On the Road with Bob Dylan (14 page)

George slides behind the wheel and we start back. “That really pisses me off,” I fume. “Kemp let that guy from
People
magazine backstage, then had the balls to tell me no press was allowed back there. And when I called him on it, he just said ‘I run my show the way I want it.’”

“Kemp is so straight,” George sputters, “fucking Dylan should
hang out with us. Kemp’s like the kid you went to school with who always laughed at you while you were creatively insane. He was laughing but he still got good grades, he’d goad you on but never jeopardize his position, just suck your soul.”

We pull into Johnnie’s for a late-night snack. Johnnie, a rotund, garrulous thirty-five-year-old, is behind the counter, his wife is in the kitchen, and their daughter is waitressing. I call Kinky in Texas and he’s fine, doing some gigs locally. Again I try to cajole Kinky into joining the tour. “Goddamn it, I’d do it, but how am I gonna make money off this thing. And how are you going to? But you don’t care about that, all you care about is your art. You’re crazy, boychick,” Kinky screams from Texas. I put Johnnie on to talk to the Kinky man, and I go back to my omelette.

Johnnie joins us in the booth, shaking his head. “What a nut that Kinky is,” he laughs. “He kept saying, ‘Thank you for being an American.’” Johnnie leans back and relaxes. “I gotta get ready for the rush. I caught two hundred pounds of fish yesterday and I’m going out again this morning at 6.”

“Shit, we oughta get Dylan here to film in this diner,” I moan.

“We oughta take Dylan fishing,” Johnnie beams; “that’d drive him nuts.” He laughs heartily. “Tell Dylan I’ll take him fishing, we’ll go out there and catch a bass, he’ll get so crazy he won’t know what hit him. I’ll inspire him to write a fish song. He could, you know; that’d be a good idea for him, you know, the people of the United States are getting screwed by the Russians, no kidding, right here. We haven’t got that two-hundred-mile limit passed yet. I ain’t putting you on, the Russians, the Germans, all of them. It’s almost fished out. Maybe he could come up with a fish song.”

I run to the phone and call Mel Howard, begging him to bring the crew to shoot in Johnnie’s. “It’s too late,” Mel drawls sleepily, “we already shot some scenes in another diner. Dylan played an alchemist and Ginsberg was an emperor presiding over a bankrupt empire. And Dylan did this alchemy number with crackers,
ketchup, pie, milk, coffee, all the stuff at the diner. It was great. But keep on calling with these tips, I’m sure we’ll be able to use them. And I got a tip for you, don’t say I told you, but I think we’re staying overnight in Lowell in the Holiday Inn.” I thank Mel and rush back to the table. It was almost 2
A.M.
and we have a long drive to Lowell tomorrow, so George and I pay the checks and go back into the kitchen to say good-bye to Johnnie.

“Take care of yourselves,” he shouts, wiping his hands on his apron, “and anytime you’re around, bring Dylan. We’ll go out fishing, that’ll kill him.”

Back at our motel, we settle in for a few hours of restless sleep. And at ten, as we go to load the car, I discover the reason for our apprehension. The Granada had been broken into while we slept, and the ignition had been snapped off. “Jesus Christ,” George snarls, “it must have been a Kemp-Imhoff job. It looks like sabotage.” “I’m not so sure,” I moan, “it could have been those local greasers we met the other night. I told them I’m writing for
Rolling Stone
and to them that must mean we’re fucking pinkos.”

At any rate, it looked hopeless. Here it was Sunday morning, no service stations would be open, the car was totally inoperable, and there was a concert that night in Lowell, over a hundred miles away. But we borrow some tools from the motel owners, hack at the ignition till the key fits into the serrated opening, and inside of an hour, we’re on the road again.

Howard had told me that the film crew would be shooting that afternoon in Nicky’s, a bar in Lowell that was owned by Jack Kerouac’s brother-in-law. So before we even check into the Holiday Inn, we pull off the highway onto Gorham Street and park in front of Nicky’s. Lowell is a gray, grim industrial town and Nicky’s is the workingman’s favorite watering hole. It’s splendidly seedy, with a smattering of old winos, young toughs, and today, a host of local labor leaders, precinct captains, and a secretary or two, celebrating the campaign of a local politician. Standing by the front door,
Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky look a little out of place, a bit like Buddhists at a bar mitzvah. But in a second, Nicky himself is out to greet them.

“Hey Allen, how you doing,” Nicky bellows lustily as his big beefy hands corral one of Ginsberg’s, threatening to pulverize it into poet-pulp. Nicky’s genuinely happy to see Kerouac’s old college chum and introductions are made all around.

