On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  “Hey Ratso,” Dylan looks solemn, as Meyers is back on his feet filming, “ask Kemp to tell you what he told me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just ask Louie to tell you what he told me,” Dylan repeats enigmatically.

  “Let me ask you one question,” Ratso buttonholes Bob, “I’ve always wanted to know this. When you say in ‘Sad Eyed Lady’ that ‘my warehouse eyes my Arabian drums,’ is it two distinct separate images, ‘warehouse eyes’ and ‘Arabian drums’ or is it using eye as a verb, you know, ‘my warehouse eyes my Arabian drums.’”

  Dylan looks befuddled. “Yeah,” Sara tugs on his arm and smiles, “I’ve always been curious about that, too.”

  “Eh, uh,” Dylan’s at a loss for words, “oh man, you always catch me at my worst, Ratso.” He tugs Sara toward the motel.

  Ratso follows into the Howard Johnson’s and notices kids running around the lobby, being chased by a silver-haired lady and a middle-aged black woman. They’re cute kids, loud, obnoxious, shy, and just generally normal. They’re Dylan’s kids, the reporter discovers, and that lady is Dylan’s mother.

  Ratso gets a ride to the gig with Larry Johnson, who’s traveling to the Augusta date in his friend’s van. Outside, the temperature’s approaching zero, as the reporter shivers in the rear of the van.

  “Do you know how they named the band?” Johnson asks. Ratso feigns ignorance. “Remember the Cambodia invasion, when Nixon bombed Cambodia? The bombing mission was code-named ‘Rolling Thunder.’ Scarlett told me that, she’s very political. And get this. The planes that attacked Cambodia, the flights originated from the U.S. base in the area, which is Guam.” Johnson pauses for dramatic effect. “Heavy, huh?”

  “I hear Kemp wants to put you on a boat or something,” Johnson leers. Suddenly, Ratso remembers Dylan’s cryptic remark. “Yeah, Dylan made a reference to something Louie told him about me.”

  “I think they’re gonna continue to fuck with you forever, until the tour is over,” Johnson gleefully relates. “I want to find out, too, so when you get fucked, I can be there to shoot it, I mean you’re the fuckee of this tour, Ratso. They all like you; they’re just having fun with you.”

  They pull up in front of a sprawling, concrete oasis in this desert of tundra. Augusta has a beautiful new civic center with a real low-pressure staff, smiling usherettes in uniform. Ratso breathes easily as he scampers in, and finds his seat.

  But after three numbers from Guam, he’s getting restless, so he wanders around the arena, winding up on the balcony level looking out of a huge plate-glass window facing the rear of the hall. The other camper is parked out there, the one that Baez has appropriated from Imhoff when her kid came on the tour yesterday. Ratso waves at Carlos who’s sitting behind the wheel, and Carlos gestures back, waving the reporter to the camper.

  Ratso slips out the back door and ambles over to the camper. Carlos opens the door and he hops in, and plops down on a couch opposite Joan. “Hey this is nice, Joan,” he peers at the kitchenette, and the rear sleeping compartment.

  “Shhh,” she puts her finger to her mouth, “talk low because Gabriel just fell asleep. This was Barry’s, now it’s ours. What’s this white pants all about? You’re getting spiffed up, Ratso,” Baez smiles.

  “I’m cleaning up my act,” the reporter swells with pride, “I bought a hair blower, I met this nice girl on the tour, I told Dylan she was shiksa and he said that they’re the best kind.”

  “I know,” Baez shrugs, “Jewish males can’t stand fucking Jewish girls.”

  “Most Jewish girls I’ve been with make me feel guilty, oversexed if I wanted to fuck more than once a week …” Ratso complains. Baez cracks up.

  “Who’s this new one?” Baez asks.

  “Oh, she’s great, she’s one-quarter Indian, Irish, she gave me a whole list.”

  “How old, sixteen?” Joan smiles.

  “No,” Ratso frowns, “seventeen.”

  “I was close,” Baez rolls her eyes. Ratso raps on, about Kinky, tennis-shoeing the bill, the groupie, Baez and Carlos taking it all in.

  “There goes Ronee with that song,” Baez shakes her head, as “New Sun Rising” resounds from the hall.

