by Larry Sloman
“They just did it!” Ginsberg yelled back at me. “That sounds so good, I’ve never heard Dylan sing so powerful before. He sounds like an emperor of sound.” Ginsberg turned back to the stage, then swiftly leaned to me again. “He had the authority of an emperor of sound.”
The band churned on, plowing into a speeded-up version of “She Belongs to Me.” Onstage, Neuwirth was cutting up, giving Dylan a sly look on the line, “salute her when her birthday comes,” then suggesting that “For Christmas, buy her a whip.” Ginsberg was enthralled, amazed at how Dylan had managed to breathe new life into these old standards. “He can’t remember them, it’s like they were somebody else’s songs,” he told me incredulously, “he’s completely egoless.” We turned back to watch Dylan and Neuwirth cavorting together on the stage. “Look at them sharing humor and playfulness,” Ginsberg pointed out professionally. “It’s great, both Dylan and Neuwirth seem to understand the music in a marvelously sympathetic way, like a bunch of genius kids playing someone else’s songs. It’s amazing, the precision of his rhythm and the precision of the way he pronounces the syllables.”
Allen rushed up and took a front-row seat, his eyes scanning the assemblage onstage. “Look at Mansfield,” he pointed to the cherubic multitalented player, “he has the face of a Botticelli angel, a Florentine princeling.” Onstage, they rolled into “Hard Rain,” rocking new life into the once-somber folksong. Ginsberg was almost beside himself, singing along, stamping his foot, slapping his thighs. “It’s more like he’s actually pronouncing the words,” Ginsberg shouted. “The electric-made rhythm is exact to actual American speech with no romantic distortion. It syncopates even more.” Dylan was boogying, bouncing around on one foot, as Allen moved his chair even closer, almost to the lip of the stage. “The song has become a dance of joy!” he screamed over the din.
They ground to an end and an emissary from Kemp came over to me. “Louie wants to see you,” he whispered and we moved out to the hall. Kemp was standing there, looking like a model of parental authority. “You’ve had enough; you’ll OD. Go home and write your story.” I protested, but to no avail.
Later that night, I wandered over to the Gramercy Hotel to see McGuinn and walked in on an impromptu party for Steve Soles in the bar. It was Soles’ twenty-fifth birthday, and Thunderers Blakley, Elliot, and Ronson were sitting around a table, swapping stories. A crew-cutted Lou Reed walked by, accompanied by a dark androgynous companion named Rachel. Reed, who had worked with Ronson on his Transformer LP, joined the table and began talking about gore photos. Jack Elliot started to pick out a lazy country tune. “I want to learn the electric geetar,” he drawled. “I’m tired of Jerry Garcia picking circles around me ’cause he’s got twelve million dollars.” Jack got interrupted by a call, then moseyed back to the crowd. “Telephone and eating food,” he mused, shaking his head, “two dirty New York habits.”
Reed, clearly out of his element among these folkies, tried to cajole Ronson into splitting for a loft around the corner. But Ronson was too settled and after a few more entreaties Reed gave up, a look of disgust crossing his world-weary face. “C’mon,” he signaled to Rachel, “let’s split, this is slumming.” By now, some more tour members had filtered into the now-closed bar, and were frantically devising a way to break the lock off the liquor cabinet. Dylan walked in and we struck up a conversation, a conversation that lasted about a minute, until Kemp spotted us. Louie charged over, motioning me away. “C’mon, give him room, man.” I retreated to the company of those that don’t need protection.
By now, someone had located the owner’s son, and he authorized the impending destruction of the liquor cabinet’s lock. Bowden, McGuinn’s bear of a guitar player, vaulted the bar and hunched over the cabinet like an expert safe man. The lock was maddeningly resistant so Bowden simply ripped the entire cabinet door off its hinges and the thirsty crowd cheered. Chesley Milliken, Ramblin’ Jack’s road manager, and the scion of the Gramercy, served as impromptu bartenders, and Dylan ordered five Remys. “That’ll be ten dollars for the five brandies,” the owner’s son said straight-faced. “He’s charging for these fucking drinks,” Ronson muttered, but the scion stood firm: “Look, that’s not bar prices, it’s a substantial discount.” It’s clear the Gramercy will be in good hands.