But Dylan, who was supposed to do some filming here at Nicky’s, hasn’t shown up yet, and after sampling some of the cold cuts and spread, we all head back to the Holiday Inn to prepare for the night’s show.

At the Lowell College gym, the promoters have decided on “festival seating,” a euphemism that means they try to cram as many sweaty bodies as possible onto every available square inch of hardwood floor. Only this floor has been covered by a pale green tarp that is emitting one of the most pungent odors known to man—the smell of jocksweat. George and I wend our way over the bodies and finally find a niche near the makeshift stage-door entrance, two curtains pinned together. Ronee Blakley pops her head out of the curtain and surveys the crowd with a slight look of fear. “Where are we?” Ronee queries. “Is this a college?”

The crowd-buzz heightens in intensity and George’s face begins to twitch. “I’ve got sick vibes,” he whispers, “this place lends itself to chaos.” But suddenly Neuwirth & Co. take the stage. “Here’s an on-the-road song for ya,” Neuwirth appropriately notes and I scamper to a balcony overhanging the side of the stage. Dylan is bouncing backstage in time to the music, his hat on, and his face swathed in whiteface makeup. Throughout the opening acts, Dylan is constantly on the prowl, watching the proceedings, playing with a basketball, tapping nervously on a tabletop, getting a cup of coffee, hugging Scarlett, smoking a cigarette, continually pacing. During the wait, he must have washed and towel-dried his hands ten times.

Somehow, Lisa has found her way to the gym and she’s sitting
like a pigeon, legs thrust through the railing, just staring woefully at Dylan.

They’re filming tonight, and David Meyers’ crew is following Dylan, recording his preparations. On stage, Jack Elliot is about to finish so Bob grabs his guitar and starts to strum nervously. Then Ramblin’ Jack is through, jogging down the stage stairs, and it’s time. “Let’s go,” exults Ginsberg as Dylan hops the stairs two at a time and walks unannounced onto the stage. It takes a while, a few seconds, but then the reaction sweeps over the crowd, the roar bouncing like so many basketballs through this musky arena, a crescendo of arousal directed at that little guy with the funny hat.

During the set I see Lola Cohen, a close friend and an actress in the tour film. “Do me a favor, give this note to Bob,” I whisper. She agrees and I toss down a piece of paper to her. A few songs later, she scurries back. “What is this shit? Why don’t you write something more important? What’s We can’t go on meeting like this’ supposed to mean?”

Perhaps it’s the camera crews, filming from about the fourth row, perhaps it’s just the relief to be in an honest, unpretentious, down-home working-class environment—at any rate, everyone seems to be really on tonight. Dylan is hamming it up during the dramatic “Isis,” and Baez compliments him by putting on her own whiteface for their duet, Neuwirth keeps dedicating songs to Kerouac, the band is smoking. In fact, Dylan seems feisty enough to segue from “Just Like A Woman” to a slow, haunting version of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” for the first time. And it’s incredibly moving, Dylan so intense, knees bent as if he’s ready to lunge, making up new verses on the spot. “Oh wipe that blood away from my face, I can’t see through it anymore,” he moans. “I need to get down to a new hiding place, believe I’ll knock on heaven’s door.” Then McGuinn steps up and adds his own verse, followed by a stunning solo from Ronson. The obligatory “This Land” finale follows, climaxed by the usual pandemonium. And the thunder rolls on.

On to Newport, Rhode Island, that night, except for, as Mel Howard had alerted me, the film crew, Ginsberg, and the elusive Mr. D. A golden opportunity to try to corral the songster and get a bit more access to the tour participants. And sure enough, the desk clerk at our Holiday Inn confirms that Mr. Dylan had indeed checked in that afternoon. In fact, just as I’m inquiring, who should walk in the door but our favorite fish peddler, Mr. Kemp.

Louie’s face turns sour, as if he’s seen a shipload of spoiled salmon. I turn to him cheerily. “This hotel ain’t big enough for the two of us, Kemp.”

“Get out,” Louie scowls, without a trace of irony.

“Wait a minute,” I protest, “I was here first.”

Kemp frowns, sensing defeat. “Then go to your room,” he sputters. “Don’t bug us. I don’t want to see you around here.” With that, he checks his messages and departs.

We eat down the road and repair to the hotel, but by now the tour is beginning to get to us. The beige Holiday Inn walls are starting to vibrate, there’s nothing to read, no radio, and after twenty minutes, George is getting bored staring at the test pattern of Lowell’s last TV station. A gleam slowly surfaces in his eyes. “Let’s go looking for whores!” he beams.

