On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  “All I said was Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Kinky were my three favorite male songwriters and Joni, Joan, and Ronee my three favorite females and she said, ‘Why do you make those distinctions?’”

  T-Bone jumps into the fray. “Is this fucking tape recorder on?” he drawls. “What are you talking about?”

  “We are talking about the battle of the sexes,” Joni says mischievously. “He’s making a distinction between male and female songwriters.” Muffin points an accusatory finger at Ratso.

  “There’s no such distinction,” T-Bone says solomonically. “When you get to the third realm, this is the realm of music. Sex becomes like ridiculous there.”

  “Sex lately has become very ridiculous,” Ratso laments.

  “But art can transport itself beyond gender and that’s the point I think that you’re overlooking, Ratso, by categorizing, by making a division between two groups of artists,” Joni fumes.

  “I’m talking about a finer distinction. You’re distorting my position.”

  “You’re distorting my position,” Joni shoots back, “you’re putting in a section—”

  “In a section that’s real good,” T-Bone drawls.

  “You’ve drawn the line,” Joni ignores the joke, “you’ve compartmentalized me.”

  “Everybody does that,” Ratso protests. “When people listen to your songs they don’t say Bob Dylan wrote ’em they say Joni Mitchell did, first categorization.”

  “That’s individuality, man,” T-Bone drawls.

  “Well, what else do we know about Joni?” Ratso lectures. “One thing is she’s female.”

  “That’s a broad statement,” T-Bone notes.

  “Another thing we see is a beret, she’s a beret-wearing songwriter.”

  “You just don’t know Joni well enough,” T-Bone is shaking his head. “If you knew her you’d know she isn’t a female.”

  “I stand corrected,” Ratso bows.

  “So what’s your standpoint?” T-Bone presses.

  “Well, it’s irrelevant anyway, it’s all great.”

  “All right,” T-Bone laughs, “whoo. You’re easy.”

  Ratso drifts off to watch the show but Joni intercepts him. “You are distorting my position, Joni,” he scores first.

  “No, I’m not,” she maintains. “You’re making a bigger distinction. Obviously you have more in common with Bob Dylan than I do with Ronee Blakley.”

  “She’s got a lot to say,” Ratso argues.

  “Not to me,” Joni shrugs. “She hasn’t got anything to say in a melody sense. Wait till I teach you my tunes,” Joni flashes.

  Dylan’s on now and Ratso rushes out into the audience. From behind the sound board, Bob looks like a walking garden, he’s got about eighteen flowers in his hat, red, yellow, and white, plus a few peacock feathers. And he looks totally wasted, the voice rough and worn but oh, so sensuous. He reaches back to Blonde on Blonde for a compelling “Fourth Time Around,” a song about the prostitution of the spirit, and then he waves the band off and does a second acoustic song, “Simple Twist of Fate,” a song that reminds Ratso of that all-time great film Children of Paradise. And a chill runs down the reporter’s spine as Dylan plays with the words like an alchemist plays with quicksilver.

  Jack Baran’s kneeling next to Ratso and he taps him. “He should do a whole set of acoustic material,” Baran whispers. Ratso nods agreement. “What do you make of the hat?” Baran wonders. “You can’t ignore it. It means something, he’s never taken it off once, every show he’s had it on.” Just then, Ratso looks up and sees Lisa wander by wide-eyed, drifting toward the stage, wearing a hat with long peacock feathers.

  “Look at Blakley,” Baran nudges Ratso, “she’s mesmerized every time she’s on stage with Bob.” Just then the lights flash on, and seven thousand people jump to their feet, screaming and clapping along to “This Land Is Your Land,” sending the two fans scurrying for the safety of backstage.

  Ratso manages to bum a ride back to the hotel with Mike Evans, but first Evans has to see the local doctor who’s been dispensing advice and prescriptions backstage. He’s holding office hours in one of the locker rooms of the gym.

  “I gotta get some speed,” Evans whispers to Ratso, as they approach the medic. “I’ve got a problem, Doc,” Evans starts.

  “Do they have Quaaludes in Maine?” Ratso interrupts breathlessly. Evans glares at him.

  “Have ’em but I wouldn’t give ’em,” the doc drawls in a New England accent.

  “Doctor, I drive a lot and I usually get Dexamyl,” Evans attempts again.

  “You should stay away from those,” the M.D. cautions.