Dylan retreated to a far corner of the bar, loosening up with the Remys, the omnipresent Kemp never more than one or two bodies away. Chesley, who had been serving up those brandies, leaned over toward Dylan. “Why’d you call this thing ‘Rolling Thunder,’ man?” he queried. Dylan focused in on him, thought for a minute, then leaned conspiratorially over the bar. “I was just sitting outside my house one day,” he finally replied, “thinking about a name for this tour, when all of a sudden, I looked into the sky and I heard a boom!” Dylan’s black-leather-jacketed arm sprung into the air, delivering synchronized punches to his narrative. “Then, boom, boom, boom, boom, rolling from west to east. So I figured that that should be the name.” He leaned back, with a sly grin on his face. “You know what Rolling Thunder means to the Indians?” questioned Chesley, something of an authority on Indian lore. “No. What?” Dylan snapped back. “Speaking truth,” Chesley smiled. Silence. Dylan shifted his hat and rocked back on his barstool. “Well, well. I’m glad to hear that man, I’m real glad to hear that.”
*Hurricane Carter was released on bail pending a new trial on March 20, 1976. He was tried and found guilty in December of that year. His conviction was finally overturned, and in 1988 the prosecutor filed a motion to drop all charges against Carter.
The buses took off promptly the next morning with their bleary-eyed passengers. But the camper was long gone, Dylan so excited about the tour that he had pulled out from the Gramercy before dawn. Up in Massachusetts, the troupe sequestered itself at the Sea Crest Motel, a lush, rambling resort in North Falmouth, about a half-hour’s drive from the first gigs in Plymouth. For the musicians, it was a chance to lounge a few days and get some additional rehearsal in, in a relaxed setting. The tennis courts were converted to an outdoor rehearsal hall and the only distractions were some nice Jewish mommas lodged at the Sea Crest for their annual Mah-Jongg convention.
It was such a relaxed setting that one night, Bob and Joan decided to hang out with those old ladies, dropping in on one of their meetings and doing a short set, a couple of nice acoustic ballads. Of course, they brought the film crew with them.
I hadn’t planned to leave the city until Wednesday night in order to have a chance to straighten out final domestic details, rent a car, get a letter of authorization from Rolling Stone, and pack. And to call Kinky Friedman down in Rio Duckworth, Texas, and get the lyrics to “Ride ’Em Jewboy” for Dylan.
Kinky is the original Texas Jewboy, the first member of his religious persuasion to opt for country music stardom, if you don’t count Stringbean, who was a closet Jew. Actually he’s sort of the Groucho Marx of music, sporting a Menorah-emblazoned silk cowboy shirt, a cross between a ten-gallon cowboy hat and a Jewish-old-man fedora riding snugly atop his mossy hair, and those long ceegars dangling unlit from his lower lip. He sports chaps onstage and his guitar has a long fuzzy aqua fur strap. The sound is distinctly country, the patter decidedly crude, punctuated by burps and frequent ethnic slurs (“We’ve been about as busy as a set of jumper cables at a nigger funeral.”) But the songs are brilliant, sensitive, and finely crafted jewels. Perhaps the most stunning is “Ride ’Em Jewboy,” the only rock song written about the Holocaust, a touching treatment that belies the sensationalistic title.
It was about noon, Texas time, when I called Kinky and after a few rings a fuzzy sleep-edged voice blurted out, “Hello, what be thy name?” I identified myself and Kinky jarred himself awake. “Hey hoss,” he chuckled, “how you doing in your New York area, boy-chick.” We exchanged a few amenities and I mentioned the business at hand, the lyrics to “Ride ’Em Jewboy.”
“OK it starts with ‘Ride’ …” Kinky began.
“No, start with the r
ecitation you’d do.”
“I never do that anymore.”
“I don’t care, that was the most moving part.”
