On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  Just then, Larry Johnson of the film crew stops by to chat. The film crew seem to be my most faithful allies at this point, being outsiders in a sense themselves. They have to rely on Imhoff for the itinerary and even that’s kept secret from them and the performers until a day or so before the next stop. “What you been doing?” Johnson asks. “You got any interesting stuff?” I nod toward Priscilla. “How about a native of Newport who saw Dylan at the early Festivals, and is real articulate.” Johnson smiles. “Great, bring her backstage between shows, I’ll meet you at the side of the stage.”

  Dylan and Baez march through their set and Joan seems in particularly high spirits tonight. The audience goes wild for her pure-white “Swing Low” then someone screams out “‘Newport!’”

  “Yes, I remember Newport,” Baez lectures, hand on hip. “It wasn’t such a short time ago, dearies. I was the world’s Madonna. But that’s all changed, what a bore!”

  Dylan comes on next for his solo spot. Tonight he plows into an incredibly moving “God On Our Side,” the audience cheering every stanza, and when he reaches the line about learning to hate the Russians, he updates it in light of recent anticommunist developments, shouting the new list North Korea, Cuba, China, Vietnam, like it were some State Department litany. Then suddenly, a young woman advances to the lip of the stage, proferring a young baby to Bob, as if following some weird ritual. Dylan seems taken aback, then his expression of amazement turns to bemusement. He refuses the child and leans into the mike. “I’m not a politician,” he laughs.

  In fact, over the years, Dylan had studiously avoided becoming involved in electoral politics, unlike many of his musical colleagues. Simon and Garfunkel played fundraising benefits for Eugene McCarthy in 1968. In 1972, the McGovern forces who succeeded in reuniting Simon and Garfunkel, and Peter, Paul and Mary for a gala concert failed to woo Dylan. In 1976, Jerry Brown corralled the Eagles and Linda Ronstadt and Jackson Browne but Carter countered with the Allman Bros., a connection that would prove embarrassing after the cocaine trial of Gregg Allman’s road manager.

  In fact, there was much speculation that Carter had vainly attempted to enlist Dylan in his camp. Their relationship goes back to 1974 when Carter invited Dylan and the Band to a post-concert party during Dylan’s Tour 1974. And on January 21, 1974, Dylan and party limoed to the Georgia governor’s mansion and joined Carter and his family (including son Chip who once journeyed all the way to Woodstock to shake Dylan’s hand; obviously he’s the real Dylan fanatic in the family), and Georgia rock-scene luminaries such as Phil Walden and Frank Fenner of Capricorn Records for a down-home buffet of ham, eggs, grits, and vegetables in cheese sauce.

  Speculation was rife that Dylan was impressed by Carter’s interest in Israel (the governor had toured the Holy Land in 1972). However, Carter told reporters, “When I mentioned Israel, Dylan changed the subject and said he and his wife had recently been to Mexico and had enjoyed that country, too.” He felt Dylan was reticent but warm. “He never initiates conversation, but he’ll answer a question if you ask him,” Carter reported. In all, the evening seemed to be pleasant, Carter escorting Dylan on a tour of the mansion, then the two slipping outside for a secluded walk around the grounds. “I asked him if he wanted a drink,” Carter would observe the next morning, “but he only wanted orange juice and would only eat the vegetables.”

  Apparently, Dylan made a strong impression on the Georgia governor, at least politically. In May of that year, in a Law Day speech at the university in Athens, Georgia (a speech which mesmerized Hunter Thompson into the Carter camp), Carter would tell his audience of attorneys and judges, “But I read and I listen a lot. One of the sources for my understanding about the proper application of criminal justice and the system of equities is from Reinhold Niebuhr. The other source of my understanding about what’s right and wrong in this society is from a friend of mine, a poet named Bob Dylan. Listening to his records about ‘The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll’ and ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ and ‘The Times They Are A Changin’,’ I’ve learned to appreciate the dynamism of change in a modern society.”