  “I usually don’t get involved and I hate to use street pills. I just need something to help me drive.”

  “Well, you can’t be sleeping driving,” the doctor starts writing out a script.

  “And I’d appreciate a script for Valium or something to help me sleep. We get so wound up after a concert it’s hard to fall asleep.”

  The doctor complies.

  “Could I get some Valium, too?” Ratso barges in.

  “Of course,” the doctor smiles, thinking that he could be sued for malpractice if he let Ratso go untreated.

  The two gleefully run to Evans’ car with their booty. “You missed a great card game last night,” Evans reports as they barrel toward the hotel. “I was playing poker with five millionaires, Bob, Lou, Barry …”

  “How does Dylan play poker?” Ratso interrupts. “Does he bluff a lot? He’s always bluffing anyway. How’s he do? Did he win?”

  “I think he walked away minus a few dollars. Mooney won eight hundred dollars,” Evans marvels.

  At the hotel, Imhoff has prepared a little late-night snack in one of the convention rooms, and Ratso rushes in, grabs some food, and heads for a table. And there right across the table, looking striking in her silver-blonde hair, nice wool pants, and intense blue eyes, the same blue eyes, was none other than Beattie Zimmerman, a/k/a Bob’s mom. Ratso introduces himself.

  “Oh, you’re the one that Rolling Stone doesn’t like because he’s writing too good things about Bob,” Beattie gushes in her high-pitched resonant voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Just then, Neuwirth ambles over to the table. “What did you think, Mom?” he says gravel-throated.

  “Absolutely fabulous,” she raves, pulling her glasses off. “Fabulous. I’ll come again.” Everybody cracks up.

  Ratso starts to say something but Beattie cuts him off. “You sound miserable, dear,” she worries. “What’s that a cold you’ve got?”

  “I think I’ve had it for a few weeks on and off,” Ratso coughs, “my throat really hurts. What should I take for my throat?”

  “Chicken soup,” Beattie shoots back without blinking, “chicken soup, or tea and honey. Go get some of the soup,” she lectures, pointing at the buffet table.

  Ratso dutifully fills a cup and returns. “This is great, just like having my mother here,” he smiles at Mrs. Zimmerman.

  “I bet your mother took good care of you too,” Beattie stands up for Jewish motherhood, “I bet she’s a great cook too.”

  “When I was living at home I was twenty pounds heavier,” Ratso admits.

  “Oh, you got away from them so you could lose a little weight,” Beattie cracks, eyes sparkling.

  Just then, Kemp arrives, takes one look at Ratso and Beattie chatting away like they were members of the same ORT chapter, takes one look at Ratso’s tape recorder lying there on the table, and freaks. He huddles with Imhoff, and a few seconds later Imhoff calls Ratso aside and suggests he move to another table. But the party is fading, and even though a bunch of musicians drift over to the adjacent ballroom and start a late-night jam, Ratso gets bored and falls out.

  Next morning he gets up early and drives into town to find an open pharmacy. It’s Thanksgiving Day, but luckily one drugstore is open till noon, and the young bearded pharmacist gets Ratso’s script. It’s obvious some of the others
have found this place, too.

  “It’s another one of them,” the pharmacist whispers to the druggist. “The same prescription as Baez and Sara Dylan.” Ratso grabs his Valiums indignantly and heads back. But when he gets back, there’s a huddle right in front of the hotel. Mel Howard, Johnson, Meyers, all the film faggots, as the crew calls them, are in troubled discussion.

  Ratso pulls up. “That’s it,” Howard beams as he sees the reporter. “We can use Ratso’s car.” Meyers agrees. “But wait,” Mel cautions, his eyes sparkling mischievously, “Louie might kill us if we let Ratso take Bob.” “Fuck ’em,” Meyers growls.

  Ratso walks over to them. “Hey, Rats baby,” Mel croons, “can we use your car for a scene today?”

  “For who?”

  “Bob,” Mel whispers involuntarily.

  “Only if I can come, I’m not covered for anyone else driving,” the reporter says slyly.

  Five minutes later, Howard and Scarlett are in the back seat and Dylan slides in next to Ratso. They follow the film van up a winding country road, finally stopping next to the bare shell of an old farmhouse. The light snow begins to intensify.

