behind Fleming, hitting Townsend, who was already dead, Kreutz again, and wounding 18-year-old Jeanna Park. The shooters moved to the center of the library, where they reloaded their weapons at a table. Harris then pointed his carbine under a table, but the student he was aiming at moved out of the way. Harris turned his gun back on the student and told him to identify himself. It was John Savage, an acquaintance of Klebold's. He asked Klebold what they were doing, to which he shrugged and answered, "Oh, just killing people." Savage asked if they were going to kill him. However, because of the background noise, Klebold said, "What?" Savage asked again whether they were going to kill him. Klebold said no, and told him to run. Savage fled, escaping through the library's main entrance and through the cafeteria.
What Did Eric And Dylan Say In The Library
Not one student stood. "Fine, I'll start shooting," witnesses heard one of the gunman say after a short wait. The report does not say if it was Harris or Klebold who made the statement, but it was Harris who fired first, sending shotgun rounds down the length of the front library counter, showering wood splinters and momentarily drowning out the wail of the school fire alarm. The two did most of their killing in the library, murdering 10. They appeared to be the most verbal there, too. After their library killing rampage began, Harris peered beneath a table to find a frightened Cassie Bernall and a friend. He slapped the table twice and then said "peek-a-boo." Then he shot and killed Bernall. Harris then turned to Bree Pasquale, who was sitting on the floor after being crowded out of a nearby hiding spot under a table. He asked her if she wanted to die. She pleaded for her life, until Harris was called away by Klebold who discovered two other students hiding under a table. One of the students, Isaiah Shoels, was black, Klebold said. As Harris walked away from Pasquale, he laughed, according to the report. "Everyone's gonna die," he said. "We're gonna blow up the school anyway." As the two stood on opposite sides of the table Shoels was hiding under, Klebold called him the "n-word" and tried to drag the football player from under the table. After unsuccessfully trying to pull him out, Harris fired under the table, killing Shoels. Then Klebold fired under the table, killing Matthew Kechter. Then the swearing began. Harris jumped up on a set of book shelves, shaking the shelves as he cursed repeatedly. Regrouping and then continuing their shooting and killing, they also continued their taunts. "Pathetic," Klebold muttered after looking under a table and spotting two cowering girls. Then Valeen Schnurr, who was critically hurt, began to cry, "Oh, God, help me." Klebold taunted her about her belief in God before turning away. Not all of the students were targets of Klebold's and Harris' insults. At least one student, an acquaintance of Klebold's, asked Klebold what he was doing. Klebold told his friend to leave the library. The friend fled. Then, more killing, more taunts. At one point, the duo peered behind a library counter and teased injured student Evan Todd about whether they should kill him or not. They chose not to. Their last comments before they left the library, just 7 1/2 minutes after they entered, was a discussion over whether they should go to the school's commons area. When the gunman left, the library was filled with smoke and the fire alarms were blaring. The students' ears were ringing, the injured were moaning. Copyright 2000 The Denver Post. All rights reserved.This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Return to top
In the wake of the massacre and years following it, the motivations behind the event have been heavily disputed amongst both investigators and the general public, as Harris and Klebold's writings in their journals never explicitly confirmed them. Violent video games and their role in American society have also come under fire when it was revealed that Harris and Klebold were fans of several of them, as aforementioned, with their favorite game being Doom, which Harris created new levels for. In the book Columbine by Dave Cullen, it states that Harris and Klebold, according to their attempt at a more grandiose, elaborate, and terrifying attack than the one they committed, wanted to commit the deadliest terrorist attack the U.S. has ever seen, by killing 240-500 people as planned; this seems to be supported by the focus on how they envisioned their assault found in both shooters' journals. In The Final Report, it has been stated that the massacre was an act of revenge against the local law enforcement following their January 30, 1998 arrest and bullies. In the Zero Hour documentary, it states that Harris's journals and video recordings clearly reveal a disturbed mind that concocts grandiose and destructive schemes, while Klebold's emotions are a mystery, though he did seem to be reduced to a gesture of repressed rage as the massacre in the library came to an end.
