On the Road with Bob Dylan (16 page)

“One thing about Jack, when he was feeling good he’d sit here and talk to me and he could recite poetry that was out of this world.”

“Did he make it up spontaneously, on the spot, or was it poems …?” George interrogates.

“I don’t know,” Nicky interrupts, “he used to recite it and then if we were having an argument or something he’d say, ‘Look, Nick, let me tell you something, the pen is mightier than the sword.’ When we went to Spain it was a funny thing, my first cousin passed away, and we went to the wake, and after the wake Jack called me on the phone to tell me that my cousin had passed away, and to me my first cousin was like my brother, so I was stunned and I flipped my lid a little. Anyway, after the wake we all decided to go to Spain, so we all went, Jack, my brother, my other cousin, and this other friend of mine. So before we all decided to go to Spain, I went to the little bank for some money and the banker was French Canadian and he says to me that Jack can have anything he wants.

“We started from here drinking, went to Boston, we were pretty high, and we got on a DC 8 to Madrid, but first we stopped in Lisbon. It’s a funny thing, when we stopped in Lisbon, he’d go off by himself. He used to hit the dives by the waterfront and he hit the same dives, the Texas Tavern or something, that was the same one that the guy that shot Martin Luther King was in, it was the same cafe he was hiding in, and we were in the hotel, all staying at the same hotel and I get a loud knock on my door, boom, boom, boom, who the hell would it be but Jack?

“I used to hold his money for him, I used to give him one hundred dollars, he would spend it all. Honest to God, the same night he would come back again, boom, boom, boom, I’d give him
another hundred dollars. We stayed there for two days and all he drank was Scotch, where the hell he spent his money, I don’t know but he must have gone through six hundred dollars in two days in Portugal.

To him life was a big ball, that’s all it was, just a big ball. He didn’t care about nothing. Funny thing is, the man was so important, people used to come in here looking for him, they used to come in from all over the country. You never knew who the hell was gonna walk in. For him, it was just another day. One day, I seen him all dressed up, he had a shirt and stuff on, and I said, ‘Where the hell you been?’ and he said, ‘Some millionaire from out west, some friend of mine sent a limo over for me, he wanted me to speak to his son.’ His son was going to Fawkes Academy, Landover, Mass., and Jack had to speak to the kid about life.”

Nicky pauses for a breath, obviously moved by the flood of memories we’ve tapped. He leans over across the table to us. “What does Bobby think of Jack?” he wonders.

“Bobby doesn’t have much time right now because he’s in the middle of the tour,” I assert, “but he scheduled a day off so they could spend a day here in Lowell. He told Ginsberg that he was really influenced by reading
Mexico City Blues
back in Minnesota when he was a kid. They dedicated songs to Jack a couple of times last night and the audience went wild.”

“Guys like Bobby, they learnt from Jack,” George adds. “Allen, all them, that’s where they get all their stuff from.”

“Even this kid we were talking to last night, this tough working-class teenager, he says his mother reads Jack’s books all the time,” I add.

Nicky turns away for a second and when he turns back, a chill runs down my spine. Huge tears are rolling down his ruddy cheeks. He makes a couple of ineffectual stabs at them with his beefy hands then allows himself the expression of his grief.

“I still get broken up,” he stammers, his huge body racked by sobs, “he had his happiest years when he stayed here in Lowell. The
last year and a half, that was his happiest year he told me. He really enjoyed it, he didn’t want to go to Florida no way. His mother insisted on going to Florida.”

Nicky wipes away a final tear and bangs the table for emphasis. “But he loved his mother so much, that was the whole thing. I think that’s what killed him. He was drinking but he could control it, but I guess when he went down there he really wanted to come back to Lowell. He really wanted to come back bad, believe me, he wouldn’t have died if he was here.”

With that Nicky gets up and walks us around the bar, showing us pictures of Jack in the club, in Spain, in Monticello, in Germany.

“OK guys, I’ll catch you,” Nicky is saying good-bye at the door. “And Larry, if you can ask Bobby for a picture and get it autographed for me. Tell him to put down ‘To Big Nick’ or something.” Nicky wipes his eyes one last time. “Take care of yourselves,” he waves.

