PLAYBOY: What made you decide to go the rock-’n’-roll route?
DYLAN: Carelessness. I lost my one true love. I started drinking. The first thing I know, I’m in a card game. Then I’m in a crap game. I wake up in a pool hall. Then this big Mexican lady drags me off the table, takes me to Philadelphia. She leaves me alone in her house, and it burns down. I wind up in Phoenix. I get a job as a Chinaman….Needless to say, he burned the house down and I hit the road. The first guy that picked me up asked me if I wanted to be a star. What could I say?
PLAYBOY: And that’s how you became a rock-’n’-roll singer?
DYLAN: No, that’s how I got tuberculosis.
PLAYBOY: Let’s turn the question around: Why have you stopped composing and singing protest songs?
DYLAN: The word “protest,” I think, was made up for people undergoing surgery. It’s an amusement-park word. A normal person in his righteous mind would have to have the hiccups to pronounce it honestly. The word “message” strikes me as having a hernia-like sound. It’s just like the word “delicious.” Also the word “marvellous.” You know, the English can say “marvellous” pretty good. They can’t say “raunchy” so good, though. Well, we each have our thing.
PLAYBOY: Can’t you be a bit more informative?
DYLAN: Nope.
PLAYBOY: How do you get your kicks these days?
DYLAN: I hire people to look into my eyes, and then I have them kick me.
PLAYBOY: And that’s the way you get your kicks?
DYLAN: No. Then I forgive them; that’s where my kicks come in.
PLAYBOY: Did you ever have the standard boyhood dream of growing up to be President?
DYLAN: No. When I was a boy, Harry Truman was President. Who’d want to be Harry Truman?
PLAYBOY: Well, let’s suppose that you were the President. What would you accomplish during your first thousand days?
DYLAN: Well, just for laughs, so long as you insist, the first thing I’d do is probably move the White House. Instead of being in Texas, it’d be on the East Side in New York. McGeorge Bundy would definitely have to change his name, and General McNamara would be forced to wear a coonskin cap and shades.
In conversation, the put-on nearly always arises in response to questions. When the questioner and questionee represent opposing philosophies, invocation of the put-on precludes any possible agreement. Even though it’s really a defensive weapon, the put-on almost always provides an offensive for the questionee, representative of the smaller, more helpless faction, making his group appear In and the larger, more powerful group of the questioner appear Out. Because the put-on is a close-range weapon, it is usually, by a curious mechanism, employed against the most sympathetic elements among the enemy. One might almost say that it is invoked when the moment of reconciliation is in sight, at the point when dialogue might begin—to prevent dialogue, to guarantee continued estrangement, and to protect the integrity of a beleaguered minority position. Thus, a bohemian delinquent will usually treat policemen with careful deference, but he will mercilessly put on a friendly probation officer or social worker. An artist will put on a dumb but eager fan who inquires about his creative methods but not a total boor who evinces no interest in art whatever. By the same token, Negroes commonly put on white liberals. As an exception, Stokely Carmichael built up a nearly legendary reputation in S.N.C.C. by putting on Southern bigots (subtly sassing Lowndes County deputies, mimicking their swaggers, addressing them in Yiddish)—an almost unheard-of practice. He could get away with it simply because the form of the put-on is so elusive; the victim is never sure precisely what’s happening. In this manner, the put-on brings the submerged antagonisms of a relationship perilously close to the surface—without actually allowing them to come into the open. If the victim chooses to notice the put-on, the perpetrator can always feign absolute innocence. A put-on may even be veiled in expressions of injured purity:
A: What are you trying to do—make fun of me, nigger?
B: Oh no, suh. No suh, Boss.
In less explosive situations, this impalpable quality prevents forthright discussion of the resentments that may have produced the put-on in the first place:
A: Why are you treating me contemptuously?
B: Contemptuously? That’s just a hostile projection. What ever are you talking about? You must be paranoid.
A: Well, perhaps I am oversensitive. Perhaps I’m imagining things.
The victim is often at least a partially willing victim; a bewildered guilt makes him reluctant to press the issue. But his vague feeling of having been placed at an unfair disadvantage, of having been ridiculed, persists semi-consciously. He may subsequently take indirect revenge.
Although there may be as many variations as practitioners, the extended in-group put-on usually improvises on two classic formats:
(1) Relentless Agreement: The perpetrator beats his victim to every low cliché the latter might possibly mouth.