'The Last Waltz' made music and cinema history. The final concert by The Band, starring their famous friends, it became a Martin Scorsese film, rated the best rock movie of all. But behind the scenes, there was mayhem. Levon Helm of The Band tells the inside story. IN 1976 The Band was "perhaps America's most respected rock group"('New York Times'). It had gone from backing rock'n'roller Ronnie Hawkins, to backing Bob Dylan, to standing on its own as a folk-rock group which, despite being four-fifths Canadian, made a string of albums that showed a perfect grasp of the musical traditions of the Deep South. The odd man out was Levon Helm, from Arkansas, one of The Band's three singers and two drummers. He takes up the story: SOME TIME in September 1976 we got word that Robbie Robertson and our management wanted to put it away. Robbie had had enough, and they decided to kill The Band and go out with a bang. I thought it might be a joke, but Robertson was dead serious. In fact, they had a plan. Robbie wanted us to play a farewell show in San Francisco, where it all started for us, around Thanksgiving. He wanted everyone we'd played with along the way - from Ronnie Hawkins to Bob Dylan - to perform, but without their own musicians. We would be the back-up band for our guests. They were already lining people up: Muddy Waters, Paul Butterfield, Van Morrison, Neil Young, Ringo, Eric Clapton, Allen Toussaint. It was gonna be the concert of the century, maybe the show to end the whole so-called rock era. That's what they told me, anyway. I didn't want any part of it. I didn't want to break up The Band. And I told this to Robbie one day in October at our lawyer's office. It was one of many acrimonious meetings. Although I always got there on time, I always had the feeling the meeting had started an hour earlier. The lids of his eyes drooped as I spoke. I think he'd been up all night producing a Neil Diamond album, and he looked burnt out. He lit a cigarette with the end of the one he'd just smoked. I'd known him - or thought I had - for 17 years, since we were both teenagers. Eight years in the bars and eight years on the arena circuit had come down to this. He was saying he was sick of it all. He wanted to keep on recording with us, but not go on the road. "We're not learning anything, man. It's not doing anything for us, and in fact it feels dangerous to me. Look what's happening, Levon. I'm getting superstitious. Look at Dayton Stratton a friend and associate of The Band who had died in an air crash . Every time I get on the plane I'm thinking about this stuff. The whole thing just isn't healthy any more." "I'm not in it for my health," I said. "I'm a musician, and I wanna live the way I do." He said: "That's what I want to do. I want to live. I'm tired of the danger out there. How long before the odds run out? How long before someone dies?I am through with the road, man, and that is that. It's a done deal." There was a silence. He lit a cigarette. I said: "What if the rest of us want to continue as The Band?" Robbie's face darkened. "We could stop it." By "we" he meant that big business had taken over. I knew he and our management had already approached Warner Bros about a new record deal, and Warners was real interested. Bill Graham had been contacted about the last concert, and there was even talk of documenting the show for a feature film. Robertson was saying the rest of us didn't have any choice. "The fuck you could stop it," I said. "I know big business is running this thing now, but if you think you have control over my life, I'll meet you back here in the morning with my lawyer and we'll see who has control.We'll go over the goddamn contracts and see who ends up running the show, because I'll fight you tooth and nail just to feel better about it. I'll show you, you son of a bitch!" "Aw, Levon, come on - " "No, man, you come on. I don't completely understand what your motives are to destroy this group, but I do know it's a crying shame to take this band from productivity to retirement because you're superstitious, or for the sake of a final payday. I know you got all our lawyers and accountants and whatever on your side but this whole thing is dead wrong." He didn't say anything. I walked out. I didn't really know what to do. I thought of fighting it, but then I called Jim Gallman, my lawyer in Arkansas, and told him the story. He told me, in short: "You can't fight 'em and win anything, so my advice is, do whatever the contract says, even if it makes you puke. Do it, puke, and get out of the way." So I went back to Woodstock and waited to see what would happen. I talked to the other guys in the group. Some of us figured