On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  Around the table, Shepard, Alk, Meyers, and Howard are discussing the film. Shepard seems disturbed, claiming that making a movie isn’t like writing a song, it needs more planning and more scripting. Alk shakes his head vigorously. “Look, Dylan is a film genius. Genius. We can let Bobby go anytime as long as we prep the other people.” They continue on, discussing yesterday’s Baez scene as Ratso wolfs down a steak and then drives over to the college.

  The gym is packed to overflowing as Ratso walks in and begins to make his way to the front. There are bleachers ringing the gym on three sides, chairs in the center, and bodies where the aisles once were. Halfway to the stage, Allen Ginsberg sits with a group of Buddhists in rows, and Ratso waves, then fights his way to the backstage entrance and manages to pass the letter he wrote to Dylan to Lola, who promises swift delivery.

  These are perhaps the worst conditions yet encountered on the tour, certainly rivaling Lowell’s gym, and with the crowd rocketing the temperature to close to 100 degrees it’s certainly no picnic up on stage. But onstage everybody’s pouring their guts out, Dylan sweating so hard his pancake makeup is completely washed off by his fourth number.

  Outside, a bottle war is raging, the disgruntled students and hangers-on who couldn’t get in using the university police as targets for their Ripple and Thunderbird wine bottles. Ratso ventures out cautiously, hears a bottle whiz by his ear and smash up against the wall, splattering into a thousand glass fragments; he decides he likes the heat better.

  A wise decision as he gets to see a compelling new version of “Simple Twist of Fate,” a scorching “Oh Sister,” a humid “Hurricane.” By now, even Scarlett looks hot in this sauna and she ain’t even human, Ratso marvels. “Bring on Roger,” someone screams for McGuinn and Dylan chuckles. “Roger’ll be right back,” he announces, “he’s gonna stay here all night.” Then “Just Like a Woman,” and a hush falls over the crowd, a hush as thick as the pea-soup atmosphere. Dylan’s picking his guitar like a machine gun, ratatating the phrases out over the mesmerized audience, a good percentage of whom are singing the words right back to him. McGuinn runs on to cheers and they shift into “Knocking on Heaven’s Door,” the sweat pouring off Dylan now like a shower. Then everyone into the pool, the whole gang’s on for “This Land is Your Land,” Baez looking like some hippie beachcomber, barefoot, glitter T-shirted, and jeans rolled up, throwing Ratso a wink in the first row.

  Then it’s over and they stream off the stage, with Raven like some water boy, standing, handing out towels as they flow by and run directly to the warmed-up buses. Ratso walks around the gym a bit, checks out the now peaceful battle front, and then strolls back inside. The standing ovation is still pouring out, lasting at least ten minutes by now. Ratso walks to the backstage entrance where his car is parked.

  By the stage door, Jacques Levy and his girlfriend Claudia are getting some well-deserved fresh air and Ratso stops to chat with them. Suddenly, a young kid tears around the building, stops, then stumbles the last few feet. He seems to be looking for something and lurches toward the trio.

  “I can’t believe it,” he moans, “nothing, nothing.”

  He looks over toward Levy.

  “They’re not here, are they,” he asks rhetorically, “they left, huh?”

  Levy smiles and nods.

  “I can’t believe it,” the kid keeps mumbling, scanning the desolate grass field. “They’re gone.” He kicks at the dirt. “Like some goddamn dream.”

  The tour left that night directly for Maine, but Ratso, true to his word to Louie, stayed behind and headed back to New York the next day for a breather before rejoining the troupe in Waterbury, Connecticut, on Tuesday night.

  The reporter finds his way to the section stage left where guests and friends of the Revue are sitting and he plops into a seat as Neuwirth introduces a radiant Ronee Blakley, decked out in a long violet gown. Suddenly he looks up to see Ginsberg bearing down on him. “Bobby wants to see your article.” Ginsberg motions toward the advance copy of Rolling Stone Ratso has on his lap, “but I want to get your permission first.” Ratso shrugs and gives Allen the paper, settling back to watch Jack Elliot ramble through his set. Then Dylan strides on, without makeup tonight, but no doubt aware of the two cameras that are trained on his every gesture. He plows through his set, fairly unloquacious except for the inevitable dedication to Sam Peckinpah.

