On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  “Confident? Why confident?”

  “I mean because of the new material.”

  “’Cause you think it’s good, huh?”

  “The new material?” Dylan repeats coyly.

  “Yeah,” Ratso presses.

  “Oh, I don’t know if it’s good or not, I mean, I just know that it’s, uh, it’s the right material, uh, it’s more true to me …. So Rolling Stone is bumming you out, huh?” the singer sympathizes.

  “They’re schmucks,” Ratso scoffs.

  “Yeah, I know man, all they ever print about me is just gossipy shit.”

  “You wanna hear this, my fucking New York editor, you know what he asked me: ‘Do you know who Dylan’s sleeping with?’ I said, ‘What the fuck?’ and he said, ‘I know that Dylan’s been sleeping with Ronee Blakley.’”

  “Oh yeah?” Dylan sounds bored.

  “I said ‘Oh yeah? how do you know that?’ and he said he heard it from someone on the tour. But he couldn’t tell who, such bullshit.”

  “You know,” Dylan gets animated, “those people who run that thing, those people who talk like that, they’re the same people who got America into Vietnam, you know.”

  “Yeah, I guess they are. Except they’re not as powerful.”

  “You ever see those Italian troupes that go around in Italy?” Dylan suddenly changes the subject. “Those Italian street theaters? Commedia dell’arte. Well, this is just an extension of that, only musically.”

  “I got a friend who’s the articles editor of National Enquirer and they want to do a cover story on Bob Dylan’s five musical predictions that came true,” Ratso recollects.

  “Oh really?” Dylan sounds slightly interested.

  “But Louie don’t want to do that, he thinks it’s a gossip mag. But they got a eight million circulation.”

  “How long do you think you’re gonna write about this tour?” Dylan asks. “I mean like we’re gonna keep it on the road a while.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. I mean like this is a going thing.”

  “I’ll stay on as long as it takes,” Ratso decides, “my rent isn’t that exorbitant. I share Ochs’ old apartment. As long as I can get a magazine to pay the expenses. Oh, Rolling Stone was also pissed off about the pictures of you Regan sent them. Did you approve those Rolling Stone photos?”

  “I don’t approve anything that’s written by Rolling Stone. I can’t get behind that magazine.”

  “No, I mean did you approve the photos sent for my first article?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I think I remember sending, I think we sent them some photos. They’re not going to use them?”

  “They did. I didn’t like the ones they used though. You didn’t look good, you looked wasted.”

  “I don’t remember which one it was, maybe Louie picked it out.”

  “Rolling Stone told me they got shit pictures.”

  “Well, they always write shit about me,” Dylan sneers.

  “I don’t write shit about you, man,” Ratso shouts.

  “Well, they do,” Dylan pouts.

  “I’m not them. Don’t take it out on me.”

  “As far as I know they got good photos. I don’t intentionally send anybody bad pictures.”

  “Anyway, I’ll stay on the tour as long as it takes,” Ratso finally answers. “Fuck it. What do I have to go back to New York for? To hang out in the Other End with Levy? He’s the only person back there. He called me at four in the morning today, I finally got some sleep, I went to sleep at three and he calls me up at four.”

  “Yeah? What he say?”

  “He gave me some good quotes. He told me you weren’t making a penny off the tour.”

  “Well, all the money at this point is going into the film. The film’s costing a fortune.”

  “But nobody talks about that. They just say big arenas, Dylan’s making a million bucks. Got a second, let me read you my lead.” Ratso reads the first paragraph. “Maureen Orth wrote about that ceremony in Newsweek too, she got it all wrong.”

  “Oh boy, did she,” Dylan moans.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about that photographer,” Ratso apologizes, “I really screamed at her for trying to sell the pictures without showing them to you first. She said, ‘What if he burns them?’ I asked her if she thinks you’re a monster or something. I told her you were human, you weren’t gonna burn no pictures. Anyway, here’s the rest of the opener.”

  Dylan listens then chuckles, “That’s good, man, that’s super. I’m looking forward to reading it. I’ll see about getting you a badge so you don’t get all that bullshit.”

