by Larry Sloman
Meanwhile, Rubin has been ranting on the phone to Kahn, screaming about Dylan making the announcement. And just as Dylan starts up for the second half, Lois comes barreling out from backstage. “Don’t announce anything,” George manages to yell up at Bob as he starts toward the front of the stage.
Meanwhile Kahn has been waiting in ambush and as the singer passes by, he jumps in front of him and almost gets speared by a Martin as a result. “Bob, you can’t do this,” Kahn throws his arms out like a left tackle, unaware that Lois had just delivered the word.
Dylan stops short in his tracks. “I ain’t doing anything until I hear from you,” he barks at Kahn, and then walks out to open the second half.
And what a start, Dylan resplendent in a white Wallace Beery shirt, black vest, flowered hat, and makeup, and he’s followed by Baez as Dylan in white Wallace Beery shirt, black vest, flowered hat and makeup. Ratso finds a seat next to Beattie out front as the two Dylans break into “Times They Are A Changing.” The reporter sings along in his seat.
“If Dylan goes broke, he can always play New York,” Beattie smiles at the reporter; “you’ll buy the first ticket.”
The Dylans finish that and launch into the good-timey “Mama You’ve Been on My Mind,” prompting Ratso to elbow Beattie.
“See,” Beattie laughs, “I’m always on his mind.”
Suddenly Ratso develops an intense headache, compounded by the blaring speakers no more than twenty yards away. “Beattie,” he moans, “you got any aspirin?”
She makes a quick check of her purse and comes up empty-handed. She shakes her head.
“What?” Slocum spits, “what kind of Jewish mother are you? No aspirin!”
“I never had a headache in my life,” Beattie brags, “Bob and his band were singing like this for ten years in my garage and I never got a headache.”
“Anybody remember Johnny Ace?” Bob asks from the stage. “I hope so.”
“I don’t know him,” Beattie shrugs, “who is he?”
Dylan and Baez soar into the old ’50s song and Beattie watches enthralled. Then she turns to Ratso. “He should wear his glasses more often,” Bob’s mother worries, “he’ll hurt his eyes this way.”
“Doesn’t he wear contacts?” Ratso stabs.
“No, no,” Beattie shakes her head with relish.
“We’re gonna send this next one out to Mr. Herman Melville,” Bob dedicates.
“What label is he on?” Ratso screams out.
“I don’t know the guy,” Beattie shrugs.
Ratso turns back to the show and starts to watch, when a familiar figure wanders in front of him. It’s Mike Porco, the owner of Gerdes Folk City.
“Porco,” Ratso screams and grabs the club owner, steering him to an empty seat in the row ahead, “what do you think of this?”
“Issa great,” Mike smiles, “issa great but my taste … I enjoyed the other concert in ’74 with the Band more, when he was alone. He sanga lot of songs I was more familiar with then. I went back ten years with that concert.” Porco smiles. “I been seeing him now for fifteen years, Ratso. And it’s funny, in the beginning, I didn’t get much impression of him. I didn’t say, ‘Oh this guy’s gonna be a star.’ It was just another person that came in and performed. Then he started to come in every Monday, I don’t think he missed a Monday, and a few people liked him. They started to call my attention to him, they said, ‘That kid is pretty good.’ And as he kept coming in, I paid more attention to him and I noticed that he wasn’t a really great singer but his songs used to penetrate.
“People said they thought I should give him a break, then some people like Gil Turner started coming in and singing his songs, and I thought that they sounded pretty good even though other people were singing them, and I started paying more attention to his words, and they were great. He musta been at the hoot night twenty times or more, when I spoke to him and said, ‘Bobby, I know you will like to work here. Maybe we can get you a job.’ And his eyes almosta pop out of his head, and he said, ‘Oh yes, man, anytime.’
