On the Road with Bob Dylan (36 page)

“I can kick Slocum over there if he gets in the fucking way,” Kinky bellows. Ratso shudders involuntarily.

“You know the first time I heard of you was that story that came out in
Newsweek
magazine about all the Jewish folksingers … Dylan, you,” Jack recollects. “I loved that date we played together in Texas.”

“Yeah, that was phenomenal,” Kinky remembers.

“They loved it, the audience kept going
whoooo
,” Jack hoots. “I wasn’t hip to the fact that Texas audiences like to get drunk and yell and I was trying to teach ’em how to be quiet, polite, listening motherfuckers. Houston was one of the first scary towns I’ve been in, I was shot at the first time I was there, the guy didn’t even know me and I didn’t know him.” Jack looks amazed.

Kinky pulls one of his satin handmade cowboy shirts on, this one emblazoned with all sorts of Hebrew iconography. “That’s a great shirt. What do you call that, a menorah?” Jack marvels. “I was supposed to be a Jewish doctor like my dad, but I got so rebellious so early that I never even got bar mitzvahed, I never even got a chance to find out what it was. I was hanging out with cowboys who tolerated me, they said, ‘It ain’t where you’re from, it’s where you’re going.’”

Kinky lights up his cigar and pulls on his boots. “My brother said that modern popular music was started by two Jewboys, you and Bob Dylan, one on the East Coast and one on the West.”

“The only time my dad introduced me to a rabbi he was afraid I was gonna split again and he wanted me to meet this really groovy hip Texas rabbi who was in the Marine Corps and was really tough and he was in Brooklyn but he was raised in Texas …” Jack rambles on.

“Texans are just complete assholes, that’s all there is to it,” Kinky pronounces.

“Well, I used to think that sometimes,” Jack scratches his head, “but I met some groovy people there. I’m almost thinking about living there.”

“Well, anytime there are that many assholes there are bound to be some good people,” Kinky decides with impeccable logic. “Hey, I got a couple of jokes I want to run past you guys. First booger is, What’s the recipe for German chocolate cake?” Kinky pauses. “See, the first step is you occupy the kitchen. All right. There you be. The first step is you occupy the kitchen. Pretty funny joke, huh?”

“That’s the joke?” Ratso wonders.

“I’ve heard suicide notes that were funnier than that,” Kinky admits.

“What’s number two?” Jack drawls.

“Oh, how do Germans tie their shoes? With little nazis. All right! Thank you very much. My jokes have little wheels on them.”

“Kinky, why don’t you sing a little from ‘Asshole from El Paso?’” Ratso tries to rescue the Texan.

“OK,” Kinky clears his throat, and begins his parody of “Okie from Muskogee”:

“That’s about it, boychicks, a mere skeletal version of the song.”

“Great,” everybody choruses.

“C’mon, Kinky, let’s go to the hospitality suite, the camera crew should be there by now,” Ratso urges, and they all head for the elevator.

They enter the party suite and Ratso quickly scans the room but there’s no cameras in sight. Ronee Blakley is sitting at the electric piano, Ronson’s jamming along on guitar, Stoner has his bass out, and a circle of about ten people are listening to the proceedings. Kinky walks in about four paces and shyly retreats to a corner, adjusting his candy-cane-frame sunglasses.

McGuinn is singing “Truck Driving Man,” and Danko and Kinky settle down to listen, which gives Ratso a chance to run to his room and call up Johnson. “Where the fuck are you, man?” the reporter
shrieks, “I got Kinky all primed, he’s down in the hospitality suite, ready to play unrecorded songs, and there’s no fucking camera crew there.”

“Look Ratso, Meyers is sick and Goldsmith is in charge of the other crew, they were down there and nothing was happening so they split to their rooms and went to sleep. Call him, but I doubt if he’ll be happy being woken up.”

Ratso hangs up disconsolately, goes back to break the news to Kinky, who takes it pretty well, obviously enjoying Danko’s company. Gladdened, the reporter goes to bed early. Around 4:30
A.M
.

The next morning Ratso and Lynn make their way to the coffee shop.

A few minutes later, Dylan and Sara walk in and find seats at the counter. Ratso waves hello. “You fell asleep last night, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dylan’s voice is real gruff, “what happened? What did I miss?”

“Not much. The fucking film crew fell asleep before we got a chance to shoot Kinky. Maybe we can do something in Montreal. Sara, you gonna be in Montreal?”