  For his part, Dylan seemed amused by Carter’s endorsement of his ideas. “I don’t know what to think about that,” he told TV Guide. “People have told me there was a man running for President quoting me. I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” he laughed, “but he’s just another guy running for President. I sometimes dream of running the country and putting all my friends in office. That’s the way it works now, anyway. I’d like to see Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, and a few of those other guys come back. If they did I’d go out and vote. They knew what was happening.” Perhaps a sneak glimpse of a Dylan Administration was provided in a 1966 Playboy interview when Dylan hinted that he would replace “The Star-Spangled Banner” as national anthem if elected. His choice? “Desolation Row.”

  The set continues without incident until the last number, “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” when Dylan cuts his hand on a guitar string. His face becomes a scowl and he turns his back on the audience, licking the cut, but wheeling back just in time to deliver his line about “wiping the blood off my face.” Ginsberg and Blue, who today is looking like a ’30s gangster, hop on for the finale, and it’s clear the hand hurts Dylan. The house lights are up, the entire ten thousand plus audience standing, cheering along. “We don’t know any more songs,” Baez screams out over the din of the instruments, “so there’ll be no encore. You’ve been a beautiful audience, thank you, thank you, thank you.” And then she just soars into the last note of “This Land is Your Land” as Dylan beats a hasty retreat offstage.

  Next to me Priscilla is glowing. “Incredible,” she shakes her head, “what an up.” We make our way to the side of the stage and meet Johnson, who takes us backstage. In the hall, Meyers comes up with a camera and they shoot Priscilla and Jenny, leaning against the wall, reminiscing about Dylan, who himself is about twenty yards down the hall, talking animatedly with Chief Rolling Thunder. Kemp stands next to Dylan keeping a watchful eye on me. After the interview, I say good-bye to Priscilla, who’s taking a bus back to Newport. Meyers comes rushing up with, “Sloman, that was a great scene, she was the most articulate person we’ve interviewed so far. Don’t worry, we’ll tell Dylan what you’re bringing in.” I smile, as Meyers leaves to join the others who are eating a catered supper between shows, a supper that Chris O’Dell has warned me not to try to attend.

  The second show is fairly routine until the finale. The old chief had made his way to the front of the stage, cutting a striking figure in his Indian boots, rolled-up white pants, striped Cherokee shirt, and fedora-style hat, but he looked natural up there as he coolly surveyed the scene, glancing from the stage out to the vast audience, mysteriously stroking a long feather, exuding that Don Juanish prairie power, seeming to know that more than anyone else onstage or out in that sea of faces, this land was his land.

  Back in Newport later, I was restless and made the rounds of some of the bars. I had called Stoner to see if he wanted to check out the local action but he declined, preferring to stay in the hospitality suite set up next to Chris O’Dell’s room. The hospitality suite, an institution borrowed from the world of corporate socializing, functions on a rock tour as a means to program the performers into a self-contained world. In one of the rooms rented by the entourage, liquor and food are provided (until a reasonable hour, then suddenly strategically withdrawn), a context is provided so performers can let off steam (short of destroying furniture which went out with Led Zeppelin and Alice Cooper tours), and security is provided in the form of several imposing-looking ex-football players who screen the outside inputs. Attractive women usually pass through this filter. Ragged journalists don’t.

  “C’mon, Stoner,” I rant over the phone from my motel down the road, “let’s go out barhopping, I found some great places. You gonna just be a zombie, letting them load you on the bus to the gig, load you back, throw you into a hotel room, get you shit-faced, then safely ta
ke you to bed? That’s a real antitour, huh, really getting out and meeting the people. You wouldn’t even know if there was Rolling Thunder, you’re always indoors.”

  To no avail. So I make the rounds and by four I drift over to the troupe’s hotel. And surprisingly enough, there seems to be a flurry of activity in the lobby. Rolling Thunder and Spotted Fawn and their brave friend are in one corner. Mel Howard is running around frantically. Ginsberg and Orlovsky and Denise Mercedes, hard-rock guitarist and Peter’s girlfriend, are milling about. “Stick around,” Mel shouts to me as he scurries by, “we may be doing a scene with Rolling Thunder. I think Bob wants to do a sunrise ceremony.” As the time passes, more and more people filter into the lobby, McGuinn, then Blakley, Neuwirth, Blue, Jack Elliot, a few girlfriends, even a female correspondent from Newsweek, who’s just flown in to do a story and hasn’t succeeded in getting near Dylan yet.