  “I love that song,” Ratso rushes to the defense.

  “Oh, so do I,” Joan quickly adds, “but she just keeps adding new choruses to it.”

  “It’s the same chorus,” Carlos corrects, “only it was three times repeat, now it’s about seven or eight.”

  “I love that shit,” Ratso reiterates.

  “I know she’s good,” Joan admits.

  “Ask her about yesterday,” Carlos whispers to Ratso.

  “Oh, where’d you go yesterday?” Ratso grills Baez.

  “Ever hear of Thomas Merton?” Baez asks.

  “Sure, the monk,” Ratso nods, “he used to write a lot of philosophy.”

  “Well, every year they give an award and they gave me one.” Ratso notices the dove plaque on the table. “It was an interesting switch out of the rock ’n roll world and into the other one,” Joan adds modestly.

  “You got a mood ring,” Ratso notices Joan’s finger. “That girl groupie in Connecticut had one of those.”

  “Bet it got mighty dark, darling,” Baez chuckles. “If it stayed light green you knew you weren’t getting anywhere. Was she Jewish?”

  “I never had a Jewish girl attack me,” Ratso moans.

  “Sit on your face and all that.” Joan’s eyes twinkle. “Never, huh?”

  Ratso looks around the camper. “This looks nice now, you got flowers and shit.”

  “Bernie fixed it up to a lady’s touch.” Joan leans over and whispers, “It took days to clean it up.”

  “So where were you yesterday, Joan?” Ratso wants more details.

  “I can’t remember, all I know was I left the tour for a day.”

  “What was the award about?”

  “Her being so wonderful and you noticed, for being cooperative,” Carlos smiles.

  “Miss Loquacious 1975,” Joan smirks. “He was a nice guy, Merton, he died in Bangkok leaning on an electrical wire ….”

  “Do you know what I heard tonight?” Ratso interrupts.

  “See what I mean,” Baez tells Carlos, shaking her head at the reporter’s insolence.

  “Do you know the story of Rolling Thunder?” the reporter asks.

  “Which one, the fake old Indian?” Joan snaps.

  “No, the Vietnam story.”

  “Oh Lord,” Baez rolls her eyes.

  Ratso relates the story that Johnson had told him that night and Regan, who just stepped into the camper, confirms it. “It’s true,” the photographer says. “Remember the Time magazine reporter Jim Woolworth? When he was here the first weekend, he got into a tremendous fight with Ginsberg over this. Ginsberg denied the whole thing and Jim was in Vietnam when this was taking place.”

  Joan laughs, “Oh and Ginsberg was denying it because of Bobby, right, the same old crap.”

  “Gabe met Ratso,” Joan snickers, “and he said, ‘Hello Ratso, how come you don’t squeak?’” They all laugh. “Ever see Ratso’s place? I’ll send you some newspapers for bedding.”

  “Where do you live?” Ratso snaps back.

  “California.”

  “With all the other space heads? You like that?”

  “I live in a secluded little-old-ladies-and-horses kind of place.” Joan gets up and goes to the back, checking on Gabriel. She comes back and they decide to watch some of the show. She leads the way to the stage door. “I can’t go,” Ratso hesitates, “I don’t have a pass.”

  “C’mon, you jerk,” Baez grabs his arm, and escorts him in. Joni Mitchell’s on now. “My mother will be showing high signs of disinterest at this point ’cause I’m her daughter,” Baez whispers to Ratso.

  Joni finishes and Ramblin’ Jack goes on. Mitchell’s in military drag tonight, a pressed uniform and a big badge on her chest. Ratso sidles up to her as soon as she’s alone.

  “Wann
a do an interview?” he leers in his best Groucho Marx.

  “With who?” Joni feigns innocence.

  “With me.”

  “Why do I want to do an interview with you?” Joni huffs, “I’m not even third on your list.”

  “I told you you’re first on my list,” Ratso protests.

  “No, you didn’t, you mentioned three people, Bob, Leonard, and Kinky, and you didn’t even mention me.”

  “But …” Ratso starts.

  “I don’t want to do an interview with anybody,” Joni declares with finality.