“I don’t want to hear about any more scenes,” she attempts to head Ratso off.

“Don’t you want to hear Kinky’s new songs?”

“If they happen, I’ll look at them.”

Ratso grabs Lynn and drags her over to the counter. “Did you meet Lynn?” he asks them. “Isn’t she beautiful? She’s a shiksa.”

“They’re the best kind, Ratso,” Dylan laughs. “Don’t forget, you met her on the Rolling Thunder.” He smiles at Lynn. “You couldn’t have met a nicer guy.”

Just then, Raven walks in with a megaphone, trying to round people up for the bus.

Chesley joins Ratso and Lynn, and a few minutes later, a harried-looking Joni Mitchell wanders by. Ratso invites her to sit down. “Is there time for something to eat?” Joni frets, obviously upset. She orders an omelette and orange juice.

“Are you staying on?” Ratso asks.

“I can’t,” Joni mumbles, nervously playing with her silverware, “I was going to, but my house just got burglarized in the city over the weekend, so I got to go back for inventory. It was an inside job, it was like someone who knew where everything was. They were very selective in that they took guitars and a collection of Edward Curtis photographs which are very valuable and don’t look valuable. And Indian baskets.”

“I can see why you seem so upset,” Ratso commiserates.

“I’m not uptight about losing the possessions,” Joni says with her soft Canadian accent still rearing up every once in a while, “I’m uptight about everyone calling me like crazy and telling me and inflaming it. Like they’re in the middle of it and I’m out here with a toothbrush and I could just keep on going.”

“But it’s an invasion of privacy,” Chesley starts to lecture.

Joni nods agreement, “I said to John that I could dig him being more upset than me because I’m surviving out here with nothing. They were so neat, man. They swept up after themselves, knew where things were in drawers, that’s the source of irritation, not the loss of the things but the loss of a friend.” Joni sips some orange juice and sinks into gloom.

“Hope you come back, Joni,” Ratso says softly. “It’d be nice seeing you in your native environment.”

“This is more native to me. Have you ever been ripped off?”

“I certainly have,” Chesley pipes in.

“Every place I ever lived …” Joni shudders.

Raven rushes in with a last call for the buses and Joni and Chesley hurry out.

So Ratso and Lynn head back up to the room where Kinky is still peacefully sleeping.

“Wake up, Kinky, don’t you want to see the scene downstairs?”

“What scene downstairs?” the Kink mumbles.

“The buses are pulling out,” Ratso announces dramatically.

Kinky jumps out of bed, his sarong wrapped tightly around his midriff. He pulls his fingers through his curly moss a few times, then scratches the sleep out of his eyes. “Yes the buses are pulling out,” he affects the manic tones of a news announcer, “the people are shouting and waving good-bye.”

“Seriously, Kinky, what’d you think of the show?”

“Has everybody left yet? No, I had a nice time last night,” he burps, pulling on green suede cowboy boots. “I couldn’t hear too well at the show, though. Listen, I’ll tell you what I don’t like. Bringing people in here when I’m sleeping or leaving that goddamn door open when there’s some schmuck talking in the hall when I’m trying to nod out. It’s not when I’m trying to sleep, it’s when I wake up that I wig out. It doesn’t bother me when people wake me up, I just don’t like to be introduced to people when I’m on the nod. Then you left the door open five times with Negroes walking in here …”

“Isn’t Ronee Blakley great?” Ratso tries to change the subject.

“In what capacity?” Kinky snaps.

“She’s a great lady. We were sitting eating this morning and she picks up the Sweet ’n Low and sings “Sweet and Low, Sweet Chariot.” Ratso chuckles again. “I forgot to tell Dylan that I thought he should re-record ‘Desire,’ the material’s great but the versions now are so much hotter.”

“You think he’ll take your opinion into consideration and change it?” Lynn wonders.

“He’ll do one of two things,” Kinky puts on his sport coat, “either re-record it or throw you off the tour. He threw Phil Ochs out of a car for that.”

“Ah, he’s changed,” Ratso frowns, “that was in ’65.”

“He’s the same person all the time. Don’t excuse a man for being an asshole at times.”

“You haven’t changed in fifteen years, Kinky?”

“No, I haven’t. Basically I haven’t, that’s my point, and neither
have you, you might have matured a little, but you’re basically the same cat, a cop is still a cop, the robber’s still a robber, the cowboy’s still a cowboy.”