  In the lobby, I run into my friend Mary, a photographer from the Village, who gets permission from Rolling Thunder to photograph the ceremony. By now about twenty people have amassed, and Spotted Fawn has pulled all the females in one corner for a huddle, making sure that no one was currently in the midst of her period (Tampax is taboo at these affairs). It’s almost light by now, and finally Dylan steps off the elevator and we fill three cars and follow Bob’s camper to the grounds of someone’s friend, who lives in an old restored mansion off Rhode Island Sound.

  It turns out to be an old stone building, currently an artist’s coop. We trudge through the grounds to a beautiful isolated spot on the edge of the sound. The sky is beginning to lighten so Rolling Thunder and the brave set out at once to build a campfire. That done, Rolling Thunder has us form a huge circle around the fire and I find myself between Roger McGuinn and Lola. The brave passes around a tobacco pouch from which each of us is instructed to take a pinch of tobacco to be thrown into the fire as we make our own individual prayers. Then Rolling Thunder sternly warns us of the seriousness and sanctity of the ceremony and he bans all cameras and tape recorders.

  Rolling Thunder begins the ceremony by explaining the meaning that sunrise has to the Indians, the affirmation, the renewal, the generosity of the Great Spirit. When he concludes his talk, he asks us to make our own prayers starting clockwise. Peter Orlovsky steps to the fire with, “I pray that we should all eat well and stop smoking cigarettes that are bad for us.” “May the spirit of this tour extend to everyone we meet along the road,” Ramblin’ Jack notes poignantly. Then all eyes shift to Dylan, who’s been standing with his head shyly burrowed into his chest, his Tibetan scarf flowing in the wind. He rocks back and forth on his boot heels, nervously kneading the tobacco in his fist. “I pray that man will soon realize that we are all of one soul,” he says gently, then strides to the fire and tosses the tobacco into the flames. Ronee Blakley shyly monotones a message that nobody can really hear and then Roger McGuinn vaults to the fire. “I pray that we’ll realize that everything’s gonna be all right,” he enthuses. It’s my turn. I step to the fire, “For life … and love.”

  After the circle is completed, Rolling Thunder invites Allen Ginsberg to recite a poem. Ginsberg, in jean jacket, scarf, and red bandanna tied around his balding pate, pulls some Australian aborigine song sticks from his shoulder bag and begins to improvise a poem-chant to the accompaniment of the sticks.

  When Music was needed Music sounded

  When a Ceremony was needed a Teacher appeared

  When Students were needed Telephones rang

  When Cars were needed Wheels rolled in

  When a Place was needed a Mansion appeared

  When a Fire was needed Wood appeared

  When an Ocean was needed Waters rippled waves

  When Shore was needed Shore met ocean

  When Sun was needed the Sun rose east

  When People were needed People arrived

  When a circle was needed a Circle was formed.

  The recitation over, Rolling Thunder addressed the circle again: “There was a girl who wanted to take photographs. It is permissible now.” Mary whips out her Nikon and starts to circle the circle, trying to line up Dylan, who begins a cat-and-mouse game with her. She darts discreetly behind McGuinn and snaps just as Dylan notices something interesting on his shoe. She retreats and peeks around Blakley; Dylan suddenly has an impulse to stare at the tree behind him. The game goes on as Neuwirth helps the brave to put out the fire.

  The rest of us huddle together, warding off the cold, as the sun rises magnificently over the Sound. Everybody seems a little dewy-eyed, moved by the experience. We start back to the mansion, our host promising us a glimpse at some of the art work there.

  I’m walking with Mary when someone calls to us from the rear. We look back and it’s Rolling Thunder, deftly hopping over the rocks, scampering toward us. He pulls alongside and begins to talk to Mary about photography and mentions the book that was written about him. “Listen,” he smiles, “do you think you could send me a copy of your contact sheets?” And as I walk on toward the house, the medicine man is scribbling his post-office-box address on a piece of paper.

  We march single file into the house, proceed up a narrow flight of stairs, and are led down a long corridor, peeking into room after room filled with oil paintings, watercolors, and some sculpture. I linger in one room, presently joined by David Blue, Mary, and a few others. Suddenly Dylan storms in. He stops about three feet from Mary and casts a penetrating glare. “Who are you?” he spits out. Mary blanches and finally manages to stammer her name. “Well, what are you doing here? Who invited you?” Dylan snarls, rocking back and forth on his heels. Mary looks like she’s about to faint and finally she weakly points to me and David Blue. “I know them,” she whispers.