  At intermission, Ratso buys some popcorn and settles down to dinner just as Lola comes out of the backstage door with Ginsberg. She looks concerned. “Listen, Bob is pissed. You shouldn’t have bad-mouthed Ronee in the article,” she sternly lectures.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Ratso’s amazed.

  “Why’d you call her a neurotic?” Lola demands.

  Suddenly it dawns on Ratso. In his article, he had described Blakley as the Nashville Neurotic, referring to her movie role as Barbara Jean. Dylan must have skimmed the article, seen the phrase, and blown up. It’s nice he’s so loyal to his performers, Ratso muses.

  “Look, schmuck, it’s in italics. I’m talking about the movie, not the city. She was a neurotic in the film, that was her role. I love Blakley, I’m listening to the tape of her new album every night, it’s great. Tell Bob what I meant, show him the context.” Lola agrees and scurries backstage before the Dylan-Baez segment.

  Dylan and Baez start their set and Ratso settles back to listen. Until he feels this feather tickling his ear. He turns and looks at the seat next to his. Lisa again.

  “Guess what?” she smiles her hapless smile, “I just got the itinerary this week and I haven’t slept with anybody.” Just then one of the security guards grabs Lisa and starts to dance with her in the aisle. After a few minutes, Lisa returns. “Barry Imhoff is hassling me to points of no end,” she moans, “’cause I’m all over. He saw me in the dressing room and really freaked out.”

  Ratso settles back again, watching Baez rip through a torrid set, culminating with her doing the frug to McGuinn’s “Eight Miles High,” all captured by the omnipresent camera eye of filmmaker Meyers. Dylan returns to rip into “Hurricane,” giving it a special urgency since Rubin had been transferred that day from Trenton State to a much lower-security facility. But one that still believed in locks on the doors. Dylan is wailing, then he shifts into “One More Cup of Coffee” and is bending the words like a pretzel maker, sending sideliner Ginsberg into fits of ecstasy. Just then, Lola comes out into the hall and catches Ratso’s eye. She gives him the high sign then disappears mysteriously.

  The band finishes “One More Cup” and Dylan turns his back on the audience, adjusting his guitar strap. He wheels back and leans into the mike. “We’re gonna send this next one out to Larry. He’s out there somewhere,” he peers, “he’s our favorite reporter.” A clamor arises in the audience, coming from the section where some of Ratso’s friends from New York are sitting. Weird little screams of “Larry, Larry,” reminiscent of the days of Sinatra and the Beatles, issue out. Dylan smiles, then leans back into the mike. “He tells it like it is,” he laughs, then starts into the beautiful “Sara.”

  Ratso is stunned. After a few chords the dedication sinks in and he walks back out to the lobby, moved. After a minute or so, he starts back and bumps into Perry, Stoner’s girlfriend. “Good for you,” she pats his head, “you got your just reward.”

  The next day, Ratso wakes early and works on his second Rolling Stone piece, due that Friday, and then gets a call from Tom Pacheco in New York. Pacheco is one of the new turks on the Village scene, a singer-songwriter who during the psychedelic years fronted a rock band named the Ragamuffins, and then discovered his folk and country roots, and is about to release his first solo album on RCA. It seems that Pacheco had just written a song about Dylan and he wanted Ratso to hear it. The reporter tells Pacheco to hold on, hooks up his tape recorder, and tapes the tribute, a rollicking rocker in the style of Dylan’s first single, “Mixed Up Confusion.”

  That night, Ratso drives over to the tour hotel,
article and tape in tow. In the lobby, Ginsberg and Orlovsky are sitting on a couch. “Wanna see my second article,” Ratso asks Allen, and the poet adjusts his glasses and scans the first page. After a minute he begins fumbling in his shoulder bag for a pen. “You should say ‘encompass’ here, not ‘engulf,’” Ginsberg notes, striking out the offending word like an English professor correcting an essay. “And ‘it was poetic justice’—that’s stronger. And change this description from ‘particularly obnoxious’ to ‘confused.’ He is confused, you don’t want to say obnoxious, someone might lay that on your karma.”