Kinky finishes dressing and the three make their way toward the coffee shop. But outside, the buses still haven’t left and Ratso drags Kinky out for some farewells. “Hey, Kinky,” a voice wafts out of the Executive. A hatless, sunglassed Dylan is behind the wheel. “Hey Bob,” Kinky salutes. “What’s happening guys?” Dylan greets.

“I just woke up,” Kinky mumbles, “but I had a great time, it was very pleasant.”

“Well, we’ll see you in Canada, huh? You guys be careful now,” Dylan lectures in a mock-Texas drawl, “you watch out in New Yawk.”

Ratso drives Lynn home and returns to Enfield in time for dinner. There’s an eerie feeling in the hotel now that everyone has left, a real ghost-town ambience, intensified when Ratso and Kinky find themselves the sole audience in the restaurant for an appallingly loud cocktail-lounge band. In fact, after a brassy “You are the Sunshine of My Life” Kinky is about to bolt, but Ratso restrains him, and a few minutes later, their prime ribs come.

“So, have you changed your opinion about the whole cutthroatedness of this tour?” the reporter asks.

“I didn’t say cutthroatedness. My opinion has pretty much stayed the same. I had no firm opinion when I came on the tour.”

“You were wary.”

“That’s not wary,” Kinky frowns. “I still dislike the idea of hanging around, waiting for my chance to play in somebody’s goddamn shed. It’d be like hanging around outside of Johnny Carson’s studio hoping he’ll see me.”

“The movie’ll be big,” Ratso ventures.

“Look, Bob Dylan is not the hottest thing happening—”

“But Dylan, Baez, Mitchell …” Ratso adds.

“None of them are. No bigger than the Cavett show getting all the old radicals together. No one knew who they were. They fill the stadium but it’s not what’s happening now.”

“You see this as an old folkies’ reunion?”

“No I don’t see it as that,” Kinky snaps, “I just find it repellent to hang around. You got a bit, you’re writing a book, I’m not writing a story but I got my own contract, my own life, and my own show-dates to play and I got more autonomy than any of these motherfuckers. You’re still a reporter on this tour no matter whether Dylan blows you, you’re still a reporter and you being around with a tape recorder is something that Roger McGuinn is not doing. I tell you something else.” Kinky waves his knife for emphasis. “The minute that you lose that autonomy, you also lose people’s respect. Look, boss, you still don’t know (1) if it’s gonna be made, (2) if your part’s gonna be in it or not. It might be great and it might get cut, they might cut it because it upstages somebody.”

“Kinky, don’t be so paranoid. I thought everybody liked you—”

“I felt extremely well accepted, more than accepted. Many of these people went out of their way to be nice, Ramblin’ Jack was nice to me, I thought Danko was a cool cat, McGuinn was nice …”

“Dylan loves you, that greeting he gave you when you first checked in.”

“Let me ask you something.” Kinky puts down his silverware, and leans back, rubbing his eyes. “Can you accept the fact that maybe I would like to accept these people’s love and affection and that’s it. That I don’t want anything else out of them.”

“You’re always talking about what you want,” Ratso eggs.

“But out of these particular people I don’t. Do you believe every word I tell you? If I tell you I want to be a wealthy millionaire do you think I really want to be the president of some fucking enormous million-dollar plastics company, that I’ll be happy doing that? Do you take me by my word completely? You shouldn’t.”

They fall silent, Kinky playing with his half-eaten prime ribs as the blaring sound of “Proud Mary” threatens to shatter their water glasses. Kinky considers some action, then realizes they’re outnumbered three-to-one by the band.

“You know,” he says softly, “that was a nice thing watching Bob
play harmonica back there at the show. When he came out with the harp and himself there, it’s like under that angry defiance kind of thing, that one man can do a lot, one little guy out there beating his foot on the floor and playing the harp. It brings back a little wave of something. It didn’t even matter what words he was saying, it was just a big rush to see it. That audience was so tedious though, so high-pitched. ‘Play this, play that, play whatever you want to,’” Kinky shrills.

“How do you deal with it? What’s your audience like now?”

“Depends on how I feel. My audience is getting bigger and more All-American. The intelligence of the average fan has decreased dramatically, which is good. Instead of four sociology professors, smoking pipes, asking me about my Jewish background, we got a crowd of people.”