On the Road with Bob Dylan
Page 50
Ratso moseyed over and sat down next to McGuinn and Dylan who were cached behind a post at a small table. Everyone was pretty well blitzed so the talk was sparse, the trio content to listen to the jukebox in relative silence. Until three old Byrds songs came up, in a row.
“Hey McGuinn,” Dylan gave the ex-Byrd a fuzzy stare, “you didn’t do your best songs on this tour, man.”
Roger shrugged and mumbled something.
Dylan turned and focused his stare on Ratso. “Hey, the press never picked up on the tour, man.” A sly smile creeped across the artist’s face. “But the people, man. They know, they know what Rolling Thunder is.”
And Ratso suddenly flashed that Dylan was right. And he realized that after being in close proximity to the songwriter, after being on and off and on the tour, after seeing the concerts and the parties, the film scenes and the breakfast-table scenes, the interviews and the outerviews, Ratso realized that his respect and admiration for the poet had grown immeasurably. Simple gestures, like the glove exchange that frigid day in Toronto, or the rabid defense of Blakley in that misunderstanding over the first Rolling Stone article, or the touching way Bob cooled out Phil up there on Gerdes stage when the troubled troubador mistakenly thought his longtime colleague and friend was walking out on his tortured performance, it was these small things that convinced the reporter that Dylan was back on dry land, back out in the unfrozen traffic, unfettered by the armor Bloomfield had perceived.
Ratso thought about the other persons he had encountered who had been blessed or cursed by FAME, senators, movie stars, sports idols, other musicians and artists, and he realized that if Dylan was protected by armor from human interchange, then these others were walking around in masoleums. And Ratso smiled to himself, and then a chill ran down his spine as he remembered the public performances of this man fame had grappled with. He remembered Plymouth Rock, and the Halloween show when Dylan tried to sing with his mask on, and the big halls, and Waterbury, how could he ever forget that night, when the singer dedicated one of his favorite songs to him.
And he recalled Burlington and that furnace of a gym and the makeup streaming over Dylan’s sweat-soaked face. The list could go on and on, but in the end Ratso knew that Dylan was right. He had never let the reporter down onstage, never. And Ratso peered out through his dark glasses at that little genius, who was downing tequila after tequila, alone in a crowd, celebrating privately in public, and he thought about all the great songs over the years, the songs that shook empires, the songs that made men weep, the songs that turned around so many people’s visions and ideals and aspirations, the reporter himself being one of the many who were rescued by “Like a Rolling Stone.”
And then, as if by magic, that song started playing, the majestic Bloomfield guitar filling the stale bar air, and then that voice, that icon of pride and rage and torment and despair and, yes, hope. “How does it feeellll?” it asked, and Ratso looked to the creator for an answer. Dylan just slumped down a bit more in his chair, pulled his hat over his face, and downed another shot.
“Hey, schmuck,” the would-be accountant leaned over to the superstar, “listen to this. You didn’t do your best songs on this tour either.”
Dylan shot up and peered at Ratso. “Well, what about you? You didn’t do nothing on this tour, man. I didn’t read one article you wrote. Why don’t you go home and write, man? Produce something. Do it, man, go home and write.”
And with that, Dylan and the Thunder stragglers moved out to the camper and piled in. And Mooney took the wheel and headed up Bleecker Street, toward Lexington Avenue and the Westbury, hitting every pothole for spite, the real rolling thunder, on their way home.
And Ratso just stood there out on Bleecker Street and watched as the Executive slowly passed from his early-morning sight and then the reporter slowly made his way home. To write.
Postscript
And Larry wrote, and gradually began settling back into his old routine. Until he picked up his mail at his post-office box a week after they had all gone. He spied a letter from Lisa, postmarked West Dover, Vermont. He pulled the ruled paper out of the envelope and started reading the handwritten letter.
12/10/75
LARRY,
It’s over. It went by so fast. I don’t regret one minute of being hustled or shit on though. It was definitely worth it.
I just got home today. I’m speeding. I’m sitting on my bed and I feel the wind coming in through the uninsulated walls.
I’m writing because I want to know if you’re going to come up here or if you want to see me in N.Y. to interview me for the book. It would probably be better if you came here just because it’s very mellow. I don’t care, though. If you want to come tell me and I’ll tell you how to get here. Would you also send me the address of the office Ava works at. She told it to me real fast and I forgot it. I need it because no one ever gave me a release to sign for the film. I gave her my address but she was pretty high when I gave it to her the other night so she might have lost it.
You know, you should be very grateful to God. You are very lucky or maybe fortunate is a better word to have gotten so close with Bob. He really trusts you. At first I didn’t think he really did because Evans and Larry (film guy) and a lot of people were telling me you were the joke of the tour. People were calling you things like a sleazy prick. You can be adjetating often (excuse my spelling).
Well, anyway, Gary told me Bob thinks I’m okay. I’m very blissed out, he wrote love, Bobby on the picture, you wouldn’t believe. I miss him already and it’s only 2 days.
Allan gave me some good criticisms on my poetry. Do you know his address? I have to send him my address so he can send back my manuscript. That’s what he wants to do. So if you know both Ava’s and his it would be far out.
What do you think of Bob Weir? I love him. I’m going to have to come see Kingfish. He said he’d remember me next time we meet.