“So I made arrangements and I gave him a date in April 1961, a couple of weeks after Judy Collins performed there,” Porco continues, straining to be heard over the enchanting din of Roberta Flack and her ensemble. “I knew Bob didn’t have a cabaret card or belong to the union, so I put him into the union. I took him up there and I pay for the card, I think it was $80 or something. At the union, they ask how old he was and he said twenty and the guy says if he was only twenty he gotta bring somebody from his family to sign the contract, to come back tomorrow with the contract. So Bob said, ‘I ain’t got no mother,’ so the guy says, ‘OK come back with your father.’ And Bobby says, ‘I ain’t got no father either.’ So the guy looked at me and said, ‘What are we gonna do? I can’t put him in the union unless, Mike, you want to sign for him.’ So I asked Bob and he said he’d appreciate it, so I had to sign as his guardian. Then we went downtown and he was all happy, he kept saying how glad he was and we stopped at a picture machine to get some pictures for his cabaret card and his hair was all bushed up at the time. So I gave him a comb but he wouldn’t comb his hair. I said, ‘Tell me the truth, how come you no comb your hair?’ And he says, ‘Wanna know the truth, I’m a little superstitious. The last time I combed my hair something bad happened to me, so I don’t like to comb it.’ And then I gave him $2 for a haircut, and he came back the next day with the hair a little bit cut, and it didn’t look like a barber’s cut. I think some woman did it.”
“What was he like then?” Ratso wonders. “This was in what, 1962?”
“He would take a glass of wine once in a while. When he wasn’t working I used to give him a sandwich with a glass of wine and he was happy. He used to come in every night, he was very conservative and quiet. Not a wise guy. Before he went on that first day, I spoke to my wife and got some of my kids’ clothing that they overgrew. I gave him some shirts, not rags, they wassa still in good shape, pants and shirts so he would look more nice. The woman that cut his hair, I think she gave him some shoes. He looks very good, I called a photographer in and took pictures, I still got those hanging up outside the club.”
“Didn’t he ask you to be his manager?” Ratso recalls an old rumor.
“I used to use the kitchen as my private room, office, and he’d come and I’d see he didn’t eat. So I’d ask, You feel like a sandwich?’ and he’d say, ‘I’d appreciate it,’ I knew he’d say roast beef if I asked him what he wanted, he used to love roast beef. And I told the people working in the kitchen if he wants a sandwich to give it to him, that the kid isn’t working but he’s honest, he’s not a wise guy. When he see that, he’d come in and put his arm around me and say, ‘Mike, why don’t you manage me? One of these days I’m gonna be big. I’m gonna be somebody.’ I used to laugh and don’t answer but he asked me a lot of times. One day I told him I’d love to do it, I feel he’s gonna go places but I couldn’t devote enough time to him and the club, it wouldn’t be fair to him. He says, ‘That’s right, Mike. You’re honest.’”
“Did he change after he got famous?” the reporter hollers above Roger McGuinn’s solo spot.
“Not with me,” Mike shakes his head vigorously, “I never noticed any difference. Even today he puts his arms around me, asks me how my wife is, even today it feels like years ago.”
“What’s he like?”
“You mean his character? Very warm all the time, very friendly. Even when he had the last show in the Garden with the Band, I was one of the first to receive four tickets. His disposition is wonderful, when I went to see him in France he was on tour and Bobby Neuwirth answered the door after I had seen Albert Grossman in the lobby and Neuwirth told me Bobby wasn’t in and I told him that I heard Bob’s voice inside and he should go in and tell him that Mike Porco from New York was here. And Bobby came out and opened the door with one hand and pushed Neuwirth aside with the other and said, ‘Get out of here, thassa my father.’ So he hugged me and my wife, put me and her under each
arm and took us into this room where about thirty people were sitting around. He took us in and started at one end of the room and introduced us to everyone saying, ‘This is my father from New York.’ Then he called the bellhop and ordered some champagne and told us, ‘Get anything you want. You make me so happy, Mike.’
“Then they set up a table with stuff to eat and the first thing he said to me was, ‘Mike, you been great to me. Remember when I said that someday I’m gonna be big?’ I said, Yeah, I remember,’ and he said, ‘I told you to manage me,’ and I said, Yeah, I recall that. Well good luck. But you’re not any bigger, you’re the same size.’” The same mischievous smile spreads across Porco’s face, even now ten years later.
“‘I’m big now, Mike,’ he says, ‘but I never did nothing for you and you’re the one that’s helped me more than anybody else.’ He says, ‘Anytime you need me, don’t call Grossman, don’t call the office, if you want it and your business is not too good, pick any theater you want, outside of New York City, and I’ll give you one day of my life anytime you want.’”
