On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  The crowd keeps pouring in, incredibly vibrant, not as young as I had anticipated. During a lull, I walk over to Dave Meyers, who, in his denims and beat-up black cowboy hat, looks like he’s shooting a Peckinpah film. “What does Dylan mean to you?” I say solemnly, pressing a pen into his face. “That’s easy, one word,” Meyers shouts back: “Money.”

  At about 8:20 the band rambles onstage to no introduction, and Neuwirth grabs center stage on an easygoing uptempo countryish tune, “Good Love Is Hard To Find.” And what a motley crew at that, Neuwirth in his Joe College tweed sport coat, Soles and Stoner in basic rockabilly denims and cowboy shirts, Ronson in butch black T-shirt and blue jeans.

  T-Bone Burnett, the Fort Worth flash, follows with one of his Dadaistic originals, then Rockin’ Rob Stoner takes the spotlight, slowing the pace down with a tragic tale of the bottle and love’s disappointment, “This Situation’s Too Good To Be Wasted, But I’m Too Wasted To Be Any Good.” Neuwirth is emceeing, introducing each soloist, and his spirit is infectious, a real revue, in fact, and Neuwirth is not far off the mark when he says at one point, “Welcome to your living room.” Stevie Soles, of the L.A. Sensitive School of Songwriting, rocks surprisingly hard with “Don’t Blame Me,” and David Mansfield, who was the musical glue of Quacky Duck, amazes everyone with his virtuosity on everything from guitar to pedal steel to violin.

  Then Ronson charges into a Bowiesque “Is There Life On Mars” and all of a sudden the band is English glitter rock. “I can’t believe them,” George is screaming, nudging me with his elbow, “this fucking band’s like silly putty. They can play everything.” Ronee Blakley walks on, in stunning white suit complete with flowers in her hair, and backs Neuwirth on a shitkicking-good version of “They Say Hank Williams is Dead.” “This band’s been together eight days,” Neuwirth exults and yields the stage to Blakley for a solo spot. She seems a little nervous, moving a bit woodenly, but leaves to polite applause. “She’ll be back, everybody’ll be back,” Neuwirth teases. “It’s hot but it gets even better.”

  There’s a great warmth emanating from that stage, a folksy down-home ambience that is usually missing in rock concerts. So when Ramblin’ Jack rambles onstage during a song Neuwirth was singing about him, it doesn’t seem coy or melodramatic. Jack’s the archetypical Brooklyn beat-cowboy, his sad puppy-dog face framed by wirerim glasses and the ever-present ten-gallon hat. He hoots and howls his way through four numbers, joined by an unintroduced Roger McGuinn on banjo. And the audience loves this old master, chuckling at his wry introductions (“Here’s a song Deroll Adams sang at my first wedding ever”), lapping up his lost-boy preambulations. He finishes with an old Carter family song, and Neuwirth leaps on in his best Ed Sullivan, calling him back with “Take a bow, man.”

  A lull, and then a short, wiry figure emerges from the backstage darkness. And before anyone realizes it, Dylan strides onstage, strumming an acoustic, wearing the same black leather jacket, the cherished hat, and a vest. “Here’s another old friend,” and it isn’t until Neuwirth and Dylan romp into “When I Paint My Masterpiece” that the audience recognizes Dylan and emits a long, sustained cheer. Dylan seems edgy, unsure at first, singing harmony to Neuwirth’s lead, watching his former road manager, and only midway through the song sneaking a glance at the audience. But as the song progresses, he seems to loosen up, even allowing an incredulous bug-eyed gesture at the line “big police.” And by the time they grind the song to a conclusion, the troupe has transformed Dylan’s ironic song about the limitations on artistic achievement into a heraldic triumph. Not only is Dylan about to paint that masterpiece, he’ll gladly do it in front of you.

  And he proceeds. A short huddle with Neuwirth, then Ronson kicks off a bouncy, almost bossa nova version of “It Ain’t Me Babe.” Dylan takes the mike alone for the first time, singing more melodically than ever, smiling for the first time as the audience cheers the familiar chorus of “No, No, No.” The bitterness, the recrimination of the song is gone, and the crowd goes wild when he pulls off his guitar and leans into the mike to blow some harmonica for the first time. They rock to an end, sending most of the crowd of 1,800 to its feet in delight. Neuwirth smiles and leaps into the mike, gesturing toward his famous friend. “Bob Dylan,” he shouts.