that The Band could go on as a recording unit, and use that as an umbrella to do our own things. We rationalised that this last big show would give us a running start to the next phase in our lives. Eventually I got to the point of saying, OK, I'll put my own band together and see what happens. I was the still the least in favour of "The Last Waltz", as Robertson was calling this final show of ours. I was the one who wasn't tired of travelling and sleeping late in good hotel suites and eating in fine restaurants and playing for people, but I didn't want to put myself in any intractable position. I could even understand wanting to stay home with your family and work on movie music, but I didn't want to be that guy. So "The Last Waltz" got set up with very limited input from me. I wish we could have put out 50 albums, and reached out to 10 times more people than we already had. But I also resolved not to have too many regrets and not to put up with too much horseshit concerning "The Last Waltz". I went along with it like a good soldier, but for the record, I didn't get a lot of joy from seeing The Band fold itself up. Nor, so we heard, did a lot of people when they were approached to play.Bob Dylan said it made him real sad. Neil Young said he wasn't ready to hear this bit of news. Bill Graham was shocked as well but saw the dramatic possibilities. He offered the Winterland Ballroom, site of our first show as The Band, on Thanksgiving night, complete with a full turkey dinner with all the fixin's, dancing to an orchestra, followed by our show. In other words, one of Bill Graham's patented extravaganzas, at 25 bucks a ticket. We took the date. On 18 October details were released to the press. Next day the Los Angeles Times reported: "After 16 years on the road, The Band - which has put together the most distinguished body of work of any rock group of the last decade - is apparently calling it quits. At least for touring purposes." The New York Times quoted Robbie saying that The Band would not tour "ever again" after Thanksgiving, but would continue to make records: " 'The Band will never break up,' he said. 'It's too late now."' This was also what Robbie and our management boys said when they went in and tried to con Mo Ostin the boss at Warner Bros. They told Mo we weren't retiring, just quitting the road. Gonna continue recording, developing new product until the cows come home. Warners was assured that we would deliver our last album to Capitol by the end of 1976 and be free agents, ready to sign another deal. The record and movie rights to our Thanksgiving show were also part of the negotiations. The way it ended up, Warner Bros put us on retainer instead of under contract. They paid the group $ 2,000 a week each for the next 28 months, and in return got the album and movie rights to what became The Last Waltz. JIMMY CARTER had been kind enough to receive us in the Georgia governor's mansion when we passed through Atlanta back on the 1974 Dylan tour, and now he was running for president against Gerald Ford. We'd been getting calls asking us to help, so we released a single of "Georgia on My Mind" in Mr Carter's honour. Richard Manuel sang it with the soul factor turned pretty high. On 30 October, 1976, we played "Georgia" on Saturday Night Live, and a few days later Jimmy Carter was elected President of the United States. When they first told me about making a movie out of "The Last Waltz", I was against the idea. I figured that with all the guest artists coming in, we already had to learn more than 20 new songs - chord changes and dynamics - that we'd never played in our lives, and new artists were being added to the show all the time. In fact, no one turned us down. They just said "Where and when?". Musicians got their expenses, but no fees. Bill Graham was in for 10 per cent to take care of his expenses, but he always maintained he went about $ 50,000 in the hole for "The Last Waltz". Dr John came in, then Joni Mitchell was added - we'd known her in Toronto. When I heard that Neil Diamond was going to play, I asked: "What the hell does Neil Diamond have to do with us?" Robbie just produced his album, I was told. "But what does he represent to The Band?" Robbie called me at the Miramar. "Neil is like Tin Pan Alley," he said. "That Fifties, Brill Building scene, songwriters like Doc Pomus. "Why don't we just get Doc Pomus?" He said that he and Neil had written a couple of songs together, and maybe they could do one of 'em in the show. I was glad I insisted on Muddy Waters. Anyway, that was another one we had to learn. I know this put me under a lot of pressure. I asked Robertson how many chances we'd get on each