Free On the Road with Bob Dylan by Larry Sloman Page B

manager and confidant, shepherding T-Bone Burnett, a lanky Texan discovery of Neuwirth’s, through the crowded room. Not unusual, except T-Bone had a bag of golf clubs on his back, a driver in his hands, and Neuwirth was screaming, “Playing through, playing through.”Then there was Eric Anderson, another of the original Villageites, and Phil Ochs, sprawled across a couch. Ramblin’ Jack was roaming around, the one who hung out with both the fathers and the sons, the real link to the Guthrie folk scene and the folk-rock set that Dylan spawned. Even Bard Ginsberg was around to offer his benediction. And the magnet luring this scene together? He had escaped hours before, riding his fame down the elevator and back onto the street.

T he next night, Sunday, was the last rehearsal before they hit the road, so there was a sense of expectancy in the air circulating through Studio A at Studio Instrument Rentals in midtown Manhattan. The studio itself was bare and dark, a lone sofa and some chairs at the rear of the room behind an old coffee table saddled with soft drinks and beers. Imhoff had made some alterations, bringing in an electric tennis game machine to forestall the inevitable boredom. As I walked in, Ramblin’ Jack was on the makeshift stage, romping through “Me and the Devil,” an old Grateful Dead tune, with Stoner thumping along on bass. Patti Smith was wandering around the rear, directing the music with grandiose sweeps of her arms.
    Dylan walked in and quickly surveyed the room, then slumped into a soft chair, the toll of the week’s activities clearly etched into his face. Onstage, Jack was improvising a song, “I’m tired, and I’m wired, I tried to wire you, I tried all I could do, on the telephone.” He chuckled and blurted out to no one in particular, “I ought to write that down, I like that.” Jack has not written a song in years, since he never does get around to writing them down.
    I sat down next to Dylan and reminded him about the interview we had discussed previously. He looked wary, as if he were thinking of ways to put it off some more. Finally, he got up, sighed, and turned to me. “OK, let’s do it, but I ain’t gonna talk much.”
    He led the way out through the dingy hall and into a small, poorly lit office. Mel Howard was sitting at a desk near the rear of the room talking on a phone. I was steered to a desk on the opposite side of the office, and began setting up the tape recorder asBob flopped down into a chair. He was edgy at first, but it soon became clear that he was actually nervous. That helped to put me at ease.
    Dylan looked at his watch. “I can give you a half-hour, that’s all now.”
    I started by asking about Rubin, someone we both could relate to.
    “How’d you find out about Rubin, Bob?”
    He thought a bit while pounding his nails against the table, and suddenly answered, with a rush of words.
    “OK, from Richard. Exactly like it was in the transcript of the interview with Rubin you showed me. I got the book. I read it. I made a mental note that if I was east, I would visit him. And then I did it.”
    “You drove out there. What was it like?”
    “I mean, er, what was it like? What’s Trenton like? Uh …” he repeated quizzically.
    “You drove out there, got to those red brick walls …”
    Dylan picked it up: “… got to the brick walls. There was no problem getting in because Richard had the keys to get in. We met in the library and we were there for most of the day as far as I can remember. We got there in the morning and left when it was dark.”
    “What happened in between?”
    “In between what?”
    “The morning and the darkness.”
    “Rubin has this poem, I don’t know if he recited it for you, ask him next time you see him. A poem about a bird on the wall or a bird out the window, watching a bird on the window. I can’t quote it, I don’t remember it too well anyway, but what happened—well, we talked, different people kept passing by,