Porco smiles and his eyes grow wet. “I was very surprised at my birthday party this year, I didn’t expect nothing like that. I just thought it was Channel 13 and the lights and stuff like that had attracted a big crowd. I didn’t see Bob when they came in, I was mixing drinks, so my wife calls me and says somebody wants to see me a minute. I told her I’m busy and I spoke to her even rougher. So I collected for a couple of drinks and to make her happy I go, and there’s this guy there with a round hat and he turns around and hugs me and it’s Bob. And I look around and see Jack Elliot, Joan Baez, Bette Midler, fifteen at least well-known people, and I felt like I coulda cried then. I felt anybody who was in the area and knew me came in, Eric Anderson, Patti Smith. Patti, she brought me a little horse as a gift and she broke a leg on the way and held the leg in the other hand. And when they went onstage to sing “Happy Birthday,” that made me feel more great.”
Baez is finishing her solo set now with “Dixie,” Dylan waiting in the wings to close the show. Porco peers up at Baez then turns around again and leans toward Ratso. “I’ll never forget that in France. Bobby kept telling me how big he was and how he had told me that would happen. He grabbed me and brought me over to the window and we looked down and there on the sidewalk and the street was at least two hundred people, all with the cameras. And Bob kept pointing down and saying, ‘See how big I am now, Mike? They think I’m going to go out now but I’m not gonna leave until it’s time for the show.’ They was all press, newspapers or writers or television and Bob just kept repeating, ‘I told you I’d be this big.’ And he was right.”
And he was. And he was about to demonstrate why, too, as he climbs the short steps and inherits center stage, just him and his Martin. And once again the magic of the man was enough to overcome all the traumas, the travesties, all the trivialities. “Simple Twist of Fate” gets cheers on each new line, and then the band trots out and they do a sensitive “Oh Sister” followed by a torrid “Hurricane.” Then the tear-jerkers, “One More Cup,” followed by a tender “Sara,” topped by the highpoint of Pat Garrett, “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.”
And this is it, the confusion and ecstasy and depression and joy and tumult and fury and love and rage and boredom and transcendence of six weeks on the road, six weeks as a traveling karass, a musical medicine show on wheels, the real magical mystery tour, it’s all boiled down to this last three minutes, this last salute to Ol’ Woody, and to the audience and to themselves. “This Land is Your Land” of course, and this stage is your stage, too, at least it looks that way, with friends, sound men, stagehands, old ladies, kids, and managers streaming out, singing along beside the musicians. Ratso and Porco are standing stage left as Joni Mitchell and Richie Havens scamper by to join the throng.
“Joni,” Ratso stops her and grabs Porco, “this is Mike, he owns Folk City, bring him up there with you.”
“No, no,” Mike starts to retreat but Mitchell laughs and grabs one arm, Havens the other and the old man gets pulled onto the stage.
“Lots of people make it up,” Bob shouts over the din, “and most people who make it up you don’t see.” He pauses and throws a paternal arm over the assemblage onstage. “We are the Rolling Thunder Revue and we shall return,” and with that, he slings his guitar off his shoulder, wheels around, and starts offstage.
Only to bump smack into Porco who was shyly singing along behind the front lines. “Mike,” Bob yells, and grabs his New York father, giving him a buss on the cheek. And, in the process, smearing most of his whiteface all over the club owner’s jacket. Dylan starts to wipe the coat off. “Hey don’t shake it off,” Porco laughs, “I’ll just senda youa bill.” And the father dismisses the son with a slap on the back.
At the party afterward all is chaos. A long table filled with hors d’oeuvres, Chinese food, barbequed ribs and the like has been set up in the Felt Forum, and the guests, performers, and crashers fill only about one-third of the vast auditorium, leaving two thousand or so seats empty as silent witnesses to this surreal event. Made all the more surreal as Ratso shepherds his parents around, introducing them to everyone in sight. He’s like a whirlwind, introducing Mel Howard, then lining up Ronee Blakley as Howard and his folks finish their pleasantries. In fact, he’s worked about half the room when there looming in front of him is the big catch. Dylan had sneaked in amid the confusion a few seconds earlier. He’s loose, aided by a few previous drinks and the cup that he’s twirling in his fingers right now. The reporter comes up from behind.