  Dylan rolls his eyes. “Oh great, Larry. She’s your photographer, huh,” he snaps, then turns back to her. “I bet you got some great pictures.” Mary smiles faintly. “Well, I’d like to see ‘em,” he adds. With the change in tone Mary blurts out, “Where can I get in touch with you?” Dylan smiles sarcastically: “Ask Larry, he seems to know where we are.” With that, he turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

  After a few more minutes of house-seeing, we file back down to the cars. Dylan, Neuwirth, and McGuinn pile into the singer’s camper, which leads the caravan back to the hotel. It’s almost 10 A.M. now, time for breakfast, so a few of us grab seats in the coffee shop. Blakley, Soles, McGuinn, Blue, and I cram into a booth as Ramblin’ Jack just sort of wanders around. Roger, an electronics freak, has brought his walkie-talkies with him and hands one to Jack and they start a conversation across the room. Blue relieves Elliot and starts to wander outside, broadcasting his whereabouts every few seconds in a fuzzy garbled tone.

  Blakley cracks up. “I never saw two kids with a couple of tin cans crazier than you guys are.” Roger just smiles and goes back to his unit. “Come back, David,” he screams into the walkie-talkie, “where are you going? Over and out.” After a few more minutes of this the food arrives, signaling a suspension of communications.

  McGuinn and I begin to discuss our present relationships with women, both of us being in the throes of some difficult times. “My old lady’s upset about me being on the road,” Roger notes somberly, “about balling other women, and all that. I told her to go out and get laid, it wouldn’t bother me. I could’ve brought her on the road but I didn’t want to, even though the newsletter said it was all right.”

  I commiserate. “My problem is that my girlfriend makes me feel like I’m a sexual monster, that I’m totally oversexed if I want to get laid once a night.”

  “Once a night, that’s not unreasonable,” McGuinn sympathizes with a smile.

  Suddenly Blakley looks up from stirring her coffee. She leans over toward us and smiles conspiratorially. “I’d like to get laid at least three times a day,” she leers, pausing for effect. She leans back, nonchalantly, then chuckles, “Depending on how long each one is.”

  After breakfast, I return to my motel, partake of som
e artificial stimulation, and begin to pack for the trip to Stockbridge, Massachusetts, our next stop. Finally, an hour or so later, I pull out in the Granada, feeling grubby, weary, and glum at the prospect of driving alone for hours, but incredibly enough, there right ahead of me are the two tour buses. Aha, a convoy, I smile to myself, as I scoot in line and guard the rear.

  We drive on for ten minutes, winding through magnificently scenic streets of Newport until the buses pull into a parking lot on a narrow tree-lined road. Everyone’s filing off the buses and crossing the street where Chris O’Dell is standing in front of the archway to a cobblestoned road that leads to an incredible mansion. It’s like a scene out of summer camp, O’Dell standing there with clipboard, checking off each body, then reciting their name out loud. I sneak into line behind the film crew and blithely smile as I scurry under the archway. O’Dell shrugs.

  We assemble at the foot of the stairs leading to the house, and since we’re too numerous to go through at one time, O’Dell divides us into groups. I’m thrust with Ginsberg, Orlovsky, Levy, McGuinn, Stoner, Elliot, and Kemp, who’s doing a slow burn staring at me. “Good afternoon, I’m Mrs. Welch,” a matronly red-jacketed woman announces. “Welcome to the Breakers, the Vanderbilt mansion.” We step in to a massive lobby, replete with antiques, portraits, and exquisite fixtures. “This is nice,” Mel Howard scans the room, “but it’s nothing like our place.” “This is the Old Commodore, Cornelius Vanderbilt,” our guide points to a portrait, “and this is his grandson. This is the countess.” They all look rich. Kemp keeps asking Mrs. Welch financial questions, how much the mansion’s worth, how much the upkeep is. Ginsberg plops into a chair. “This is where you had to wait around if they didn’t want to see you,” he gleefully reports.