On the Road with Bob Dylan (20 page)

We walk the few blocks to the arena discussing Dylan, of course. Sal is just about to explain his analogy between Springsteen and Donovan in
Don’t Look Back
, when we come up to a kid singing in the mall right outside the hall. But this isn’t just another panhandler. I stop.

“This song is dedicated to Bob Dylan,” this kid is singing. He’s weird-looking, small, skinny, looking something like a cross between Paul Simon and Woody Allen. With a voice like a Lily Tomlin character. “My name is Roger Cowen,” he’s talk-singing. “I’m from around here. I was born and raised right here in Springfield, Mass., and I’m proud to be here. I came in from New York City just to play the Rolling Thunder Revue before this concert in my hometown. Yeah.”

With his exaggerated jerkiness and perfect atonality this kid’s a natural for the film, I thought to myself. I interrupt the recitation and ask him if he wants to be in a movie. He leans over toward me and continues strumming. “Do I want to be in a film?” he whispers. “Sure, I want to be in a film.” Then he suddenly slams down on his
strings, stomps his foot, and begins to howl, “It’s all part of the Rolling Thunder Revue!”

The second show is incredible. Everyone’s really loose, T-Bone going so far as to dress up like the Red Baron, with goggles, long scarf, and aviator cap. And midway through the opening set, a black-leather-pantsed Arlo Guthrie ambles on and picks out two new numbers aided by McGuinn on harp. Then Dylan bounds on, and he’s singing incredibly, leaning sensually into the mike, then turning to the band half in authority and half in awe, then back to the mike, even gesturing gently to the sky on the line “make me a rainbow.” The film crew is shooting tonight so everybody’s a bit hotter than usual. In fact, Dylan’s almost verbose with his introductions. “This is a tune from south of the border,” he cracks before “Durango.” “Remember now, raw lust does not hold a candle to true love. We’re doing this tonight for Sam Peckinpah. Glad you could make it, Sam.”

At intermission, I walk back to the bar for a drink. And right by the entrance with her long feathered hat and sad-eyed stare is Lisa. We walk in and sit on stools as a waitress out of the ’50’s takes our orders, a martini for me, a beer for Lisa.

“I gave a feather to Dylan,” Lisa whispers, “Denise gave it to him for me. She gave it to him and he asked her what kind of feather it was and she told him to ask me.” Lisa smiles. It seems she had to drive back up to Vermont, pay her rent, tell her boss she had a sick relative, load up the old Chevy with fresh blank cassettes and her beat-up old guitar, and then head straight back for the caravan. She found out about Stockbridge, hung out all afternoon on the street outside the hotel, and lucked into seeing Baez who took pity on her.

“I was standing there,” Lisa relates, “and Joan came over and shook my hand. She said, ‘What are you doing, just standing there and watching the confusion.’ Then she told her road manager to give me a ticket. She said I’ll be her guest, that I wasn’t annoying anyone. I saw Bob too, he was alone, looking at windows of the
shops. I asked him about the feather and he told me it was in good hands.”

Lisa swigs from her draft and tries to pump me for information on my last few meetings with Dylan. “I told him it really gets tough sometimes,” she sighs, “and he just said that I’ll survive. I said, ‘I’ll never find the rainbow at the end of the highway,’ and he said, ‘It’s all within, man.’” Lisa sighs again. It’s almost time to go back to our seats. I down the martini and get up to leave. “Remember the song Bob dedicated to Herman Melville?” Lisa suddenly asks. “Who is Herman Melville?” I just roll my eyes and laugh. “Ah,” I growl, “go back to school, man!”