(2) Actualization of the Stereotype: The perpetrator personifies every cliché about his group, realizes his adversary’s every negative expectation. He becomes a grotesque rendition of his presumed identity, faking heated emotion.
Either of these options—caricaturing the victim or caricaturing the victim’s image of oneself—is called into play when an out-group representative attempts to engage an in-group representative on the subject of their estrangement. The second option, being more obviously hostile, is more often taken at face value by the victim, but both options serve to affirm the belief that communication between disparate worlds is impossible—to affirm in-group solidarity and isolation. Both types grow progressively more extravagant. Here are some examples:
I. Young vs. Old: A well-disposed but bewildered adult tries to talk with a “rebellious adolescent” about generational gap. The young man responds:
(1) “Ah, I don’t know….Kids today—they’re always running. But who knows where they’re going? Crazy clothes, loud music—if you wanna call it music—fast cars, drinking, smoking, drugs. The next thing you know, we’ll be going out with girls.”
(2) “Why don’t you go play with your mutual funds or something? Why don’t you get off my back? I just want to bug out on your nowhere scene, nowhere man. Excuse me, I gotta go dig some groovy sounds and sniff a pot of airplane glue. Lemme peel out on my boss Harley.”
II. Black vs. White: A benevolent progressive tries to express his questioning support of civil rights. The militant Negro responds:
(1) “You’re two hundred percent right. I mean, with freedom goes responsibility. You can’t just grab everything right off. Some demonstrations can only hurt our cause, you know what I mean? Like Dr. King says, our people’ve got to meet body force with Soul Force. He sets a good example. Like Joe Louis. He was a helluva fighter, huh? But he knew his place. Now, a man like Adam Clayton Powell, he’s overstepping his bounds. He takes advantage. Ralph Bunche. That was a good nigger. ’Cept he couldn’t sing and dance. What do you think?”
(2) “Don’t make your superego gig with me, ofay baby. Your granddaddy rape my grandmammy, and now you tell me doan sleep with your daughter? Well, beat up side my black head and whup my humble black back, but don’t offer me none of the supreme delectafactotory blessings of equalorama, ’cause when this bitch blows you gonna feel black man’s machete in the soft flesh of your body, dig?”
III. Dove vs. Hawk: A patriotic Republican tries to start a serious conversation on the Southeast Asian situation. The subversive responds:
(1) “Absolutely. We’re just making the same mistake we made in Korea, pussyfooting in those jungle swamps like gorillas. Our country’s going to lose its first war unless we go on up North and nuke ’em and nape ’em. That’s the only language those Commies understand, those Red butchers. We should throw all our pinko bleeding-heart draft-card burners in jail, or ship ’em over to Ho Chi Minh, where they belong.”
(2) “Sure, I’d just love to go into the military myself, start a little education program
of my own. Maybe take a squadron out to defoliate Central Park and burn down Rockefeller Center. Give you imperialist warmongers and your Texas Führer in the White House something to think about.”
IV. Hip vs. Square: A Sunday Villager from uptown seeks illumination on the bohemian mystique. The hippie responds:
(1) “Yeah, well, you know if we could get jobs we’d lap ’em up, but who’d hire us, man? Like we’re dirty. I haven’t had a bath since last February. And you should see the chick that shares my pad—freaky little mind-blower. You really got the life, Charlie—kids, a couple parakeets, a beer and a ball game. You don’t worry about nothin’, hear? You’re on the right track. Listen, could you spare a quarter? I haven’t had breakfast.”
(2) Sullen silence interspersed with incoherent grunts. Hippie finally grins sardonically and offers the square a reefer. “Somethin’ is happening here, but you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mistah Jones?”
V. Homosexual vs. Heterosexual: A straight (another meaning of this protean word) but enlightened man, evincing his enlightenment, seeks data. The homosexual responds:
(1) “Why, of course it’s a sickness, there’s no question. Take me. My father was weak, henpecked. It’s psychological. My mother wouldn’t let me wear long pants till I was fourteen. And then the Army. Well, you know. It’s better than animals. My analyst thinks I’m progressing toward a real adjustment.”
(2) Mock flirtation; strokes the victim, bats eyelashes, dentalizes or lisps. “You sure know how to dress. And you’re so understanding. Why don’t you loosen up a little, Mary?”
