On the Road with Bob Dylan (57 page)

“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.

“This way Bob, this way,” Andy is the advance man, trying to grab his attention.

“Thanks for the concert,” one kid screams.

“Bobby, Bobby,” another girl is near tears.

“Hey man,” the black kid has caught up, “do you know where the Revue’s going next?”

Dylan pauses. “The next one’s in St. Augustine.”

“St. Augustine, Florida,” the kid repeats excited, “that’s my home town! I’ll sign up twenty million people to be in the Rolling Thunder Revue.”

Dylan just nods distractedly and tries to eat a spoonful of cold beans off his paper plate, as they lead him to the elevator and the garage where the camper is parked.

Ratso starts to head back into the party but nearly gets bowled over by a frantic Joni Mitchell. “All my gear is gone,” Joni frets, “I’m so confused. We put it in one room but I don’t know what floor it was on or nothing.” Without waiting for an answer, she speeds toward the elevator.

“There’s something that’s so evident here,” Greg, the sound man, corrals Ratso as he walks back into the party. “Look at this,” he sweeps a hand over the party panorama, “you have to really understand the relationship between this year and Hollywood in the ’30s. The same magnitude and production that was involved then is involved now. It’s the same concept of stardom.” Ratso chuckles and looks out at the scene, a scene that could very well have come out of
The Day of the Locust
. A feeling reinforced as an almost comatose Roger McGuinn limps by, followed by Gary carrying Bob’s son Jesse over his shoulders, who’s followed by an even less conscious Phil Ochs.