The pace is just as torrid in the second half of the concert. Dylan and Baez open it with flawless duets then Baez keeps up the tempo with a set that evokes a standing ovation from drummer Wyeth. Then Dylan scampers on, looking funky with a few days’ growth of stubble spotting his face. “We heard that Rubin is getting a new trial,” he exults before doing “Hurricane,” “and we also learned that Massachusetts was the only state that didn’t vote for Nixon.” A pause, then a chuckle. “We didn’t vote for him, either,” he slyly adds. “Hurricane” is great but the rumor is unfounded. And he still seems to be thinking of Nixon when they break into “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” “Take these bugs out of my ears,” Dylan ad-libs, “I can’t hear through them anymore.” The finale is wonderful, Arlo back on to do a chorus of his father’s song and getting the loudest ovation of the night.

As soon as they head offstage, I bolt for the door and rush out to meet Roger Cowen. He’s standing there with his beat-up guitar and his tall friend, Dan, and we battle the crowd back into the arena. Larry Johnson is waiting for us, and escorts us out to the floor.

All around us, chairs are being folded up, the stage is being broken down, and the echoes of these activities eerily reverberate around the empty hall. Meyers has arrived with his camera strapped to his shoulder, and he’s directing Roger to stand at a
spot somewhere in the middle of the floor. Roger looks nervous, this scruffy, five-foot gnome with the beat-up guitar. His friend Dan towers behind him.

Meyers signals he’s ready. “OK, Roger,” I direct, “why don’t you do that song you did outside the hall, then I’ll ask you some questions.” Cowen nods, as Meyers rolls it. Roger takes a deep breath and then he closes his eyes and leans his head back, as if he were entering some sort of self-induced trance state. Suddenly he rocks forward, slamming down on his guitar strings and shrieks in a high-pitched warble:

It’s amazing, there’s something absolutely compelling about this duo, the brash, gutsy little songwriter and his shy, lean vocal partner. It’s the rawness, the edge of mania in their faces, the desperation in their voices. They look like a schizoid version of Simon and Garfunkel. Cowen is slapping the side of his guitar during the refrain, and now he assaults the strings again:

He’s moaning now, rolling his eyes, and then he goes into this talking section, the voice cracking every so often. “This is my home town, and I traveled here from New York City to play for Bob Dylan right in my home town and may this be dedicated to him, God Bless You all on the Rolling Thunder Revue, Rolling Thunder Revue, Rolling Thunder Revue, how about you?”

When he reaches this last chorus Meyers begins to fade back, widening the frame, showing this little folksinger lost in the ever-increasing vastness of empty space around him. Meyers is propelling himself backward, shooting all the time, until he’s about fifty feet from the kid. In the background you can hear the muffled sounds of the destruction of the stage. But life doesn’t always acquiesce to art. Cowen’ll have none of this poetic
cinéma-vérité
slow fade to tactfulness. This is real life! He’s got a goddamn message to get across. This Rolling Thunder Revue, it’s serious stuff, it’s fucking spiritual. And this is the big break, this is what made those fourteen-, fifteen-hour days of hacking a cab around Manhattan worth anything.

Roger finishes the chorus, pauses after the last “Rolling Thunder Revue” and then suddenly, puts down his head, then lifts up an accusatory finger, aiming it right at Meyers’ fat lens, and makes a headlong charge across the bare wood floor. “How about youuuuuuuu,” this little bull is screaming at the top of his lungs, charging straight into Meyers’ lens. He gets to within a foot of the camera, stops, leers at it and moans, “You.”

Meyers turns to us, and rolls his eyes. “In-fucking-credible,” smiling. But Johnson wants more dialogue so Meyers starts the camera again and Roger breaks into his singsong voice: “I was sitting in my apartment in New York City, picked up a copy of the
New York Times
, saw a picture of Bob Dylan and the Rolling Thunder Revue on the cover. Oh Lord, you know my heart started to beat so fast, I started breathing heavy, the Rolling Thunder Revue, I couldn’t describe my feelings, so I traveled home to my home town which is Springfield, Massachusetts, the first time I heard a Bob Dylan record was here, oh Lord. Now I just came here to see my folks, I’d been reading about the Rolling Thunder Revue but I didn’t know if he was actually gonna be playing here and when I got here I found he was playing here and I dedicate this song to him and I thank God and bless him and everyone else who’s on the Rolling Thunder Revue. On the Rolling Thunder Thunder Revue.”