  The car empties and Dylan leads the way over to the old house. It’s an eerie sight, just the wooden beams and floor, a ghost house in the middle of barren winter forest. Perfect for a scene between the wandering hero and the gypsy girl he meets up with after many lifetimes. Meyers directs Scarlett to stand in the middle of the house, and Dylan tells her to start playing. She starts a slow, haunting melody on her violin, her hands numb and shaking from the bitter cold.

  While the crew is getting ready, Ratso and Dylan retreat to the car, and its welcome heater. Bob wrings his hands in front of the heat and studies the old worn copy of Dante’s Inferno in his lap.

  “I finally figured it out,” Ratso breaks the silence, “I realized why Louie doesn’t like me. It’s ’cause I’m a New York Jew, I’m pushy, I come from a lower-middle-class family, I’m hungry. But he’s from the Midwest, and Midwest Jews are fucking closet cases. They’re ashamed they’re Jewish, they’re just assimilationists. You know?”

  Dylan just nods and continues reading.

  “Louie thinks I’m just a chozzer, that I’m heartless, but I’m not, I’m just hungrier. I have some debts to repay, you see where I’m coming from? You see it from my perspective?” Ratso asks.

  “What’s that? From an out-of-work writer?” Dylan cracks.

  “Fuck you,” Ratso feels hurt.

  “Well, all your favorite songwriters aren’t New York Jews,” Dylan argues. “Me, Leonard Cohen, Kinky. None of us are from New York.”

  “That’s true,” Ratso admits, and Dylan leans back in the seat.

  “Is Pacheco Jewish?” he suddenly asks.

  “No, but he’s got a Jewish great-grandmother from Odessa,” Ratso remembers.

  Dylan goes back to his book, then gets called out for the scene. Ratso goes out to look, but the temperature must be near zero, and after a few minutes he rushes back to the car. Five minutes later, Dylan, Howard, Scarlett, and Ken Regan cram in and Ratso starts up, on the way to Bangor, where everyone else must already be enjoying the big Thanksgiving dinner prior to the evening’s show.

  “We must be late already,” Dylan moans in the front seat and Ratso tries to accelerate, nearly careening the car into a skid. “Don’t rush, Ratso, just get us there safely,” he worries, looking apprehensively out of the window. In the back seat, Regan is snapping away, taking roll after roll of Dylan in the front, who looks like Quinn the Eskimo in a red-green-and-white-checkered coat with a fur collar, and a big Tibetan fur hat.

  Mel starts discussing the film. “You know, Ginsberg wants to do a scene with you, Bob, acting out one of his fantasies.”

  “Which one?” Ratso asks.

  “Allen’s fantasy is to fuck Bob,” Mel reports.

  “No, no,” Dylan whirls back, “not me. Ronson.” He chuckles.

  “Anyway,” Mel continues after the laughter dies down, “he wants to shoot this scene where you and he are waking up together in the morning, this real tender aftermath scene.”

  Bob rolls his eyes and retreats into the seat, and in a few minutes he’s fast asleep, followed by Scarlett and Mel. Ratso mumbles a silent prayer to Dexamyl, and plows on through the blizzard, on the way to Thanksgiving.

  By the time they finally reach the party, most of the other eighty or so people have finished eating, and the kids, Dylan’s, Baez’s, actress Ruth’s, are running rampant. The late arrivals find seats and Mel Howard calls for order. The film crew is about to start filming the proceedings and Howard is about to make a plea for spontaneity, a little like asking for pussy at an orgy. After his warm-up, he looks toward Dylan. “Who can give a little talk? How about you, Bob?”

  Dylan looks like the shy one at the orgy. “Let my mother talk,” he suggests, pointing toward Beattie, “I’m speechless.” Beattie, who’s never at a loss for words, promptly stands up and delivers a stirring Jewish-matriarchal-type tribute to all of the revelers, and gets a gusty ovation as she sits down. Ratso claps a few times then buries himself in his delicious turkey and stuffing, polishing off the huge plate in a matter of minutes.

  The reporter walks over to where Dylan is standing, talking to Chesley. “How come we didn’t do any shooting in Boston?” Ratso’s been meaning to ask Dylan this for a while. “I did all that advance work, stayed up for days on end, got to know every hooker, pimp, transvestite in the area, and you never used any of it. What were you just fucking me over, sending me to do that shit?”

  Dylan shrugs. “Why don’t you write a song?” he suggests.

  “I think I will,” Ratso smiles impishly.