  The tempo gets picked up with a searing version of “Hard Rain,” Dylan punching out the words, Stoner strutting across the stage behind him, emitting some guttural bass. Ronson gets a chance to get looser on guitar here and he pulls out all the stops, winding up by playing a figure from “I’m a Man.” Another standing ovation. Dylan steps back from the mike, rolls up his sleeves, nervously tugs at his hair, and coughs. “We’ll play a new song for ya, this is Scarlett Rivera.” And Scarlett makes her entrance, a figure in black, looking almost like a female Peter Wolf with dark shades and black vest and pants. They start into “Durango,” a new song, Dylan’s El Paso, and he plays the role of the fated gunslinger perfectly. Then without pause, he slips off his guitar, sips some coffee, and grabs the mike as the band rips into “Isis,” another haunting narrative written with Levy. This is naked Dylan, no guitar, no props. Just the poet, sweating from the brilliant spots, gesturing with one hand, now two, feet constantly tapping, eyes burning intensely as he tells the story of love and collaboration. The music kicks him on, Wyeth knocking out the beat with some solid drums, Scarlett flailing at the melody with her violin. Dylan’s much more confident now, playing with the narrative, delivering the punch lines flawlessly to hearty cheers from the audience. The song ends with a flourish, Dylan wailing on his harp, then a quick wave and the curtain slowly tumbles down, ending the first half of the show.

  In the lobby I spot Ginsberg and Orlovsky and they seem charged by Dylan’s performance. “It’s the vision of the ’60s becoming real,” Ginsberg exults. “His diction is real clear, I’m impressed by the way he lifts his lip in what seems to be a sneer but is really an attempt to pronounce the consonants clearly. He’s showing an elastic, rhythmic precision, singing much more like he speaks.” I ask Allen about the songs themselves. “‘Isis’ seems sphinxlike, it’s into all sorts of stuff, the pyramid references. But I haven’t seen the texts yet.”

  “There was a good driving rhythmic force,” Peter adds, “full of energy with long single-minded songs about one subject.” Allen listens and then leans over to me, smiling. “I’ve been crying,” he confides.

  The lights flicker, signaling the second half and we scatter back to our seats. And with the curtain still down, a familiar sound rings through the hall. Two iconographic voices, one low and guttural, the other vibrant and soaring, combining perfectly, to issue a warning about the inevitability of social change. The curtain slowly lifts to reveal an amazing sight, Dylan and Baez, together again, sharing a mike, singing “The Times They Are A-Changing.” Close your eyes and it could have been Newport in 1963, when Baez, who was a star in her own right, began introducing her ragamuffin friend during her own concert appearances. But tonight, they share the stage as equals at least.

  And Dylan is even loose enough to actually announce the songs, almost bantering with the audience at times. “This was written by Johnny Ace,” he notes, “everyone remembers Johnny Ace, right?” as they break into the haunting “Never Let Me Go.” They end with Dylan staring right at Baez with a fiery intensity as Joan picks up her drink and toasts Dylan. But he continues to strum his guitar relentlessly, waiting till she’s ready, then starting into a slow, compelling version of “Hattie Carroll.” But there’s a discordant element in it, somehow the song doesn’t move with the drive it possesses. “Shit,” George whispers to me, “she’s holding Dylan back. He’s like a robot on a leash.”

  But with “I Shall Be Released,” the momentum is back, Baez discarding her guitar and sidling up to Dylan, throwing a maternal arm around his shoulder and raising her other arm in some weird Kate Smith gesture. Ronson plays a blistering solo, the song comes to a triumphant end, and the crowd jumps to its feet as Dylan chuckles, affectionately
pats Baez on the hair, and yields the stage to his former patron.

  “That kid is talented,” Baez shakes her head in wonder, but then a heckler screams out something derogatory. “Your neck is red, honey, but you’re still green,” she comes back, then marches into the beautiful “Diamonds and Rust,” a bittersweet, almost ominous remembrance of her love affair with Dylan. Suddenly, she moves into an a cappella version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” that mesmerizes the audience until the final line “coming to carry me, you, us, on home” prompts a huge ovation. Baez is pulling out all the stops, doing spirituals, political songs (“Joe Hill” introduced with “I guess this had to be my political statement, I hope the city fathers will forgive me”), even a slick cover of the top-forty hit “Please Come to Boston.” But when Baez swings into the gospel hit, “Oh Happy Day,” George begins mumbling to himself. “She sucks,” he sneers, “she’s soul-less.” He casts a baleful eye at the audience, happily clapping along. “These fucking Yankee dogs,” he sneers, “goddamn pilgrims.”