Five minutes later, I swing the Granada past the Greyhound Station in downtown Lowell. It’s 3:30
A.M.
and the streets are deserted.

“Where are all the whores?” George grunts, scanning the silent alleys. “How much do you think they are here, anyway? How much for a blow job?”

We cruise slowly down the streets, obsessed with the idea of finding some action, anything.

The silence is punctuated by George’s bloodcurdling yelp. “Stop! There’s somebody walking right up ahead.” I slow down and pull up alongside a young kid, in his teens, wearing work clothes, construction boots, a real working-class hero. George rolls down
the window. “Hey, is there any action in this town?” he yells; “any action, you know, street action?”

The kid walks up to the car. “You mean fights and shit?” he says in a strange accent, one part Boston and one part Bowery Boy.

“No, no, whores,” George corrects.

“You gotta go to Chanelsford to find whores,” the kid asserts, “it’s pretty fahr.”

“Are there any funky places where like junkies hang out?” I chime in.

“Yeah,” the kid’s face brightens, “the Owl Diner. I’m going there, want me to show you where it is?” George unlocks the door and the kid scampers into the back seat. His name is Bob, a local, Lowell’s version of a greaser. Seventeen and ready to kick ass. Or get kicked.

“What’s Lowell like?” I shout to the back seat.

“It sucks,” Bob blurts succinctly.

“Is it an industrial town?” George questions.

“Nah,” Bob answers, “it’s not an industrial town, it’s a town for junkies and fucked-up people. But I’m no junkie, I never took dope. I don’t hang around the Owl, I just go there for coffee. It’s a tough place, though. If you fuck around there you get killed. It’s run by the Mafia.”

We drive in silence for a minute then George asks Bob if he plans to leave Lowell. “Yeah,” the kid replies spiritedly, “I’m going to Arizona in two weeks. Shit, the Owl’s closed. Keep going straight, we can go to the Club Diner, they got a lot of fucking assholes there too. There’s no action on the street now, you’ll find it all in the restaurants at this time.”

George is brooding now, his vision of whore-chasing fading into the reality of hash browns and coffee. We pull up to the Club and get out.

“Where you guys from?” Bob inquires.

“New York,” George mumbles.

“Are there a lot of movie stars out there?” the kid questions.

“Lots of junkies,” George spits.

“Did you know this was Jack Kerouac’s home town?” I change the subject.

“Who? Oh, Kerouac, yeah. I read about him. You better lock your door around here.” Bob wheels and stares at George. “You ain’t that guy that played in that fucking film
Shampoo
, are ya?”

George shakes his head no.

“I met him in Vegas,” Bob continues on blithely, “he’s a fucked-up guy.”

We sit down at a booth. Bob turns to me. “You look like George Hamilton.” He shakes his head in wonder.

“What do you do for excitement?” George probes.

“Fuck around, get high.” Bob smiles impishly.

“Go to the concert?” I ask.

“Nah,” Bob shrugs. “I like Dylan and Baez though. He’s real talented.”

“What do you do on the weekends around here?” George asks.

“Go to see the strippers in Liverty.”

Suddenly Bob’s eyes light up and the words begin spewing from his mouth like coins from a slot machine. “I put two kids in the hospital last night. One of them hit my mother. There was a little commotion going on on the street and they blamed my mother for it and the kid came over and hit my mother. They said my mother finked on them for smoking pot, so one of them come up and swinged, hit my mother and knocked her down. So man, I come down the stairs with a baseball bat and I says You, come here,’ and I hit him right in the side of the head. He went down and I took the bat and kept hitting him.” Bob pauses for effect, then lifts his hand and smashes it onto the diner table. “Boom, boom, boom, maybe ten times on the head. He’s on the critical list. I don’t got to worry about it ’cause it was self-defense, they can’t hang me for killing someone.”

I ponder his strange notion of self-defense, but George is
already lost in the menu. “Does this place have good food?” he wonders. “I’m hungry again.”

But Bob seems lost in his reverie. “The other one was just a small kid. I just grabbed him and went boom, boom, boom, just the face. Broke his jaw, broke his nose. One of them got me back though, I got a lump on the side of my head.”

“How’s your mother,” I inquire politely.

“She’s all right. Sore but she’s OK When the prick comes out of the hospital, I think he’ll kill me but that’s all right. I’ll be gone in two weeks and he’ll still be in there. I hope he’s in for a year. I hope the prick dies.”