  “I understand Lou’s position. It’s a role conflict. But I’m not gonna print gossip. You know that.”

  “I know that. I’ll get a badge for you. Hey, what happened to that guy who was doing Hurricane’s defense committee, Richard Solomon? How’s he doing?”

  “Rubin had a meeting and nicely told him he wants Lois to handle the heavy shit. Oh, by the way, Rubin told me to give you a kiss on the lips but Kemp would freak out. Rubin was bonkers, locked up for weeks after the knifing in the jail. He’s feeling good now. The new version of ‘Hurricane’ knocked him out.”

  “He liked it, huh?” Dylan’s pleased.

  “Oh yeah. I told DeVito it was a fucking disco smash.”

  “It’s wild, man. I haven’t heard any kind of music like that,” Dylan bubbles.

  “It’s great—it’s like weird disco music. The black stations won’t go on it though, Lois told me. Because of that fucking George Jackson things.”

  “Oh, they didn’t dig that?” Dylan seems surprised.

  “No, they claimed that George Jackson’s mother said she never saw any money from the song. They see this as another rip-off, you ripping off Hurricane this time. They said, ‘Well, he wrote a tribute to George Jackson, how come Jackson’s mother never got the royalties.’”

  “I don’t know what kind of rules those are, man,” Dylan spits. “We’re doing a benefit show and all the money for that is supposed to go to Rubin’s family.”

  “You know Ali’s emceeing it. You know what Ali calls you, that big white singer.”

  “What?” Dylan laughs.

  “Yeah, about a year ago when they first approached Ali they told him that you were on Rubin’s case and Ali, being cool, went Who he?’ But now, after the song, Ali told Lois, You mean that big white singer?’”

  “Who else does Lois got on the show?”

  “You.”

  “Oh, he’s got to have some other people too,” Dylan protests, “like Marvin Gaye and all those people. I’d like to see some other people come out for Rubin, you know.”

  “We could get other people, I don’t know if we need them,” Ratso notes.

  “Well, it would be good for them, to show some other faces stepping forth for him, not just a white boy.”

  “The problem is now you get a lot of people jumping on the bandwagon especially after your song,” Ratso cautions.

  “Well if you get Aretha and Marvin Gaye, that’s enough,” Dylan decides. “I don’t mind standing up for Rubin but I’d like to see some other people do it too.”

  Ratso reads two more paragraphs from his aborted Rolling Stone story to Dylan and the singer laughs, enjoying the narrative.

  “And Rolling Stone says it’s too general,” Ratso complains, “I don’t say how much money is brought in.”

  “Aw, tell em to read the Wall Street Journal,” Dylan scoffs. “Listen, man, I gotta get some rest, I got an afternoon show to play. See you tonight.”

  Ratso hangs up smiling. One down and one to go, he thinks as he dials Baez’s manager’s room. Gelb answers on the first ring.

  “Cool your heels,” Gelb cautions, “here she comes.”

  “Ooh, did I tell you I’m getting a badge. Dylan told me—”

  “Don’t talk the whole time,” Bernie chides, “let Joan talk. That’s your job. And I want to see you watch the shows.”

  �
�I watch the shows, man. I don’t sit in one seat, though.”

  “Ratso,” Baez trills.

  “Tell him to stop sweating on me,” the journalist complains, “I’m getting enough ink for you. I’m getting a badge though, I got beat up by the local gestapo police …”

  “OK, listen Ratso, my breakfast’s in the other room.”

  “OK, all I want is two paragraphs from you on your reactions to the tour so far, the music.”

  “I think the music is good. I think Dylan is putting on an extraordinary display of trying to make everyone feel comfortable and sharing time and so forth.”

  “What’s it like singing with him again, not musically, but emotionally?”

  “Well, it’s very exciting,” Baez hedges. “I can’t go into great detail. Some nights it’s difficult because I don’t really know what he’s going to do. I mean, I still don’t know. That doesn’t matter though, it’s easy enough to follow. That’s his part of the show, I just do whatever it is to be done, then I have a little more freedom in my part of the show.”

  “Originally, it was supposed to be small halls, lately you’ve been doing a lot of large halls, two shows a night.” Ratso winces at the mandatory question. Baez just yawns.