  “We have more goodies coming,” Baez promises. “Here’s a gentleman who’s been lurking around in the back,” and Roger McGuinn takes center stage and leads the band into a blistering hard-rock version of “Chestnut Mare,” featuring four-part harmony. It’s the first real chance for the band to work out and it’s clear that this is the kind of music they’ve been aching to play. McGuinn gets a nice hand and Baez returns to finish her set with “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” a nice tight version, highlighted by some hot piano from Howie Wyeth.

  Baez and the band depart to a thunderous ovation that swells when the wiry, small figure ambles onstage alone. Dylan starts right into “Mr. Tambourine Man,” and suddenly it’s 1966. Now the delivery is less manic, more mature, yet it’s just as powerful. After the one solo song, Stoner, Wyeth, and Scarlett come on for the haunting, spiritual “Oh Sister.” Then a screen is slowly lowered and Rubin Carter’s face appears above the performers. “This is a song about Rubin Carter,” Dylan mumbles, and the band rips through “Hurricane.” Dylan seems uneasy still, nervously strumming his guitar between tunes. He starts into the ominous, murky “One More Cup of Coffee,” which reminds me of a mature “Maggie’s Farm.” Someone yells out for the unreleased song about Joey Gallo and Dylan seems surprised. “Where’d you hear that?” he queries. And then, after a false start in which his harmonica holder slips from his mouth, Dylan breaks into “Sara,” a beautiful bittersweet lament to his wife.

  Now the rest of the band is filtering on for a moving “Just Like A Woman” with Ronee Blakley singing close harmonies. Then it’s hoot time, and everyone plows into “This Land is Your Land,” Neuwirth, Ramblin’ Jack, Baez, and Dylan each taking a verse, with David Blue and Allen Ginsberg joining the crowd onstage for extra karma. And by 11:30, some three hours after showtime, Dylan leads the group off. But the audience won’t stop, wave after wave of cheers cascade around this beautiful hall. The ovation lasts for a full eight minutes, an amazing outpouring of warmth and affection. Then slowly, in clusters, the pilgrimage begins filtering out. They had come looking for the new world in music and it seemed evident that they had found it. They were the first to see Plymouth Rock.

  In the lobby, Kemp is holding court, receiving well-wishers and smiling for the first time now, the premier concert under his belt. I pull him aside and ask how he got involved in the whole thing. “The germ started in the Other End,” Kemp recalls. “Bob decided he wanted to do it, but he didn’t have anyone to help. I came back from Alaska three weeks later. He told me about his summer, asked me about mine. I hired Imhoff, I called him up and asked him if he would be in charge of the technical aspects. The whole tour was Bob’s idea, he told me what he wanted and I put it together.” Kemp pauses, and his eyes grow wide. “I didn’t do so bad for a fish peddler from Duluth, did I?”

  Back at the seats, George is talking to a familiar-looking girl. She looks young, real sad-eyed, with a large feathered hat topping off her post-hippie garb. Her name is Lisa; she had been at MacDougal Mike’s party the previous Saturday, and she had driven here in her old black Chevy Impala, hung out around the Auditorium, hoping to hit on someone who could give her a ticket. And the waiting paid off. “I saw Bob and he remembered me because I had once given him a painting and he had shown me his house on MacDougal Street,” Lisa gushes. “It was weird, real dark with all these papers and stuff on the floor. But he recognized me and told Barry to give me tickets to the concert.”

  We drive back to North Falmouth and meet Lisa at Johnnie’s all-night diner. And her story sounds familiar: middle class Jewish family, grew up in Westchester, struggled through high school, then did the counterculture route, psychedelics, mysticism, currently working as a waitress at a health-food restaurant in Vermont. But that wasn’t the whole story. It seems it wasn’t that easy to get to the Sea Crest rehearsal, especially when the whole tour was shrouded in an aura of mystery. So Lisa had to pay dearly for the little tidbits of information, like what hotel they were staying at, where the hall was, which was Dylan’s camper. “I fucked four guys to get to Dylan.” She shrugs a bit too casually. “But then I blew it.” I inquire why. Lisa looks up, real sad-eyed and just stares vacantly for a while. She glances down at the table and mumbles, “Bob is gonna be really mad at me. He’s really pissed.” I ask why. Lisa looks up, with a slight mischievous smile. “When I saw him at the rehearsal, after he gave me the tickets, I leaned over to him and whispered, ‘I want to have your baby.’ He just stood there and got real tense and then screamed, ‘Ah, go back to school, man.’ I think he’s pissed at me.”