“OK it went, ‘Father,’ it was huh?, ‘Father, let our blessing touch us and remain, guiding all our actions, till we meet again. Unto all thy children here and everywhere, Father give us comfort of thy loving care.’ Then I go into the yodel, eeehhheeeiiii, just yodeling, OK, then into Ridddddeee … ride ’Em jewboy ride ’Em all around the old corral
I’m I’m with you boy if I got to ride six million miles
Now the smokes from camps arising
See the helpless creatures on their way
Hey old pal, ain’t it surprising
How far you can go before you stay
And don’t you let the morning blind you
When on your sleeve you wore the yeller star
Old memories still live behind ya
Can’t you see by your outfits who you are
How long will you be driven relentless around the world
The blood in the rhythm of the soul …
I jumped into Kinky’s recitation here. “The blood in the rhythm? I always thought it was ‘river.’”
Kinky paused. “No, ‘rhythm,’ the ‘blood in the rhythm of the soul.’ But ‘river’ would be OK too. So would ‘rivet’ Just about anything.” He moved back into his performance.
“Then we do this yodel about three times, go completely bonkers, and lately I’ve been taking up, you know, these little plastic zingers that kids swing around. I been using that at the end, all the music stops, and I’m doing this little zinger thing close to the mike, then suddenly all the music comes back in with the yodels and everything like that. It’s really a strong effect. Then I do my Jimmy Durante exit.”
“Listen, Kinky …”
“I’ll eat your dick if Dylan records the fucker or does it on the tour.”
“You got any message for Dylan, Kink?”
“I don’t know. Uh, uh,” Kinky stammered, “tell him shalom, shalom. I mean, what should I tell him?”
“He told me that he doesn’t think you understand him. I think he really likes you.”
“Tell him shalom, then. I mean tell him, ‘Are you new in town sailor?’ He is a good old boy now. Hey, keep me posted on this tour shit, niggerlips.”
“OK, I think Dylan’ll do the song.”
“I hope he does, man.”
“He said he would.”
“Well, if he does,” Kinky brightened, “then tell him I like him. Be good now boychick. Bye-bye.”
By Wednesday I was on the road to Plymouth, with a red Hertz Granada and my friend George, an inveterate Dylan fan, along to help with the driving. It was a pleasant ride, aided by a steady stream of Dylan cassettes and an animated conversation with George about the influence Dylan had had on both our lives. “I got too jammed up on Dylan,” George moaned, “he began to influence my writing too much. I had to outgrow him in a sense. But he’s had such a weird effect on other people. I once knew a girl, she was pretty schizoid. One night she had me on the phone about four hours till sunrise, translating Blonde on Blonde for me. It wasn’t that she was just interpreting the words, when she ran out of words she started fucking translating the music on that album into words. A lot of people get weird behind Dylan.”
In our excitement we missed the cutoff for North Falmouth, and it wasn’t till we hit Boston that we realized we’d driven about an hour out of our way. So at 4 A.M. we finally staggered into the Sea Crest and got a room. A room that we were forced to vacate about twelve hours later.
It all started at breakfast late Thursday morning, the beginning of the whole incredible morass.
There was a 2 P.M soundcheck at the Armory in Plymouth so by noon all the musicians had fallen into the dining room to catch a late breakfast. David Blue and Ronson were pissed off because Stoner had been making some last-minute cuts in the songs. A bleary-eyed Bob Neuwirth joined us at the table, sharing concern over the cuts in the program. Just then, Chris O’Dell, a thin blonde, who has worked as tour coordinator for everyone from the Beatles to the Rolling Stones, beckoned me out of the dining room. “You can’t hang out in there with the musicians,” she gently chided. “Louie’s freaking out. No press are allowed in the hotel. Listen, keep a low profile for the first few days and I’m sure you’ll work something out.” We walked along the hall until we got to an office that had a makeshift hand-lettered sign on the door reading Zebra Productions. Inside, Kemp was talking on the phone. He signaled that I should wait outside.
A few minutes later he stormed into the hall. “What are you doing here? You can’t stay at the same hotel as us.” I was flabbergasted and managed only a few hesitant stammers before Kemp was off into another tirade. “You better check out right now. There’s no press allowed to stay where we are. Those are just the rules that you’ve got to follow. If you want any cooperation from us, then you’re just gonna have to play along.” I protested a bit, but realizing that it was a futile effort, I went over to the front desk to check out. On the way I saw Stoner. “Hey, how’s it going Larry,” he smiled. “Shit,” I growled, “they’re treating me like a nigger.” Stoner rolled his eyes. “I know what you mean. I’m on the show and I’m a nigger.”