  “For two years I’ve been nudging your manager,” Ratso moans.

  T-Bone overhears some of this and turns around. “As your lawyer …” the deep-voiced Texan starts.

  “Talk to my lawyer,” Joni coos.

  “OK, for two years I’ve been trying to interview her. But everyone tells me she hates reporters,” Ratso laments.

  “No, she doesn’t,” T-Bone decides.

  “It’s not true,” Joni screams from the sidelines.

  “She hates reporters.” Ratso’s adamant.

  “No,” Joni protests, “you know why …”

  “I’m your lawyer,” T-Bone shuts her up.

  “You can’t speak for her,” Ratso screams.

  “She doesn’t, you don’t hate reporters, right?” T-Bone looks to his client for guidance.

  “No, I dislike the form, I dislike the form of the interview.”

  “What about the content?” Ratso asks.

  “I dislike the form and the content,” Joni smiles.

  “She dislikes the form and the content,” T-Bone parrots.

  “What do you like?” Ratso wonders.

  “I don’t like the reviews …” she starts.

  “She doesn’t even like the publicity,” T-bone pipes in.

  “I don’t like reviews either,” Ratso agrees. “The only album I ever reviewed was Leonard Cohen’s last album, ’cause I was doing a story on him and I wanted to write the review in his own language.”

  “No,” Joni shakes her head, “I’m much jiver than my work and I’d rather have people think that my work is me.”

  “Right,” T-Bone chuckles, “that’s true.”

  Ratso gives up and wanders around backstage. The kids are playing electronic Ping-Pong, and Baez is in the middle of molesting Imhoff, pulling his tie-dyed T-shirt over his massive belly. Neuwirth and Muffin, who’s helping with makeup, are twisting to Ramblin’ Jack’s swing number.

  Dylan goes on, and Ratso walks out front to watch. Sara’s up on the stage, seated next to Raven. Scarlett, in a long white antique gown, is watching from the side, fiddle in hand, in fact, nearly everyone backstage has filtered out to catch Dylan’s set.

  And what a set. The band is cracking by now, flowing from “Masterpiece” to a chilling “Hattie Carroll.” Then Bob reaches back to Nashville Skyline for “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With You.”

  Joni walks up. “Want to do an interview?”

  “No, I only interview stars,” he cracks, as Dylan charges into “Train to Cry,” trading incredible guitar licks with Ronson.

  “C’mon,” Mitchell grabs Ratso by the arm and drags him backstage.

  “No, let me go. I wanna watch this,” he screams in vain. They walk down the corridor and find two chairs.

  “I’m interviewing you, OK?” Joni takes charge.

  “You don’t have any notes,” Ratso notices. “Don’t you prepare?”

  “I don’t even know who you are,” Joni gets serious, “to me you’re a total stranger. You’re just someone who appeared in a funny hat with a button that says ‘I’m a Beech Nut,’ and initially, had two symbols that may be related to you, one a rhinestone dollar sign and the other a photograph button of Bob Dylan. Are you, like, a fan of Bob Dylan?”

  “A fan?” Ratso hedges. “Sure, I’m a fan of his work. I think he’s the most important, I told you, he, Leonard Cohen, and Kinky Friedman are the three most important male songwriters. I make that distinction because I really can’t compare male and female songwriters, it’s a different experience.”

  “Why do you make a distinction between male and female songwriters?”

  “Because I relate to male perspective and as much as I appreciate your songs or Ronee Blakley’s songs, which I love, or Joan’s songs, to me it’s a different perspective, a different way of looking at things, a different slant …”

  “Aren’t you interested in what women think?” Mitchell is doing a slow burn.

  “Of course …”

  “I would think that men would be curious about what women think in the confines of their rooms late at night,” Joni snaps.

  “I am. All I’m saying is that I can appreciate it but I can’t experience it myself and I never can, at least not this time around, I’ll always be …”

  “Don’t you think that you have any femininity in your spirit at all?” Joni interrupts.

  “Sure.”

  “Are you comfortable expressing it or are you nervous about it?” Mitchell cross-examines. “You are not afraid to cry?”

  “I cry a lot,” Ratso smiles.

  “Cry a lot?” Mitchell repeats coldly.