song. "We're filming the show live," he answered. "One take each song." And so the film was more or less shoved down our throats too, and we went along with it. Do it, puke, and get out. MARTIN SCORSESE was part of the movie crew at the Woodstock festival and had edited the three-screen movie Woodstock. Later he made his mark with Mean Streets and Taxi Driver, personal, small-scale films that put him at the top of most people's favourite-director lists. The producer of both was Jon Taplin, our former road manager. Robbie thought nervous, fast-talking Marty was his ticket into Hollywood and asked him to film The Last Waltz. "Van Morrison?" Scorsese said. "Are you shitting me? I've got to do this!" This was in early October, six weeks before the show. Scorsese had just finished shooting New York, New York, a big-budget big-band picture with Liza Minnelli and Robert De Niro. Scorsese's crew had been working with a proscenium stage like the one planned for Winterland, but on a soundstage. Many Hollywood production legends, including cinematographer Laszlo Kovacs, were still available. Almost overnight, Scorsese and Robertson produced a 150-page shooting script so detailed that lighting cues were matched to chord changes. They went to Mo Ostin and asked him to pay for it, and he said Warners would put up the money if Bob Dylan was in the movie. So Bob was approached about this, and they told us that Bob didn't really want to be in the movie because he was working on his own movie, Renaldo and Clara, shot during the Rolling Thunder Revue tour. So we explained the situation, and I think Bob said he would think about it. They went ahead and told Warners that Bob was in on the whole deal. That's how we got Mo Ostin to loan us $ 1.5m for the film, even though we weren't on his label. Bill Graham wasn't into the movie either. He saw The Last Waltz as a historic live event, The Band bonding in farewell with the audience that had greeted us on our debut seven years before. He was more concerned with the logistics of feeding the 5,400 customers, and didn't want big movie cameras and booms blocking their view. There was a lot of reassuring before Bill went for the whole film idea. John Simon music director of the show will give you an idea of the atmosphere surrounding the group. "In the old days working with The Band," he says, "there was nothing on paper, no clearcut deal. I was usually so high that I didn't much notice or even care. If you were broke, you called Albert Grossman the manager , and he'd give you money. "Over the years, I noticed that I didn't get any royalties for the two Band albums I produced. In early 1976 I asked Albert, and he sent me to Robbie. Robbie referred me to their accountant, who said he would check and get back to me. No royalties were due, he claimed. "That autumn Robbie called about 'The Last Waltz'. He said: 'We want you to be the music director. You're the man to do it.' I said: 'Sure, I'd love to do it. And while we're at it, would you ask the accountant one more time if you owe me any money?' A couple of weeks later, a cheque arrives for $ 62,000. Then Robbie called with some cockamamie story asking if, just for bookkeeping purposes, we could make this the last cheque for the two albums. Besides, he assured me, the Last Waltz album would be so huge, there wouldn't be any more financial problems. Being the credulous type, I signed away all future royalties from the first two Band albums - and of course never saw a penny from The Last Waltz. I don't think many people have, because Warners eventually charged the cost of the film against the album. A lot of people got conned, and you let yourself be conned because they were so attractive. "I flew out there, and we had rehearsals at Shangri-La, which was a fun place to hang out. It had a bar-lounge, a good pool table, and the master suite had been turned into a recording studio. No one but Garth Hudson read music, so I had to arrange and work with The Band to learn the songs. Everything was complicated. Bob Dylan was expected to show up at any minute to rehearse, but never actually made it. "Joni Mitchell came to rehearsals and couldn't name the weird tunings her songs were written in, so Garth had to figure out the chords. Ronnie Hawkins was living there, attending the rehearsals and getting to know the big English musicians who liked to hang around the bar at Shangri-La: Eric Clapton, Ringo, Ron Wood. Hawk was like a cheerleader. 'All these big-time English guys,' he told me, 'I've never seen this. This is it, baby!"' I THINK we got to San Francisco about a week before Thanksgiving and moved into the Miyako Hotel, which had a pretty good sushi bar. Do