  The next day I wake up early and call over to the Sea Crest to arrange to meet Baez for an interview. We decide to meet in the dining room and I last there about four minutes when Imhoff signals to a huge black security guard who politely escorts me to a room and then proceeds to lock me in. “These are Barry’s orders,” he shrugs. “You’re not to leave the room, if you do, you’ll have to leave the grounds. We’ll bring anyone who agrees to speak to you here.”

  “Jesus Christ, this is a fucking house arrest,” I fume to myself, but then I begin to assess the situation. It’s a cheery room, the bed is huge, much softer than the one at the dive where I’m staying. And that view of the water is breathtaking. The reverie is interrupted when a blackjacketed figure comes in off the sand and climbs onto the terrace, rapping at the sliding glass doors.

  I open the terrace and let Joan Baez in. We exchange greetings and she plops into a chair, revealing a two-piece bathing suit under the black leather. She looks tanned and vigorous, and maybe a trifle uneasy. I set up the tape recorder and start the interview.

  “How’d you find out about the tour? How were you contacted?”

  “Bob called me and asked me what I was doing for the month of November. I had a tour we were working on and … you know.”

  “In other words, you had bookings already?”

  “Yeah, the first contracts were going to be signed and sealed in the next few days. Usually, I’m not working with a dollar sign in front of my face. But I was and I had to give it considerable thought.”

  “Yeah, I read about the pressure they were putting on you at the record company. They felt you weren’t being commercial enough.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say it that way,” Baez frowned. “I put my own pressure on. I decided I had a certain lifestyle and I’d like to keep it. You know, financially things were falling out beneath me, so I went to work.

  “I just thought it was very exciting, kind of nerve-racking. I didn’t trust a lot of it. I said, ‘What if Ramblin’ Jack decides he wants to leave on a freight train for two months and Bobby Neuwirth decides to throw himself in the ocean.’ I mean, what’s that leave? ’cause I’ve known these guys for a long time, and I love them dearly, but everybody’s a little unstable.”

  “Well, it certainly turned out OK. The balance was there last night. I mean they certainly seemed to resolve the tension between Stoner’s slick profes
sionalism and Neuwirth’s drunken good-timey camaraderie.”

  “I thought the show was very beautiful,” Joan smiles. “I think the audience simply didn’t believe what was happening for a long time …”

  “I’ll tell you, the thing that knocked me out the most was the second half of the show, when the curtain went up and you two were singing.”

  “I was really honored to be given that position in the show. I couldn’t have been handed a nicer gift in that sense. I know for the audience that was really exciting. That can be the ’60s, it can be now, it can be anything.”

  “How did you feel working with Dylan?”

  “It was delightful. He’s a constant challenge, he’s relatively impossible to follow, so that’s a challenge, but I need that. I’m bored if I don’t have some kind of challenge. I remember most of the songs and what I don’t remember I lip-read, and that’s what we were doing last night and I thought 1,800 people wouldn’t mind lip-reading.”

  “Yeah, I could see Bob saying to you, ‘One more chorus, one more.’”

  “We rehearsed it, but then we did it completely different than how we rehearsed it. I knew that would happen, so I had my guitar unplugged. It’s on what I call the Marcus Welby, and so I’m half playing and half not so that if he changes keys or tunes I follow.”

  “I remember at the rehearsals you were going through the Dylan songbook with him on stage.”

  Joan smiles and slumps down into her chair. “That was very funny, him saying ‘Did I write all this shit?’”

  “It was interesting, I remember that at the first concerts you sang together, it was like you were his patron or something, you used to introduce him to your audiences. What’s it like for you now, this much more egalitarian thing, like two artists meeting …”

  Baez pauses and measures her words carefully. “It’s very pleasant … Uh, I can’t get away from the feeling that it was an honor to have been invited on a thing like this. I’d also like to establish myself, which is hard to do because I can’t tell why the people are there. You see, I’m used to giving Joan Baez concerts for fifteen years or so. I’m used to knowing why the people are there. It’s my own little problem choosing what they would like to hear, what they relate to. I’m just trying it out to see what they like to hear.”