We walk to the car and I start to head back up Gorham Street toward the Holiday Inn. “Wait,” George yells, “let’s check out the peep shows,” pointing at a porno store up the block.

“We have no time, we have to get on the road to Newport,” I lecture.

George smolders. “See, this is what Kerouac’d do,” he spits. “He’d skunk around and look around the waterfronts like I like to do. You’re nowhere.”

We get into Newport early that evening and I pull right up to check into the Sheraton, where the tour was staying. And just as I pocket the receipt, Kemp strolls into the lobby.

He rushes up, beside himself with rage. “What the fuck are you doing here? Didn’t we go through this in Falmouth?” he rants.

“But Lou, Dylan said it was OK to write a book and offered anything I needed. So I just assumed if it was OK to do that, it was OK to stay at the hotel.” I smile.

“Well, you assumed wrong,” Kemp glares, “you’re just a
chozzer
, you want more and more. You’re like Weberman.”

“Bullshit,” I retort. “I ain’t going through garbage or stuff like that, I’m just trying to do my job. This means a lot to me.”

“Well,” Kemp seems to soften, “you were presumptuous. Keep cool and you’ll come out OK; don’t keep cool and you’ll have me on your throat.”

I nod and rejoin George and once again we drive down the road, searching for the nearest motel.

The next day, I wake up and George is already dressed, and all his clothes are packed. “I’m splitting, I can’t take this shit,” he barks. “You’re fucking losing your soul in this rock ’n roll bullshit. You’re becoming totally manic, totally insensitive. If you keep it up and get a little more outrageous, I’m sure they’ll let you on the tour. But I can’t take it anymore. Just call me a few times and let me know how the music’s going.”

We talk a bit but he’s adamant, he doesn’t even want to stick around for tonight’s concert in Providence, the first in a large convention center. On the way to the bus station, George spies a young woman with a child, carrying laundry. She’s got close-cropped brownish hair, wears homemade clothing. “Ask her,” George points, “I’m sure she’ll want to see Dylan.” We pull over and stop to talk. The woman is Priscilla, a Newport local, and yes, she’d be ecstatic. She wanted to see the concert but had no money.

A few hours later, Priscilla and her daughter meet me in the lobby of the motel. Jenny, a cute little four-year-old, jumps in the back seat and Priscilla slides in the front for the drive to Providence.

The opening segment has already begun as Priscilla, Jenny, and I trudge to our seats. Ronson has just been introduced by Neuwirth as “the man who invented David Bowie” and as we settle into our fourteenth-row seats, I see the band is all wearing T-shirts with the name “Guam” embossed across the front.

The sound has been boosted for this big hall and by the time Dylan enters to a standing ovation, the band is primed. Dylan’s in his standard getup, same boots, jeans, black leather, and hat, only it
seems that he’s taken an affinity to the whiteface that he wore for the filming in Lowell. In fact, with the hat adorned with fresh flowers, courtesy of Lola, and the clown makeup, he resembles a Pierrot figure, and in this large arena “Masterpiece” is more appropriate than ever, recalling the hours he’s spent “inside the Coliseum, dodging lions and wasting time.” Neuwirth is smiling, singing along, wearing a black T-shirt that says, “Bob Who?”

Dylan seems in control by now, picking up more assurance with each concert. “Durango” is less static, and “Hard Rain” threatens to melt the hockey ice beneath the wood floorboards, prompting one kid in the second row to exult, “Rock ’n roll!” By now Dylan is as manically relaxed as Sinatra, he’s leaping into the air, stalking around like a grave robber, trotting back to the mike, and when he cups his hands around the lips to deliver the dramatic ending to “Isis,” it’s not Dylan up there, it’s a fucking rock ’n roll Jolson. “See ya in fifteen minutes,” he screams and runs off as the house lights come up for intermission.

The light gives me an opportunity to check out the three Indians in full Cherokee regalia who are sitting to our left. I introduce myself. “We’re from Nevada,” the older man replies. “My name is Rolling Thunder and this is my wife Spotted Fawn.” Rolling Thunder is a medicine man of some note who was flown in by Dylan when the coincidence in names was brought to his attention. And it might be a working vacation too, Rolling Thunder hints.

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.