In less threatening situations, the put-on itself can become the basis of the come-on. Such cases prostitute the form: genuine transaction is avoided (cop-out), but time passes and nothing real or interesting happens. Asked about his background at a party, a young man replies in a Westbrook Van Vorhis voice, “I was born of rich but humble parents in a little mining town called Juarez….” There is no promise of engagement in what is to come, because there is no potential for fake-out. Is the truth so boring or embarrassing? This species of ersatz put-on lacks the element of tension. It is, at bottom, only a “bit,” and occurs when the put-on itself becomes an established set—when a person begins actually to put himself on, and can no longer betray any straight feelings. Once the put-on is explicitly labelled (as by a new comedian, who titled his first record album Take-Offs and Put-Ons), uncertainty dissolves and old-fashioned kidding takes over.
Like sentimentality, the put-on offers a lazy man’s substitute for feeling as well as for thought. Again, the form contains a built-in escape clause. People are not so much unsure of their feelings as unsure what feeling may be appropriate. Thus, a trite expression of feeling now has the advantage of being equivocal.
“How did you like the play?”
“Very moving.”
Perfect, take it how you will. Whether the play was moving, corny, or itself a put-on, the question has been answered—assuming a slightly ambiguous intonation—appropriately.
A related but more calculated and aggressive dodge involves, quite simply, replying in gibberish when no honest response springs to mind.
“How did you like the play?”
“It was over the bush, man.”
This sort of remark is seldom challenged. On the rare occasion when a victim asks, “What does ‘over the bush’ mean?,” the perpetrator assumes a vaguely irritated tone and replies, “You know, man, it’s like funk, only trippier,” or some such nonsense. It takes a hardy victim to press the matter further.
Another subtle, and eventually devastating, ploy might be called the “silent put-on.” Its perpetrator sits in rapt attention—nodding vigorously, asking occasional questions—as his victim pontificates. Gradually, the victim begins to suspect, rightly or wrongly, that his silent audience knows a good deal more about the subject at hand than he’s letting on (“Here I’ve been running on about modern art on the basis of catalogue blurbs, and this fellow is obviously an important critic or painter himself”). As the perpetrator begins to reinforce this suspicion with improbable expressions of awe, the victim dimly perceives that, having been given enough rope to hang himself, he has behaved like a pompous, ignorant ass. Typically, he tapers off in embarrassment and excuses himself.
Not all conversational put-ons are so viciously intended. Some, particularly those employed by people who are either high on mind-affecting chemicals or have experimented considerably with such drugs, are simply a form of exploratory play—the interpersonal equivalent of set-breaking put-ons in serious art. LSD and, to a lesser extent, marijuana and hashish continuously dissolve and re-form the structure of reality, until being put through changes—and following these changes wherever they may lead—constitutes the drug user’s most real and pleasurable sort of experience. The word “straight,” therefore, denotes both not going through changes (not appreciating put-ons) and not being under the influence of drugs. Hallucinogens subject one’s world of static reality (the Comprehensive Come-On) to constant fake-outs—transform it, indeed, into a gigantic put-on. The psychedelic solution to this flux: embrace every tangent, every fake-out with the same zeal. A conversational digression, perhaps initiated by a pun or misunderstanding, becomes altogether as important as the “main” conversation, and may supersede it entirely. When “heads” relate to one another, they perpetually put each other through changes, bust up each other’s sets before sets can solidify. Flowing downstream with these changes is, for these people, serious fun. When heads relate to straight people, however, this set-breaking activity is experienced as put-on. A head’s deliberately inappropriate behavior at a party—ranting, or talking nonsense, or demonstrating disproportionate affection toward strangers, or radically shifting the mood and emotional intensity of discourse—subjects his victims to a kind of involuntary “acid test.” Either they are able to follow him through his changes—neutralizing and appreciating them with their own consciousnesses—or they persist in their straightness and are “freaked”; i.e., respond, by leaving or fighting, as if they were under attack. If they do the first, they are said to have been turned on; if the second, they can have quite a bad time. Hence the positive or negative reactions on the part of reporters interviewing creative performers who have been influenced by mind-bending drugs. A non-psychedelic illustration of the same principle turns up in Don’t Look Back, D. A. Pennebaker’s cinema-vérité movie of Dylan’s London tour, a prolonged documentary of Dylan putting on the British—or, rather, putting them through changes. Some get turned on, some completely fail to perceive what’s happening, and many get freaked.