  “Shit, Allen,” Ratso protests, “do I change your poetry? You look like a fucking professor.” “I am,” Ginsberg smiles, “director of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics and a member of the Academy of Arts and Letters to boot.” They move into the dining room and Ginsberg spots Neuwirth eating. So they stop to chat. Neuwirth starts to scan the article. “Shit, man,” he glowers at Ratso, “don’t print that fucking shit about the bus, man. They’ll spot us everywhere we go.” He reads on and grabs a pen from his shirt, and starts inking out a word. “I’m Bob, not Bobby,” he frowns, carefully crossing out the “by.” “Man,” he shakes his head, “why do you have to put that shit about Dylan and Baez together again.” “It’s in my contract,” Ratso says straight-faced, “Rolling Stone demands something in the lead about them together again.” Neuwirth just shakes his head. He tosses the manuscript across the table to Ratso, giving him a high sign. “You’re the only reporter who got Bob’s quote right at that ceremony,” Neuwirth observes, then goes back to his steak.

  Ratso floats back to the lobby and bumps into Jack Elliot. Elliot sees the article and asks to read it. He slowly scans the pages, silently, with no pen, then hands the article back. “How’d you like the way I ended the story with your quote at the ceremony?” Ratso asks. “I didn’t put any words in your mouth, did I?” “No,” Jack drawls, pushing his cowboy hat off his eyes, “you just translated what I said into English.”

  Just then Baez walks by and Ratso corrals her, and whips out his cassette player and the Pacheco tape. “What now, Ratso?” Joan sighs, and the reporter sits her and Jack down and plays the song. “That’s nice,” she smiles, “that is sweet.”

  McGuinn falls by and shortly after that, Dylan rounds the corner. He spots Ratso’s machine. “Ratso, what’s happening. What you got there?” Ratso grabs his arm. “Sit down, sit down. I gotta play you this song. My friend wrote it, it’s about you, and he’s gonna go into the studio this week and RCA might rush to release it as a single.”

  “Uhhh, I gotta go somewhere,” Dylan protests.

  “Sit down, it’s only a couple of minutes long,” Ratso urges.

  Dylan consents, but remains standing, his hands in his jeans pockets, his booted foot nervously tapping the carpet. Ratso rewinds, and starts the tape. Pacheco’s resonant booming voice blares out:

  He blew into New York City on a bitter freezing day

  And he drifted to the Village and sang in the cafes

  Hanging out till sunrise sleep till the afternoon

  The Kettle and the Gaslight and the Woody Guthrie tunes

  Paxton, Ochs and Clayton, Dave Van Ronk and Ramblin’ Jack

  They marveled at this singer with the funny corduroy hat.

  And the songs he started writing were songs that had never been

  The word spread through the Village, his name was in the wind.

  All across the country people heard him from Newport all the way to New Orleans

  His songs were done by everyone in music

  Blowing in the wind, made him the king.

  And the records started coming, his fame began to grow,

  This kid from Minnesota with the wise man in his soul.

  The times were changin’ quickly, and now Kennedy was gone

  He stirred a nation’s conscience that was sleeping much too long

  Then he plugged into the cosmic and electric lyrics screamed

  Always changing horses but never changing streams.

  All across the country people heard him from Newport all the way to New Orleans

  His songs were done by everyone in music

  Like a Rolling Stone made him the king.

  People called him Jesus while others put him down

  And some misunderstood him and some went underground

  And the madness and the fury almost tore apart his soul

  His motorcycle saved him when it took him off the road

  And his spirit healed in Woodstock as rumor filled the air

  And he moved into the mystic and songs he wrote were prayers

  Then drifting down to Nashville he sang of simple things

  While the country shook with violence and Steppenwolf and Cream.

  All across the country people heard him from Newport all the way to New Orleans

  His songs were done by everyone in music

  Lay Lady Lay made him the king.

  And the turning of the decade brought a quiet to his life

  He raised himself a family and he took long walks at night

  But now he’s back on the road again and back in the city lights

  His vision and perception still a beacon in the night.

  And I don’t think that I’d be writing if it wasn’t for what he did

  So this song is for ya Bobby, ’cause you’re still the best there is.

  Dylan listens attentively throughout, tapping his foot, suppressing a smile, even giggling at the line “took long walks at night” and wondering out loud, “How’d he know that?” When it was over, there was a second of embarrassed silence, then Dylan smiles. “Maybe Neuwirth ought to sing this before I go on,” he smiles at Jack, a reference to Neuwirth’s tribute song to Elliot. A second later, Dylan is loping down the hall.

