On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  “I mean even Leon Redbone’s albums are better produced than Bob’s. Why do you think, Larry? Or why does he have sessions with Eric Clapton there and there’s thirty guitarists and that fiddler, she’s not the greatest fiddle player that walks, I know fifty better fiddle players than her. What’s the story? You must know. A friend of mine played at that session, he played acoustic guitar. He told me it was crazy, insanity reigned, just like that session I played in ’65, twenty guitar players playing at once, no one knowing what was supposed to happen, who took what, where and when. Why? What do you think? I mean I’m all for random chance and a Cageian theory that out of randomness, some kind of magic may happen, but fuck, man, he’s been in the studio enough times with Nashville guys to see where it’s laid down without any randomness, to see what that’s like.”

  “What do you think of ‘Hurricane’?” Ratso asked, remembering a previous conversation in which Bloomfield had been very knowledgeable about Rubin’s plight.

  “I listened to ‘Hurricane,’ it’s a good song, I hope the schwartze didn’t do it ’cause if he did then it’s a terrible song. It’s a damned good song though, as a matter of fact, if I was producing that song I would have produced it as a reggae song ’cause that ‘Hurricane’ chorus always reminded me of something Mexican or Spicish, something reggae or spic. It bothers me. One could make a Dylan album that would be the definitive songwriter’s album, the definitive one, the greatest one of all. His singing gets better every year, his voice gets better, more accomplished, his range gets better, and to hear it not utilized is an annoyance. But he must think that as long as he got songs, he got albums, long as he’s got songs, he’ll go in there and put them down, so he should record by himself, why fuck around? Let him either record by himself or record right.”

  “How did he contact you for the Blood on the Tracks thing?” Ratso backtracks.

  “Someone from Columbia phoned and oh, it was so terrible, they told me that no one could come by the house, get everyone away, all the secrecy, who needs this? I’ve been with Mick Jagger, man, it wasn’t like that, it was pretty comfortable, he was a normal old dude, man, I was with him with a bunch of people around and with no one around and he was cool both ways. It was very uncomfortable with Bob and very intimidating, you know how Bob sort of taps his foot, man, like that very hyper foot tapping away, it makes you very uncomfortable, like ‘Let’s get on with it.’ But yet, get on with what? I couldn’t correspond, I tried with all my soul, and I read in Rolling Stone, I swear if I’m lying I’m dying, how Eric Weissberg and the guys that played on Blood on the Tracks couldn’t correspond either. They couldn’t do it, the same thing happened to them, they couldn’t play. Why? Why did he freeze up that way? I can’t understand it, all it would take was a little time, not much, enough time to say, ‘Hey Bob, listen, one song at a time, let me learn it, and when I know it I know it and it’s done.’”

  “Well, what was it like that day, I still don’t understand.”

  “He took out his guitar, he tuned to open D tuning and he started playing the songs nonstop! And he just played them all and I just sort of picked along with it, and any attempt I made to say, ‘Hey Bob, stop! Do it from the beginning so I could learn it’ or ‘Let me write a chart up, play it for me just verse and chorus,’ but see, he was selling the whole song, and they weren’t short songs. He was singing the whole thing and I was saying, ‘No man, don’t sing the whole thing, just sing one chorus and if it’s not gonna change let me write it down so I can play with you.’ And he didn’t. He just kept on playing he just did one after another and I got lost; they all began to sound the same to me, they were all in the same key, they were all long, I don’t know, it was one of the strangest experiences of my life. And it really hurt me. I don’t mean it hurt my feelings, it hurt me though in some sort of way.

  “He was pissed. I mentioned that I had done a session that took these horn players a whole long time to get the thing right and he looked at me and said, ‘Uh huh, yeah, I know what you’re talking about,’ and he gave me a dirty look, he was sort of pissed that I didn’t pick it up, but I don’t know, maybe I just wasn’t a quick enough study or whatever. But if I was gonna teach somebody my tunes, I wouldn’t do it in that way, I would sit there slowly until they got it and then I would play it with them and when it was right, we’d know it and if they wouldn’t get it after enough time then I would have said, ‘Hey man, fuck you’ and split. But it made me feel weird, this may have been completely in my mind, but I just felt this big wall, this enormous barrier that was so tangible that there was no way you could say, ‘Hey man, how are you? You getting much pussy? Drinking a lot still? How are your kids? What’s your scene?’ because anything like that would seem like ass-kissing or an invasion of his privacy. It just made me feel very uncomfortable, Larry.”