Heads try to break up sets without malevolence, but their put-ons are sometimes so extreme that straight people mistake them for “scoring”—the sort of derision that Negroes call “signifying” and adolescents call “chopping,” “ranking,” or “sounding.” Non-heads also may employ the put-on without malice. Sometimes understated facetiousness seems the only way to keep the ball rolling in a conversation that would be otherwise devoid of interest and amusement. When such put-ons pass unrecognized over the heads of one’s companions, all parties can enjoy the proceedings on different levels and no feelings are ruffled.
Richard H. Rovere
SEPTEMBER 7, 1968
IT IS CLEAR to everyone in retrospect—as it was clear to many in prospect—that it was a dreadful mistake to hold this gathering in Chicago in August of 1968. “We knew this was going to happen,” the Vice-President said as he turned away from the ugly picture in his picture window to the exhilarating one on the tube. “It was programmed.” Everyone knew that it was programmed. The Republicans, ingloriously but nonetheless wisely, withdrew to Miami Beach, a community—if it deserves any such designation—in many ways more obscene than this one but at least a place in which bloodshed was unlikely. As it turned out, there was bloodshed across the bay—probably, though not certainly, related to their Convention—but there is blood running in the streets of many cities now, and although there
were deaths in Miami proper, as there have not been in Chicago so far, there was no programmed confrontation there, and there could not have been one unless the demonstrators had chosen to form an invading armada. Holding the Democratic Convention in Chicago was in itself an act no less provocative than the actions of some of the demonstrators who wished, above all else, to have things work out exactly as they did. The Democrats stuck to Chicago for some reasons that were terrible and for some that were not. The President, who had planned the Convention he did not dare attend at a time when he still expected to be its candidate, did not wish the sessions to be held in Republican territory; that ruled out New York, California, Florida, and a good many other states. A commitment was made to Mayor Daley, who sealed the deal with a bundle of cash. But the seal could have been broken and the cash returned as recently as a month ago for reasons both honorable and humane. No doubt a reluctance to offend the Mayor played a part in the decision not to change the site. But by that late date the pride of other Party leaders had also become involved. “It would be an act of pure chicken to run away from Chicago now,” one Party spokesman said at the end of July. “Chicago is where the people live, and if Democrats are afraid to face them, we might as well fold up the Party.”
It can be argued that only in a few other places—Miami Beach, Honolulu, and Fairbanks seem to just about exhaust the list—could a confrontation have been avoided. Transportation is relatively cheap in this country now, and a lack of money was not, in any case, what primarily afflicted those who spent their days in the parks by the lake and their nights doing battle in the nearby streets; the few who were poor and hardy made it to Chicago free, by hitchhiking. They would have assembled in any city in the country about as they did here. But one cannot avoid the conclusion that almost anywhere else would have been better. This is a peculiarly violent city; there may be no higher ratio of brutes among the police here than among the police anywhere, though it certainly seemed as if there were to those who watched them in action the last two nights. But there is violence in the politics of this place. Long before the Convention, the Mayor gave his sanction to the use of the gun, and he exhibited this week—as he moved through the heavily policed hotel lobbies surrounded by a large personal guard—nothing but pride when asked by newspapermen to comment on the work of his force. The most shocking thing of all, however, was not the lack of restraint on the part of the police but the obvious preparations for violence among the citizens. In the days before the Convention, the papers were full of stories about the outrage of the people living in the neighborhoods between the Loop and the stockyards at the prospect of their streets’ becoming a parade route for anti-war protesters headed for the International Amphitheatre. “If they just march through quietly, we’ll ignore it,” one man said, “but if they bring a Viet Cong flag on this block, we’ll tear them apart—we’ll kill them.” Newspapers tend to play up the extravagant and inflammatory. Yet a tour of the streets in question—the old Studs Lonigan neighborhood, and still Mayor Daley’s, but nowadays predominantly peopled by industrial workers of Eastern European background—seemed to show that there was little overstatement in the stories. For block after dismal block, there was scarcely a house—one in twenty, perhaps—without an American flag and a portrait of Mayor Daley in the window. On Union Avenue, a main thoroughfare of the section, sandwich men paraded up and down with anti-Communist slogans, and one could not help feeling that perhaps it was best, after all, not to grant a parade permit to the demonstrators. It would have been one thing, of course, if a permit had been issued and the police instructed to protect the protesters. But this might have required the police to deal with the burghers as they had been dealing with the demonstrators. This they would never have done. It would have been like clubbing their fellow-cops.
The 60s Page 24