  “Yeah, I like the little ones,” she finally says.

  “How do the larger ones affect the music for you?”

  “For me it’s not the hall so much, Ratso, as it is the people.”

  “I’m not gonna put that Ratso in,” the reporter sounds hurt.

  Baez laughs. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I can ever call you.”

  “When are you gonna dedicate a song to me,” Ratso complains.

  “I almost did the other night, I always wave ‘Hi’ to you,” Baez coddles the journalist.

  “Yeah, I see you, OK go ahead.”

  “What was the question? Oh yeah, it’s the kind of people there, like in one of these little audiences, the people really didn’t know what was happening. Well, if it had been a large hall, full of the same people then it would have been a little more difficult. Sometimes a large hall is cold, sometimes a small hall is cold, it’s not the size. New Haven was insane.”

  “Are you gonna play ‘Please Come to Boston’ in Boston?”

  “Sure, I get a little frustrated ’cause we don’t have enough time to rehearse.”

  “Personally,” Ratso froths, “I think that song is the turkey in your set. I don’t like it at all.”

  “You what?” Baez is incredulous.

  “I don’t like that song. It’s a turkey,” Ratso repeats.

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Baez says defensively, “now shut up and do your job.”

  “I can give you a little feedback,” Ratso stands firm.

  “Sure,” Baez says sarcastically, “not now.”

  “That’s right,” Ratso remembers, “you want to eat. I need one more paragraph. What can we talk about?” He goes over his question list aloud. “Reactions, hall differences …”

  “It’s a medicine show,” Baez volunteers, “you know, for $7.50 it’s an offbeat, weird underground medicine show.”

  “It’s $8.50 now,” Ratso corrects, “they raised it.”

  “Glad everybody tells me,” Joan moans.

  “How does it work?” Ratso remembers his editor’s admonitions, “are you getting a percentage or a salary or what?”

  “I’m getting a hunk.”

  “A salary or a hunk?” Ratso presses.

  “A hunk, a set fee,” Baez says laconically.

  “Oh, a set fee, like a salary,” Ratso brightens.

  “Well, I settled on and the lawyers carried on and everybody hoosied around and we picked out a number and we settled on it. And I bartered for a few things after the thing got started like I want my own mobile home at the end because my kid’s coming …”

  “Let me ask you this,” Ratso picks up the Variety story, “I got Variety in front of me, you ever read it?”

  “No.”

  “Anyway, there’s a big story that says ‘Is Dylan Interested in Money—Small Clubs Give Way to Arenas,’ and this is what Rolling Stone called about yesterday and started sweating on me about. They thought my story was too featurey, they wanted to know stuff like what’s the gross, who’s the local promoter?”

  “Gee, that’s fascinating,” Baez says acidly.

  “That’s what I told them,” Ratso rails. “Anyway, the charge is that the whole spirit of the thing has been sold out.”

  “Oh, tell them to shove it,” Baez spits.

  “Can I quote you?” Ratso nearly shits.

  “Yeah,” Joan elaborates, “tell them to shove it up their asses. The spirit is, I’ve never seen such a spirit among that number of people night after night. You’ve never been on our bus Phydeaux. Well, what happens in Phydeaux some nights after a long day, two shows, a ton of people, the security, the hassle, you get on the bus, out comes a little Kahlua and milk, out come the roast beef sandwiches. Chris O’Dell is up there in her apron passing out food. So one night, Roger McGuinn took the twelve-string and sang every hit we’ve ever known, so everybody knew them and sang along. Then one night Jack Elliot took it and did every yodel song that ever existed and everybody’s yodeling with him, and we all sing and sing and sing and laugh until we pass out. Those people don’t know, they should know the spirit of Phydeaux. It’s been beautiful. And it makes no difference if we’ve played to fifteen people or fifteen thousand.”

  “That’s great,” Ratso purrs. “Go eat. OK.”

  “Huh.”

  “Great quote, go eat.”

  “Oh, thanks Ratso,” Baez seems pleased.

  “I’ll see you soon. Oh, don’t dedicate a song to me tonight,” Ratso cautions, “I may not make it to the concert.”