  “He doesn’t seem like that now,” Ratso reflects, “he seems pretty loose, pretty accessible …” But suddenly, all the fuckups the reporter’s encountered since that brandy-soaked night at the Kettle begin to flash before his eyes like trailers in a movie house.

  “I feel the cat’s Pavlovized,” Bloomfield jumps in, “he’s Tofflerized, he’s future-shocked. It would take a huge amount of debriefing or something to get him back to normal again, to put that character armor down. But if he’s happy, who am I to say? I can’t judge if he’s happy, this might be his happiness. And God knows I bear no grudges. But I don’t know, I should know better. Were there times on the tour when he seemed accessible, stripped of that character armor, or is he just a very private person?”

  Ratso flashes a look at the clock, it’s after five now, and he remembers being left behind earlier by the caravan, and that long, treacherous drive, and shudders when he thinks about what might have happened an hour into the drive on the way to Quebec, and wonders just who had tampered with the accelerator, and remembers the sabotage in New Haven and the cracked-off ignition in North Falmouth, and for one brief chilling minute thinks that, yes, maybe this was a Godfather scene. And he suddenly jerks the cover off the warm snug familiar Howard Johnson’s bed, and then sighs. Relieved that there’s no Appaloosa head staining the sheets, he slumps back onto the bed, pulls the covers a little tighter around him and answers Bloomfield.

  “I don’t know,” the reporter shakes his head, “I just don’t know.”

  Ratso woke up the next morning feeling much better, hopped into the car, and limped towards Quebec, again riding the brakes against a rampant accelerator. Right before the border, he pulled into an Exxon station.

  Ten minutes later, the car is repaired, for the exorbitant sum of $7.50, and Ratso barrels toward the border. Miraculously enough, the cover letter from Rolling Stone is enough to get him zipped through before the customs agent can delve into his attaché case and find all the benzedrine that’s disguised as Elavil. Late that afternoon, the reporter rolls into le vieux Quebec.

  The Old World charm of this walled city within a city disarms Ratso and the hotel is the coup de grâce. It’s built like an old fortress, with turrets, cavernous foyers, a beautiful archway entrance, and a multitude of Continental touches. Ratso unpacks and heads straight for the hospitality suite since tonight is an off night.

  But there’s little action, just Ronson, McGuinn, a few roadies, and old faithful Lisa.

  Ratso grabs a handful of peanuts and scurries down to the lobby, nearly knocking David Meyers’ camera out of his hands.

  “Hey Ratso, we need a room to shoot a scene,” Meyers starts and immediately the reporter dangles his keys in front of the cameraman’s nose. “Just don’t fuck with my notes and tapes,” he cautions and continues down the hall.

  By the time he returns to his room, the crew has made it almost unrecognizable. The beds have been moved apart, equipment is all over the room, his clothes are all strewn in one limp heap in the corner, and, indignity of indignities, all the French pornography that Ratso picked up at a little candy store just north of the border is now hanging lasciviously fr
om every available wall, mirror, drape, and painting. Ratso just mumbles to himself, hops on top of a dresser, just below a torrid lesbian dildo scene, and whips out his notebook.

  Dylan strides in, followed by Soles, Stoner, Mansfield, Ronson, and Regan, snapping away. Scarlett files in a minute later, just as they start into a torrid jam of “House of the Rising Sun,” a musical segment meant to compliment a whorehouse scene that Sara, Joan, and some of the other women will shoot later. They do one quick take and break.

  “What do you think?” Dylan asks around, then directs Ronson over to the electric guitar. They start up again and this time it’s airier, lighter, with Stoner singing along on the choruses.

  “The only thing a gambler needs is a suitcase an’ his thumb …”

  “Hold it, hold it,” this distinguished-looking French-speaking man is running into the room, screaming at the top of his lungs, waving his arms.