Well, I’m really fucked up and I’m just writing the first things that come into my head so if I keep on it’ll be a 10 page letter about nothing. Write to me and tell me what’s happening. Oh, I asked T-Bone about the song they wrote about me and he said if I didn’t hear it in the future, I’d hear it in the pasture. That’s a good line. Take care.
Love,
Lisa
P.S. I’m sorry the letter is so sloppy. I’m too fucked up now to write it over. You should take me along with you on the next tour. Bob approves.
I was particularly interested when Gurdjieff said that the same performers would have to act and dance in the “White Magician” scene and in the “Black Magician” scene; and that they themselves and their movements had to be attractive and beautiful in the first scene and ugly and discordant in the second.
“You understand that in this way they will see and study all sides of themselves; consequently the ballet will be of immense importance for self-study,” said G.
I understood this far from clearly at the time, but I was struck by a certain discrepancy.
“In the notice I saw in the paper it was said that your ‘ballet’ would be staged in Moscow and that certain well-known ballet dancers would take part in it. How do you reconcile this with the idea of self-study?” I asked. “They will not play and dance in order to study themselves.”
“All this is far from being decided,” said G “And the author of the notice you read was not fully informed. All this may be quite different. Although, on the other hand, those taking part in the ballet will see themselves whether they like it or not.”
“And who is writing the music?” I asked.
“That also is not decided,” said G He did not say anything more, and I only came across the “ballet” again five years later.
—P. D. OUSPENSKY
In Search of the Miraculous
THE TOUR
PHOTO ALBUM
Dylan in whiteface performs during the “Night of the Hurricane” at Madison Square Garden. (Allen Bank/Jeff Friedman collection)
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sp; “Mama, you’ve been on my mind.” Beatty Zimmerman joins her son, Joan Baez, and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott on stage. (Ken Regan/Camera 5)
Lucky Mick Ronson is sandwiched between Joni Mitchell and Ronee Blakley. (Mick Ronson Archives)
Button from special benefit at Madison Square Garden for imprisoned boxer Rubin “Hurricane” Carter. (Blank Archives)
Michael Bloomfield, Dylan’s first electric guitarist. (Beverly Cusimano)
Rolling Thunder Revue flyer. (Blank Archives)
Mick Ronson and Joan Baez share a quiet moment during the tour. (Mick Ronson Archives)
The Woman in White (Joan Baez) and Clara (Sara Dylan) confront Renaldo for some straight answers in the film Renaldo and Clara. (Circuit Films)
“This Land Is Your Land”—The Rolling Thunder Revue. (Bob Gruen)
Dylan applies makeup in a scene from Renaldo and Clara. (Circuit Films)
Trail map of the Rolling Thunder Revue, Fall 1975. (Blank Archives)
Dylan and Hurricane Carter meet in prison. (Ken Regan/Camera 5)
Joan Baez and Mama in the Dreamaway Lounge in Renaldo and Clara. (Circuit Films)
Phil Ochs confers with Dylan while Eric Frandsen plays in the background. (Ken Regan/Camera 5)
One of the survivors—Bob Neuwirth in Renaldo and Clara. (Circuit Films)
Sunrise ceremony, Newport, Rhode Island; Chief Rolling Thunder (center rear) presiding. (Mary Alfieri)
Dylan and Muhammad Ali backstage at the “Night of the Hurricane.” (Ken Regan/Camera 5)
“Keenky, who’s Keenky?” Kinky Friedman, the Texas Jewboy, and Ratso. (Marcia Resnick)
Allen Ginsberg on the road. (Mary Alfieri)
Ratso. (Bob Gruen)
Excerpts from In Search of the Miraculous: Fragments of An Unknown Teaching,copyright 1949 and renewed 1977 by Tatiana Nagro, are reprinted by permission of Harcourt Inc. The lyrics to “Ride ’Em Jewboy” and “Asshole From El Paso” by Kinky Friedman, both copyright © 1973 by Glaser Publications, Inc., are reprinted by permission of the author. The poem, “Sunrise Ceremony Verse Improvised With Australian Aborigine Song-Sticks at Request of Medicine-Man Rolling Thunder, November 5, 1975” by Allen Ginsberg, copyright © 1977 by Allen Ginsberg, is reprinted by permission of the author’s estate. The lyrics to “On the Rolling Thunder Revue” are reprinted by permission of Roger Cowen. “The Singer” by Tom Pacheco, copyright © 1976 by Chappell & Co., Inc., and Huckleberry Creek Music, is used by permission of the publishers. An excerpt from “Is Dylan Interested in Money? Small Clubs Give Way to Arenas” by Mike Madden is reprinted from Variety, November 12, 1975, by permission of the publisher. The lyrics to “Shadows and Light,” copyright © 1975 by Crazy Crow Music (BMI), and “Coyote,” copyright © 1976 by Crazy Crow Music (BMI), both by Joni Mitchell, are reprinted by permission of the publisher. Early versions of “Guerrero” and “Smokey Life” by Leonard Cohen are reprinted with his permission.
[In addition, portions of this book previously appeared in Rolling Stone.]
Copyright © 1978 by Larry Sloman
Introduction copyright © 2002 by Kinky Friedman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
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information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Three Rivers Press, New York, New York.
Member of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com
THREE RIVERS PRESS is a registered trademark and the Three Rivers Press colophon is a
trademark of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in mass market paperback by Bantam Books,
a division of Random House, Inc., in 1978.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
eISBN: 978-0-307-53914-4
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