  Ratso hangs up and paces the room. His deadline is 4:30 this afternoon, and he has to transcribe those conversations and whip up fifteen hundred words by then. He sits down to type. Naturally, the phone rings.

  “You got it?” It’s Flippo in the New York office.

  “No, I’ve been on the phone all morning with Dylan. I got everything you fucking want. Don’t sweat on me, I got great stuff from Baez too. Want to hear what I got?” Ratso pauses dramatically. “Tell them they can shove it up their ass!” he exults. “Isn’t that terrific?”

  “Is that to me or to the public?” Flippo says cynically.

  “Don’t get so paranoid, Chet,” Ratso bubbles.

  “I’m tired of fucking around with these people,” the editor scowls.

  “Who?”

  “That whole fucking crew. When is this gonna be ready?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want Dylan. A lot of that stuff you sent in initially has got to be wiped out. It’s too general, it’s not reporting.”

  “I stand behind that,” Ratso screams, “I read some of that stuff over the phone to Dylan today …”

  “Don’t do that,” Flippo nearly bursts a blood vessel. “Goddamn it, I told you that before. He does not have fucking story approval. What about the other stuff Abe talked to you about, reporting on the tour itself?”

  “He said he wanted this issue of small versus large halls explored.”

  “Have all the shows been sold out?”

  “Does the Pope shit?” Ratso answers.

  “They have not all been sold out,” Flippo thunders, “the first show in New Haven wasn’t. I know that for a fact and they were still selling tickets for the second show fifteen minutes before showtime.”

  “Those were obstructed seats,” Ratso scoffs. “I’ve been at the box office. I make believe I’m buying tickets and they’re stamped obstructed view.”

  “But I’m not so sure every show has been a sellout.”

  “What is this?” Ratso fumes, “Rolling Stone or the Wall Street Journal?”

  “That’s news. Part of any tour coverage.”

  “Oh by the way,” Ratso interrupts, “I asked Dylan about sleeping with Blakle
y.”

  “What he say?” Flippo’s all ears.

  “She wouldn’t let him. Actually, I’m kidding. Dylan is really sleeping with Peggy.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “His dog. By the way, Dylan’s not too fond of Rolling Stone.”

  “Well, that’s his problem,” Flippo gets defensive. “Why doesn’t he like it?”

  “He says they always print gossip about him.”

  Flippo just laughs. They hang up and Ratso jumps back to his typewriter, the hours ebbing away. By now, the room is a shambles, two tape recorders, long extension cords, clothes strewn all over the unmade beds, the remains of three days of room service scattered all around. So when the reporter leaps up to go to the bathroom he trips over a wire, tumbles into the night table, and rips it clear out of the wall. Great, he thinks, now maybe Led Zeppelin will hire me as their road manager. Ratso slowly gets up and tries to unplug the broken lamp when the phone rings.

  “Hey babes,” it’s Mel Howard in Niagara Falls, “where are you? Listen, your star is in the ascent.” Ratso smiles weakly, from the floor. “Last night, all of us did numbers on Bob about the contribution that you’ve made and how great it was. He loved the Rolling Thunder songs.”

  “You missed some great shit in New Haven, man,” Ratso moans. “I was gonna take this wino into the show and we were walking and he fell and cracked his head open and the cops came and—”

  “Whenever you find something like that just bring it to us,” Howard purrs. “Listen we would love for you to work with us seriously.”

  “Tell Dylan.”

  “OK, we did last night.”

  “Hey, Kinky’s coming next week, either in Boston or right after that,” Ratso screams.

  “Great, take care of yourself, babe.”

  Ratso slowly rises and drags his battered body over to the typewriter.

  By five he calls Flippo and reads the inserts.

  “You think he’s serious about not knowing where he’s booked?” Flippo doubts.

  “Yeah, that’s why he hired people to take care of that shit.”

  “I just don’t like what you filed. Abe doesn’t like it. I know Dylan would like it.”

  “You don’t like the lead?” Ratso’s amazed.

  “It’s overwritten, ‘lovely, radiant, rotund wife.’”