“Hey Bob,” he shouts, and the singer whirls around, his face still caked with makeup and sweat, “I want you to meet my parents.”
“C’mon, Ratso,” the singer scoffs, “you don’t have any parents.”
The reporter drags Dylan the few feet and deposits him in front of the Slomans. And after all these years since that wintry night in White Plains, the old man is finally getting a chance to shake the hand of that kid with the guitar who looked like a shipping clerk.
“Glad to meet you folks,” Dylan smiles and points toward their beaming son. “You should be real proud of him. Your son is going to make his mark on the world some day.”
Oh, what an accolade! The perfect thing to say to two Jewish mothers. The Slomans start to swoon, the kvell just gushing out of every pore, thrilled at the ultimate substantiation of all these years of silent prayer, private collaboration, and public display. Their son was going to be something, he was going to make his mark on the world. What a phrase! And coming out of the mouth of such a big star, he should know too, shouldn’t he. And he didn’t have to be an accountant after all, he could still be somebody! Mr. Sloman smiles, convinced that all those years of pasting the son’s artifacts in those scrapbooks, all those years were not in vain. It was a happy couple that would float back to Queens that night.
But Ratso lingers on, pressed into service helping Gary escort the by now very loose superstar around the party. And what a job, everyone is streaming over, surrounding Dylan, following his progress around the room like a daisy chain. There are those who want autographs, those who want a slice of the fame, even those who want a slice of the flesh. Ratso and Gary are filtering the assholes out, keeping the ones with land schemes and plant shows and film offers away. And in the middle of this madness, Bob Dylan is wandering around, more than happy to talk to anyone with land schemes and plant shows and film offers.
“Can I shake your hand, brother?” a black street kid who snuck in thrusts his fist through the entourage, “you were great, man.”
“Everyone was great,” Dylan gushes, then turns to Ratso. “Where’s Jann Wenner? I thought you were gonna do a thing with him. You’re all talk Ratso, all fucking talk.”
“Are you kidding?” the reporter shoots back, “Wenner was afraid to show his face back here after the job Neuwirth and Raven did on him last night. Supposedly, he came to the hotel with a bottle of wine and Neuwirth just sliced him apart for the shitty
way he hacked my second Rolling Stone piece into an attack on the tour. Raven told me that the young Citizen Kane looked near tears, but was holding it back.”
They parade around a little more, Dylan balancing a drink in one hand and a plate of refried beans in the other. And from the seats, it looks like a bizarre march with Dylan as Pied Piper. Dylan veers left, the tail of about twenty people turns left, he moseys right, the body follows right. In the middle of it, Ratso feels like he’s in some hippie Mummer’s Parade.
The parade passes George Lois and his family, who have been standing quietly to the side with some other members of the Hurricane Fund. Ratso drags the compliant Dylan over.
“Lois,” Ratso yelps, “where’s my limo?”
“I will never get you a limo, you motherfucker,” the adman explodes, “I just found out that you were Jewish.”
Dylan leans forward and grabs George’s hand. “Hey man, I loved your book, Ratso gave it to me the other night. I love your sister and your parents,” and Lois is amazed as Dylan reels off the long, unpronounceable Greek names with photographic precision from one reading of the book.
The two men talk a bit and George introduces his teenage son to Bob. “Hey man,” Bob smiles at the kid, “you got great parents.”
“All right, all right,” Ratso cuts in. “Jesus, Lois, do you have to hit on him for ten minutes?” He throws a protective arm around Dylan.
“You been giving him propaganda,” Lois screams, “my book!”
“Hey Bob,” George grabs the singer, “you really know this guy Ratso. All the time he’s been telling us he’s tight with you but we just thought it was bullshit.”
“Are you kidding?” Dylan throws his arm around the reporter, “I love this guy. He’s my brother.”
Just then a black kid barrels his way through the crowd.
“Where’s the revue going next?” he screams.
“Get him out of here,” Andy points to Bob, and Ratso leads the singer toward the exit, with thirty people on their trail.