  “Oh, yeah, what are you gonna call it?” Dylan asks. “’Jerked Off?”

  “No, I’ll call it ‘The Combat Zone,’” Ratso shoots back.

  “Oh, yeah?” Dylan suddenly gets serious. “I like that. Hey, I’ll help you write it.”

  “OK,” Ratso smiles.

  It’s nearly time for the concert and as Dylan finally sits down and shovels down some cold turkey, most of the others are starting off for the hall, across the street. And what a hall. It was the strangest arrangement Ratso had ever seen. Perfect for a basketball game, with two long sections running high toward the roof facing the court, which was covered with chairs facing the stage. So most of the audience got a great view of the privileged few lucky enough to see the performers who were way off at one end. “This is just like Chicago,” Beattie exclaims, craning her neck at the stands. Tonight, Ratso is going to help her babysit, and he dutifully follows her, the kids’ granny, and the children to a special row of chairs that have been placed on the balcony in the rear of the hall, which, due to the bizarre dimensions of the place, are actually the best seats in the house.

  They settle down and watch Guam’s warm-up set. After a few numbers, Beattie leans over to Ratso. “What does Bob Neuwirth do?” she asks the reporter. “Can he do anything?”

  Ratso blanches. “Well, he’s a songwriter and he’s responsible for this first part of the show ….”

  “I didn’t know,” Beattie shakes her head, “I don’t see him doing anything.”

  But the conversation is rudely interrupted by the appearance of her son on the stage. Beattie immediately turns back and glues her eyes to the small prancing figure. Dylan sounds a little weak, a little tired as he rushes through the first two numbers, but by “Hard Rain,” which he dedicates to D. H. Lawrence, the momentum seems to be building. In fact, by the end of the concert, most of the staff and film crew have filtered up to the balcony. The kids, who’d been running or fighting in their seats, have all fallen asleep, leaving Beattie and Ratso a chance to concentrate on the performance.

  Onstage, Bob starts into “Hurricane.” “What did they send him to jail for?” Beattie leans back and asks Ratso. “For defending his people,” the reporter answers and Beattie gives a knowing nod and turns back to the music. At the end, the audience rises in a s
tanding ovation and the singer’s mother pops up, cheering the protest song. “Isn’t it great?” Ratso claps along. Beattie just shakes her head and hits a fist against her heart. “It leaves you weak. It leaves you weak,” she says in wonder.

  “When is ‘Sara’?” Beattie suddenly asks. “Do I have enough time to go to the ladies’ room? I had too much coffee.” The band breaks into “One More Cup of Coffee” and Ratso can’t resist the pun. “One more?” Beattie’s eyes open wide. “I’ve already had six or seven!”

  She visits the john, and comes back just in time for “Sara,” Bob crouching down low, strumming furiously, pouring his heart out. He gets up to the line about writing “Sad Eyed Lady” and Ratso hits Beattie’s knee. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she shakes her head in awe, “this is the greatest love song ever.”

  During “Just Like a Woman,” they make their move, shepherding the remaining kids backstage, and as the show ends Ratso slumps in the bleachers, taking a well-earned breather.

  Everyone’s forming a caravan to go directly over the border to Quebec tonight, the two buses, the campers, the Cadillac, the film vans, the support cars, and Ratso has been promised a spot in the procession. But there’s a delay, so Ratso chats with Michael Ahern, the stage manager, who acquaints the reporter with the seamier side of the rock ’n roll life, the crew’s perspective. It’s fascinating talk, Ratso’s enthralled, and a half-hour later, he jumps up and runs outside. Nada. “Motherfucker,” the reporter screams to the cold Maine night, “they’re gone. Like a fucking nightmare.”

  Ratso storms back inside, gets his things, gets last-minute directions from Ahern, and hops into the Monte Carlo. It’s treacherous driving tonight, the soft dewy snow has now frozen into a slick ice layer and it takes him about ten minutes merely to inch down the steeped road leading to the arena. But when he reaches 95 and starts north toward Quebec, he realizes that there is something drastically wrong. The car won’t stop, every time it’s fed a little gas it lurches forward and continues to accelerate. Shit, the reporter curses to himself. Sabotage? The ultimate dirty trick. And such an old one, tamper a little with the car, make it impossible to drive, wait for the victim to start off, and an hour later he’s cleanly eliminated, wrapped around a concrete abutment.