  “What happened?” Dylan, who’d been so involved in the music, suddenly finds himself singing alone.

  “That’s all, that’s all,” it’s apparently the hotel manager, “we have too much noise in here.” He’s waving the proceedings to a conclusion, unaware that his entire diatribe is being filmed.

  “Well this is my room,” Ratso pipes in from his perch, “and these are my friends.”

  “Well, you stay here and your friends go someplace else,” the bureaucrat decides.

  “Can they stay if they’re quiet,” Ratso smiles sweetly, moving from in front of the lesbian centerfold.

  “No, no,” the manager explodes, gaping at the picture.

  “How about if we play poker?”

  “Too much people, no, too much people,” he’s screaming now.

  “I have two beds,” the reporter gestures toward the ambulatory mattresses.

  “Let’s do it a cappella, man,” Stoner suggests.

  “We got it,” Dylan shrugs, “I think.”

  “Let’s do it a cappella,” someone repeats.

  “Let’s go outside and do it,” Dylan smiles mischievously.

  “Let’s do it on the streets, man,” Ratso raises a fist.

  “Let’s do it in Acapulco,” one of the sound men cracks.

  The manager departs and Ronson goes back to playing, picking out a searing blues line.

  “Hey, Ronson’s running on batteries,” Stoner gleams, “they can’t turn him off.”

  “They wouldn’t do this in Maine,” Ratso mourns.

  “Yeah, they wouldn’t do this in the Howard Johnson’s,” Stoner agrees.

  The camera pans over to Ratso. “What’s that behind you?” Meyers asks.

  “Those are just my friends,” the reporter looks embarrassed.

  “Slocum, this is a helluva place you got here,” Dylan shakes his head, scanning the room.

  “Yeah, you invite us to your room and look what happens,” Stoner snaps.

  Sara, who had been sitting quietly next to a candle, seems bored and picks up one of the porn tabloids. Meyers zooms over and captures her.

  Ronson starts noodling on the guitar again and the camera crew starts to break down the set. Dylan and Sara head for the door.

  “Nice place you got, Ratso,” Dylan shakes his head.

  “It’s not a bordello but it’s all right,” Sara offers. Ratso joins them and heads for the elevator.

  “Where did you get that scarf?” Sara fingers the silk scarf Ratso picked up at the used clothing store in Boston. Just as he starts to answer, the elevator stops between floors.

  “Oh no, I’m claustrophobic,” Sara moans. “Breathe deeply,” she instructs.

  “Let’s say ‘Om,’” Ratso suggests, “that’s what Ginsberg does when he gets mugged.”

  “I once got stuck in an elevator with a Christian Scientist,” Sara shudders at the memory.

  The door finally opens at 15, not their floor, but they rush out into the corridor. “You know, Bloomfield told me that he didn’t hear anything about Rolling Thunder,” Ratso tells Dylan.

  “That’s it, the Rolling Thunder Revue, nobody knows anything about it,” Dylan says with a mixture of glee and despair.

  They pass some elegant furniture and Ratso gets hungry eyes. “Let’s rip this place off,” he whispers to Dylan.

  “Man, the place we shoulda ripped off was in Stockbridge,” Dylan gushes. “Were you there? Every piece in that place was an antique.”

  Sara departs to take a nap, and Dylan and Ratso continue on to the hospitality suite where a party of sorts is raging. Gerber and Zeller, two Quebec singers, are at the piano, belting out French songs for a bevy of listeners, including Joni Mitchell and Bob Neuwirth. Everyone else is lounging around, drinking and ogling Michelle, a statuesque blonde and the girlfriend of Zeller.

  Lisa seizes the moment to run over to Ratso. “I don’t like Ronee Blakley,” she whispers, “she’s all over everybody, she’s so insecure. I like Roger though,” she coos, eying the guitarist.

  “What did you do, blow off Dylan?” Ratso looks stunned.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Lisa laments, staring at the singer across the room.

  “Well, what do you want from him? A fucking baby.” Ratso rolls his eyes.

  “I just want to be his friend, now, honestly. I learned my lesson.”

  “How?”