Dan joins in now, both of them chanting the chorus “Rolling Thunder Revue” until Roger stops playing, looks at the mike and moans, “How about you? Bob?”

“OK, we got it,” Meyers exults and winks at us. “Another score, Larry.” I walk with him and Johnson to load the equipment in their van.

“You’re in now,” Johnson tells me, “you don’t have to worry. We’ve been putting in good words for you to Dylan. We had a meeting to view the rushes the other night and Dylan asked if we really needed you and Meyers gave a five-minute speech on your behalf. He said that you were a better straight man than Kemp and that you brought in our best interview so far, that girl Priscilla in Newport.”

“What did Dylan say?” I ask.

“Nothing. He never says anything,” Johnson chuckles, “he just takes it all in.”

After getting a bite at a bizarre all-night deli that serves as the watering hole for Springfield’s drag queens and general underlife, I drive through a heavy fog back to Lenox, and get to bed around 6. Only to be awakened at 9
A.M.
by the jangling phone.

“Eiiiiiiii,” a familiar voice is screaming, “how you doin’, boy-chick. It’s Kinky.” I fill him in on the latest developments, my running disputes with Kemp, Dylan’s vague authorization to do a book, Kemp’s counterploy in planning to give the official book to another writer, Meyers’ defense of me. Kinky advises me to bide my time. “What should I do,” he wonders, “do you think it would be profitable to come up?”

“Sure, you definitely should come up, even if you don’t perform,” I urge. “I broached the idea to Dylan the other day and he acted real coy. He said to me, ‘Do we have room for Kinky?’ and I said, ‘Listen, man, if Kinky can’t come why the fuck don’t you sing “Ride ’Em Jewboy”?’ and he says, You gave me the words to that didn’t you? I got the words to that,’ and I said, ‘Why the fuck don’t you sing it?’ So he thought for a second, then said, ‘I’ll tell ya what, I’ll sing one of Kinky’s songs if he sings one of mine.’”

“Fuck, I’ll sing anything,” Kinky burps.

“Look, the worst thing that can happen if you came out for a few days, is you’ll get in the movie. The fucking film crew is primed for you. I got them so excited they can’t wait.”

“Yeah, but Dylan might edit it out,” Kinky worries.

“No, man,” I reassure him, “he likes you. You’re Jewish.”

After the call, I grab a quick bite to eat and drive around Lenox for a few hours before starting off for Vermont. It’s a beautiful Indian-summer day, almost in the 70s, as I slowly drive through Pittsfield. And right in front of me is Phydeaux. Phydeaux is a specially built Greyhound, owned by Frank Zappa who lent it to Barry Imhoff at the last minute for this tour. It’s got a drawing of a slightly anemic dog, barking “ARF” in a comic balloon, two fangs protruding from its jaws, and a Band-Aid on its ass. The bus is customized for rock star travel, the windows all tinted so gawkers can’t see in, and the interior arranged complete with bunk beds, comfortable lounge seats, and TV and stereo systems.

There’s an informal caste system developing, with the “stars,” the musicians, getting to ride on Phydeaux, and the “lesser lights,”
Ginsberg, Orlovsky, Denise (who help out with the baggage), Raven, Chris O’Dell, Jacques Levy, Sam Shepard, the guests, and the occasional security man riding on the backup bus, an old Delmonico. They’ve named the second bus too. Ghetteaux.

It’s a long ride to Vermont, and it’s late afternoon by the time the buses pull up to the Shelbourne Inn, where the tour is staying. I drive on a few miles further to Burlington and check into the Holiday Inn, just about peaking on the excitement and the drugs of the last few days as I sit down in front of the typewriter, feed in a sheet of South Burlington Holiday Inn stationery, and start a letter to Phil Bender, Dylan’s
nom de registration
.