Free On the Road with Bob Dylan by Larry Sloman
Authors: Larry Sloman
the last verse.
“Shit,” Dylan grinned, “they can splice that in. Hey, let’s go home. Don, pick a good one.” And with a cavalier grin after five hours in the studio, Dylan and entourage departed, leaving DeVito with eleven takes from which to construct the story of the Hurricane.
D ylan’s re-emergence into the Village scene seemed a certain indication that he was looser, much more accessible. It had been years since he had actually hung out in the Village, and here he was making the music scene regularly, doing such uncharacteristic things as allowing himself to be photographed with Patti Smith, and, for the first time since 1969, consenting to do a TV show.
It was a one-day affair, Dylan, Stoner, Wyeth, and Scarlett flying out to Chicago to tape a PBS Soundstage Tribute to John Hammond, the music biz giant who had signed Dylan as a rosy-cheeked minor to his first Columbia Records contract.
The show itself was magic, Dylan appearing as some sort of psychedelic shaman, in ’60s surplus black-and-white-striped pants, ruffled white tuxedo shirt, open at the neck, and the inevitable black leather jacket. But the most compelling thing about him was those eyes, burning with passion and fire, flaming out even through the television screen, a luminous presence. It was Dylan as street punk again, the hair ragged and shockingly wild, the pose gruff and determined, the enthusiasm starkly evident.
And the enthusiasm spread like wildfire when they got back to New York, with the talk of a tour hot on the tip of every trend-maker’s tongue. Everyone in the Village music scene was ready to pack, everyone but Stoner.
“I’ve been in the music business so long,” the twenty-eight-year-old bassist sighed, “and been through so many scenes where like people seem enthusiastic and it doesn’t come off, because like I had seen it so many times before, great enthusiasm leading to nothing. Like I don’t get excited about nothing until I see my airplaneticket. Until my fucking airplane ticket is in my hand, man, I don’t start to count on a gig.”
Well, Stoner got his plane ticket to fly back to New York after that Soundstage gig and here it was six weeks later and he found himself rehearsing every night up at Studio Instrument Rentals, with sound men conferring behind their console, equipment needs being catalogued, gofers providing a steady stream of hero sandwiches and beers. In fact, the only thing missing to convince the cynical Mr. Stoner that this wild-eyed scheme hatched over the last few weeks was actually going to happen was that prepaid TWA plane ticket in his hand. But that he’d never see. This tour would be going by bus.
But not before one more party. A pure setup, arranged to get still more footage for the documentary of the tour. The Ginsberg and Porco affairs were fortuitous bonuses, but this Saturday night bash had been planned for days. The host was MacDougal Mike, a friend of Dylan’s who once ran a camera shop opposite Bob’s MacDougal Street townhouse. Mike is sort of the Pearl Mesta of the Village folk scene, getting together a party whenever the latest lyrical luminary hits town. And his place is an ideal setting for a party scene, a duplex with lush thick shag carpeting downstairs, a vast array of tall tropical plants, soft velvet couches, and a bedroom upstairs that overlooks the scene below from a balcony.
All the regulars were there quite early, Eric Anderson, Ginsberg, Blue, Neuwirth, Patti Smith, Ochs, Ian Hunter (of Mott the Hoople fame), and Ronee Blakley. Dylan was hiding out in the bathroom upstairs with Ramblin’ Jack, as the rest of the scenemakers scurried up Eighth Street, talked their way past the uniformed rent-a-guard Mike had employed for the evening, and made their entrances. After a half-hour or so, Dylan tentatively peeked out of the bathroom and tried to brave the throngs hanging out but was immediately besieged by Allen Ginsberg and Eric Anderson and looked around for a
“Shit,” Dylan grinned, “they can splice that in. Hey, let’s go home. Don, pick a good one.” And with a cavalier grin after five hours in the studio, Dylan and entourage departed, leaving DeVito with eleven takes from which to construct the story of the Hurricane.
D ylan’s re-emergence into the Village scene seemed a certain indication that he was looser, much more accessible. It had been years since he had actually hung out in the Village, and here he was making the music scene regularly, doing such uncharacteristic things as allowing himself to be photographed with Patti Smith, and, for the first time since 1969, consenting to do a TV show.
It was a one-day affair, Dylan, Stoner, Wyeth, and Scarlett flying out to Chicago to tape a PBS Soundstage Tribute to John Hammond, the music biz giant who had signed Dylan as a rosy-cheeked minor to his first Columbia Records contract.
The show itself was magic, Dylan appearing as some sort of psychedelic shaman, in ’60s surplus black-and-white-striped pants, ruffled white tuxedo shirt, open at the neck, and the inevitable black leather jacket. But the most compelling thing about him was those eyes, burning with passion and fire, flaming out even through the television screen, a luminous presence. It was Dylan as street punk again, the hair ragged and shockingly wild, the pose gruff and determined, the enthusiasm starkly evident.
And the enthusiasm spread like wildfire when they got back to New York, with the talk of a tour hot on the tip of every trend-maker’s tongue. Everyone in the Village music scene was ready to pack, everyone but Stoner.
“I’ve been in the music business so long,” the twenty-eight-year-old bassist sighed, “and been through so many scenes where like people seem enthusiastic and it doesn’t come off, because like I had seen it so many times before, great enthusiasm leading to nothing. Like I don’t get excited about nothing until I see my airplaneticket. Until my fucking airplane ticket is in my hand, man, I don’t start to count on a gig.”
Well, Stoner got his plane ticket to fly back to New York after that Soundstage gig and here it was six weeks later and he found himself rehearsing every night up at Studio Instrument Rentals, with sound men conferring behind their console, equipment needs being catalogued, gofers providing a steady stream of hero sandwiches and beers. In fact, the only thing missing to convince the cynical Mr. Stoner that this wild-eyed scheme hatched over the last few weeks was actually going to happen was that prepaid TWA plane ticket in his hand. But that he’d never see. This tour would be going by bus.
But not before one more party. A pure setup, arranged to get still more footage for the documentary of the tour. The Ginsberg and Porco affairs were fortuitous bonuses, but this Saturday night bash had been planned for days. The host was MacDougal Mike, a friend of Dylan’s who once ran a camera shop opposite Bob’s MacDougal Street townhouse. Mike is sort of the Pearl Mesta of the Village folk scene, getting together a party whenever the latest lyrical luminary hits town. And his place is an ideal setting for a party scene, a duplex with lush thick shag carpeting downstairs, a vast array of tall tropical plants, soft velvet couches, and a bedroom upstairs that overlooks the scene below from a balcony.
All the regulars were there quite early, Eric Anderson, Ginsberg, Blue, Neuwirth, Patti Smith, Ochs, Ian Hunter (of Mott the Hoople fame), and Ronee Blakley. Dylan was hiding out in the bathroom upstairs with Ramblin’ Jack, as the rest of the scenemakers scurried up Eighth Street, talked their way past the uniformed rent-a-guard Mike had employed for the evening, and made their entrances. After a half-hour or so, Dylan tentatively peeked out of the bathroom and tried to brave the throngs hanging out but was immediately besieged by Allen Ginsberg and Eric Anderson and looked around for a