  “When he told me to go back to school, that was a lesson,” Lisa smiles, her eyes devouring the room, keeping tabs on Roger. Ratso just shakes his head and leaves the classroom.

  The next afternoon, there’s some shooting scheduled and Ratso drags himself out of bed, throws on some clothes, and stumbles over to a small cafe. He sits at a table in the rear, along with Joni Mitchell. Baran and Johnson are already there, setting up lights. Joni is sitting underneath a window, practicing a French folk song on her acoustic guitar.

  “I love the word malheureux,” she savors every syllable, “malheureux. Malheureux.”

  “Vous êtes malheureuse?” Ratso asks.

  “Non, le chanson est malheureux,” Joni responds.

  “What’s going on here?” Ginsberg ambles over, as friendly as a bear.

  “Who knows?” Meyers shrugs. “We’re supposed to do Joni’s street music scene outside.”

  “You know that Leonard Cohen song, ‘Please Don’t Pass Me By’?” Ratso wonders.

  “Yeah I know that one,” Joni nods, and savors the ham and cheese hero that’s just been placed in front of the reporter. “That looks beautiful,” she coos.

  “Want one?” Ratso inquires.

  “Yeah,” she drools, like a little kid.

  “Could she have the same thing?” Ratso yells to the waiter.

  “Même chose,” Ginsberg adds professorially, then turns to Ratso: “Même chose is the same thing.”

  Joni orders a ginger ale and starts strumming. “Everyone thought you were out of it this morning,” Ratso laughs, remembering the vain attempt to rouse the slumbering songstress.

  “I was so out of it,” she smiles, “I slept with my clothes on.”

  “We were banging on the door, we thought you obviously weren’t in,” Ratso laughs.

  “I went to bed with my clothes on,” Joni marvels. “T-Bone and I sat up and played music all night.” Steve Soles joins the table, to confer with Joni about the scene.

  “The song you got, Joni, maybe we could start fiddling around on that,” Soles suggests.

  “It’s a great song,” Joni’s eyes widen, “I got a new verse to it, I just wrote a new verse to it,” and she starts strumming frenetically.

  I rolled right past a house on fire

  In the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night

  “No, no wait, let’s see …”

  I looked right at a house on fire

  In the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night

  And we rolled right past that tragedy

  Till we pulled into some roadhouse lights

  And a local band was playing

  Locals were mincing and shaking on th
e floor

  And the next thing I know it’s you, coyote, knocking at my door

  And you pin me in the corner and you won’t take no

  And you lead me to the dance floor and we’re dancing close and slow

  You got a woman at home and one for the night and another for the day

  Why’d you have to get that drunk and lead me on that way, ha ha

  You just picked up a hitcher, a prisoner of white lines on the freeway

  Joni laughs and everyone around is stunned by the power of the new verse.

  “Did I tell you I wrote a song?” Ratso asks Joni. “About the hookers in Boston. It’s called ‘Combat Zone.’”

  “Yeah, you told me. Bobby’s supposed to look at it or something, work on it with you?”

  “That’s what he said …”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to pin people down,” Joni counsels. “T-Bone and I are supposed to be writing the ultimate armistice song for the war of the sexes.”

  Dylan still hasn’t shown up yet, so everyone orders another round of drinks and settles in to the cozy wood-edged ambience of the cafe. “I had the strangest dream last night,” Joni suddenly remembers.

  “I dreamt that we rented a helicopter,” Joni recalls excitedly, “and we were flying over a reservation and it was dry like Arizona and the river had shrunk away, leaving kind of a sand delta, and behind it a cliff that was about the height of three men, and lined up all along the side of it were really old Indians in sleeping bags. I can remember even the arrangements of their figures, the ones that were standing and also the ones that were sleeping like in a natal posture and some of them had these olive sleeping bags and one of them was half unzipped and then the plane went over and they looked at it, you know, and I looked and one guy was sort of crying and all of a sudden his mood went really angry and behind him at a distance, an atomic bomb thing began to happen and the mushroom slowly unfurled then suddenly became a yellow and pink balloon, like a dirigible. It kept getting bigger and bigger and bigger and suddenly the crown of the explosion became a complete bubble and came drifting toward the helicopter.