  The next day, Thursday, the rain is teeming down as Ratso pulls the Granada out of the driveway and scoots off toward New Haven. It’s to be another doubleheader, two shows at the large Coliseum, a building that looks like it was designed to serve as a set for 2001. Ratso parks in the nearby lot and joins the young crowd bustling for the entrance. This is the most cosmopolitan date yet, New Haven, home of Yale, and the audience is the freakiest Ratso’s encountered this tour.

  The first show goes without a hitch, but the second brings out all the stars. Ratso notes Bruce Springsteen, Bill Graham, Patti Smith, even a silver-ponytailed Albert Grossman in the audience. But he’s more concerned with finding his own guests, Tom Pacheco, who’s coming up from the Village with a tape of the song for Dylan that Kemp requested, and George Lois, up to represent Rubin Carter and negotiate a possible benefit for the boxer’s defense fund.

  “Motherfucker!” a friendly voice booms out as Ratso wanders near the stage. It’s Lois, sitting in the third row with Paul Sapounakis, the owner of the New York nightclub the Blue Angel, and a member of the Hurricane Fund. Ratso sits down just as Ronee Blakley steps to the mike. “I’d like to bring on a special friend,” she says huskily, and a radiant Joni Mitchell walks on to a thunderous standing ovation. She looks Parisian in a beret, black shirt, and violet pants, and they both share a piano stool for Blakley’s “Dues.” Joni then picks up an acoustic guitar and does two new ballads, both haunting and beautiful, and leaves to another standing ovation. Lois and Sapounakis talk through Elliot’s set but fall quiet when Dylan struts on. But the tour is taking its toll on Dylan’s voice, as it has on Neuwirth’s and Blakley’s. His stage presence is as great as ever but the songs seem to suffer a bit and he appears to be rushing through them.

  At intermission Lois turns to Ratso, “You should see the Newark Star Journal. They printed all the fucking lyrics to ‘Hurricane.’” They slap hands. “I was talking to Ali the other day, trying to get him to emcee the benefit,” Lois enthuses, “and a few months ago I had mentioned that Dylan might play and Ali said, ‘Who he? Who he?’ but now after the single when I told him it looks like we got Dylan for the show, Ali says, �
�Oh, you mean the big white singer.’ I like that,” Lois laughs, “‘big white singer.’”

  The curtain rises to “Blowing in the Wind” and Ratso spies Albert Grossman in the third row center, munching on popcorn. “We’re gonna do this next one for Gertrude Stein,” Dylan announces. Lois spots Ginsberg walking to a seat. “What’s he doing on the tour?” he asks Ratso. “Is he getting paid?”

  Dylan leaves and Baez commands the stage, following “Diamonds and Rust” with the a cappella “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” which has been getting a marvelous reception so far. Lois and Sapounakis are attentive, and when Baez breaks into “Joe Hill,” Lois’ face lights up. “I used to sing this in Music and Art when I was a commie.” He nudges Ratso. “You ever hear Robeson sing it? It’ll knock you on your ass.”

  After the song, Baez brings on Mimi Fariña, her younger sister, and they harmonize together beautifully. After a few numbers, Sapounakis leans over Lois to Ratso. “I don’t understand something,” he puzzles. “If they’re sisters how come they have different last names?” Ratso looks incredulous and leans over to George. “That guy own a nightclub?” Just then, Patti Smith walks by and Ratso points out the new sensation to George. “Can you imagine living with that all your life?” Lois marvels.

  “Please come to Boston,” Baez is crooning the Kenny Loggins hit that Ratso loathes so much. “What do you think of this song?” he asks Lois. George listens to a bar or two, then turns back. “It sucks,” he sneers, “it’s like a McDonald’s hamburger.” “You been a lot of fun, thank you,” Baez trills as she prepares to exit. “She doesn’t know what fun is,” the adman snorts, “she should put her head between my legs.”

  Dylan stalks on, trailing a long Tibetan scarf from his black leather jacket. The makeup is caked now, and his eyes are searingly intense, giving him the look of a maniacal character in a Fritz Lang movie. He sits down on the stool and plows right into “I Don’t Believe You,” a gem from the past. The band strolls on and “One More Cup” is next, with a completely new, slower arrangement than the one used when the tour opened. Dylan is on this show, his phrasing as precise and stunning as karate chops. Then they start into “Hurricane.” “This is it.” Lois jabs Paul and Ratso. “Do it good, Bobby,” he screams toward the stage. They bounce along to the song, slapping hands every so often, jumping to a standing ovation at the conclusion. “All right, motherfucker,” Lois exults.