  “When I have to, I cry. I’m a Cancer and for two and a half years Saturn was in my constellation.”

  “Right, considering all the water in our systems and the pull of the moon on the tides, that’s not illogical,” Joni decides.

  “But, yeah, I believe I have a lot of female traits, I assign credence to the two archetypes ….”

  “Do you think there’s more similarities between my work and say, Ronee’s and Joan’s than there is between mine, Leonard’s, and Bob’s? I want to tell you something. There is … I have very little in common as a songwriter with Ronee and Joan Baez. You know, I really think that you have limited your experience by a preconception. We do this all the time. I have to be aware of my preconceptions. I’m speaking in generalities. OK, I’m saying that you have a preconception that there is something that is shared in common between the work of Joan Baez and the work of Ronee Blakley and the work of myself ….”

  “No, I’m just using you three as examples of—”

  “I asked you a question first,” Joni says coldly. “I said, ‘Do you think there is more in common in the work of us three women …’”

  “As females,” Ratso interrupts, “as prototypical female songwriters.”

  “I asked you a question and you answered it and I’m confronting you with that question again. I’ll ask it again, do you think I have more in common in my work with Ronee and Joan than I do with any of the other men on your list, you said no before.”

  “What I was talking about before was like women and men—”

  “Right, that’s a preconception,” Joni points an accusatory finger, “it’s a limitation, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “I’d say out of all those people you probably have the most affinity with Leonard, but I don’t know if it’s a cultural thing …” Ratso decides.

  “Up to a certain point, except my work now is much—”

  “I haven’t heard the new album yet,” Ratso admits.

  “You haven’t listened to the songs I do on the show either,” Joni glares.

  “I do, I do,” Ratso screams, “but I can’t get the lyrics from that.”

  “OK” Mitchell accepts that.

  “Gimme a tape, sing them for me,” Ratso suggests.

  “What I’m saying to you is I’m challenging you to an error of perception in yourself that you’re missing the meat of what I do by putting me into a category.”

  “I’m not putting you in a category. All I’m saying is sometimes I find it difficult, being a male, to completely empathize with a female perspective,” Ratso groans.

  “Sometimes the songs are coming from a narrative position and they’re simply cinematic and they have nothing to do with gender, so you’re making a preconception on songs of mine ….”

  “I
’m preconceiving that everything you write is in some way coming from—”

  “My own experience,” Mitchell guesses, “and also—”

  “That you’re not projecting,” Ratso finishes.

  “No, in a lot of my songs I’m a neutral observer, I’m without gender, and those songs pertain to you too. I even write about places that you like to hang out, coffeehouses, bars, like down life, up life, the thing is that I like to describe society as well as the street.”

  “But you’re always looking from your eyes,” Ratso adds.

  “Well, what other place are you going to look from?” Joni bristles.

  “That’s what I am saying.”

  “I can’t transport myself into a character.”

  “And your eyes are always you and my eyes are always me,” Ratso sums up with impeccable logic.

  “But, don’t make the mistake of thinking that what my eyes see holds nothing in common with your own,” Joni cautions.

  “I never said that.”

  “Yes, you did, you’re saying they don’t because I’m a woman.” Joni, upset, gets up and starts to leave.

  “Wait, no, c’mere,” Ratso grabs her.

  “That’s my last words, there were no questions. I didn’t even interview you, I just defended myself. I don’t want to talk to you anymore because your vision is too narrow.” She stalks away.

  Ratso feels bad and grabs Mel Howard. They start discussing what just happened and Joni storms back.

  “I’m telling Mel about our discussion,” Ratso informs her.

  “He keeps on trying to put me in this box,” Joni complains, “he thinks that my work is too female for him to enjoy.”

  “I’m not, I’m not …” Ratso’s flabbergasted, “I didn’t say that, Joni.”

  “So he doesn’t even open up his ears,” she continues. By now, a crowd has formed around them.

  “I didn’t say that,” Ratso’s still protesting, “she’s putting me on.”

  “Play it back, play it back,” Joni’s screaming and pointing to the tape recorder.

  “You sound like a cop today, Joni,” Mel smiles.

  “I am a cop today, man,” she brags, fingering her badge.