At the desk I rang up George and told him to pack the bags. He came out a few minutes later, livid and weighed down with luggage. “What is this shit?” he screamed.
“It’s the road,” I sighed. “In New York it was my turf, like I was turning them on to parties and things. But here it’s Camp Kemp. And we just flunked inspection.”
“Fuck him,” George bellowed, “you can talk to anyone you want. Write Dylan a letter, see if he knows about this.” “And what,” I fumed, “address it ‘Bob Dylan—Rolling Thunder Road?’ Or should I put it in a box and have a UPS guy deliver it to his Holiday Inn door? Look, you can throw the old rulebook right out the window. What happened in the past or future don’t mean shit. It’s all happening now. Forget about Dylan digging something I said at the party in New York or Baez smiling at you at the rehearsal, or Kemp letting me stay at that late-night jam. Right now, they are the Rolling Thunder Revue. And we’re nothing.”
And with that, we poured into the Granada and stormed down the road to another motel.
Plymouth is a quaint little town, with one main strip leading down to the water, a few decent-looking seafood restaurants, gas stations, a few banks. On the way to the first concert we stopped at the Walgreen’s and passed an older man in a lumber jacket poring over the soft-core porn books on the rack, stuff like Biff Bam Thank You ’Mam.
There was a certain humility and reverence mixed with a pinch of arrogance in choosing this place to kick off the tour. This was one of the first settlements of the New World after all, the first place the Pilgrims touched down and started the great experiment that more than two hundred years later was still alive if somewhat shaky. And for Dylan and company, it was the perfect place to make their new beginning, to kick off their caravan, to bring to the people in as direct and unimpeded a manner as possible the messages that sustained and fed our culture through the ’60s and which power the sounds of the ’70s. It was to be Plymouth Rock for the bicentennial. The symbolic significance aside, a town with a population under twenty thousand ain’t a bad place to break in the act before you hit Boston and Montreal.
Down the road from Walgreen’s is the Plymouth Memorial Auditorium. An old imposing building, lots of nice woodwork, seating about 1,800 at most, including the sea of folding chairs that have been set up on the basketball court floor. The place had been rented the previous week by Barry Imhoff’s advance men, Jerry Seltzer and Jacob Van Cleef, for the staggering sum of $250 a night. At first, they told the Plymouth authorities it was to be a Joan Baez concert, but then word was leaked on some local radio stations and Seltzer and Van Cleef started distributing handbills, which featured ornate Wild West show logos and photos of Dylan, Neuwirth, Elliot, and Baez under the Rolling Thun
der Revue banner. And the tickets started getting snapped up in this predominantly working-class town, even at $7.50 a shot. So as we pull up to the auditorium a good hour before showtime the handwritten sign on the red brick edifice spells it out: BAEZ-DYLAN CONCERTS BOTH PERFORMANCES SOLD OUT.
At the three doors leading into the lobby, the early-arriving ticketholders undergo a skin search, with cameras, tape recorders, and booze the taboo possessions. Kemp and Imhoff are off to one side, supervising the opening-night proceedings in the lobby. A ticket booth has been set up and Ava Megna has the complimentary list. I ask for my two tickets. “Two tickets? I only have you down for one, Larry.” Incredible, another indignity. The sacred canon of two comps shamelessly violated by the brash fish merchant. I make a beeline for Kemp, followed closely by one of the camera crews. The kleigs light up the hall. “What the fuck’s going on here,” I shout, ever mindful of the camera angle. “First you kick me out of the hotel, then you give me only one ticket.” “What, do you have a date?” Kemp caustically replies. “Fuck,” I motion toward George, the cameras panning in the direction of my outstretched hand, “how’s my driver going to see it. He’s a big Dylan freak.” Louie seems taken aback. “Driver?” He peers in George’s direction. “Shit, I didn’t even know you had a car.” After a bit more hassle, Kemp promises to scrape up a ticket for George and I sidle over to Imhoff, complaining about the press arrangements. “Look, you can’t talk to the band,” Imhoff lectures. He points a beefy finger toward the incoming hordes. “Interview these people. Do it on these people, they’re the real story.”
