On the Road with Bob Dylan (56 page)

To Ratso’s right, Lois is listening to this and getting paler by the minute. Sensing Rubin’s about to talk his way up the river. “Shut up, Rubin,” he’s whispering under his breath, “talk about Muhammed and mountains again, for Chrissakes.”

“What we want to do is have an unbiased, impartial arbitrator of the facts and just let it all hang out from there. We’re willing to accept that.”

“Do you think that’s possible in the state of New Jersey now?” a journalist yells.

“No,” Rubin screams, and Lois blanches a bit more, “in the state of New Jersey absolutely not. We need to get into Federal Court before we can ever get a fair trial or a fair hearing ….”

This is getting too much for even Ratso and simultaneously the reporter and the adman lunge for the microphone in Rubin’s hands.

“They want to put you to bed, Rube.” Regan, who’s been shooting stills, picks up the cue, leading the boxer away.

“They’re gonna tuck him in,” Lois cracks, and grabs the mike.

Ratso just smiles at the absurdity and peers back at the mass of reporters, none of whom apparently has sniffed out what’s going on. “Thank you, Mr. President,” Slocum cracks bitterly and waits for Lois’ limousine and the ride back to Manhattan.

Which was a glum ride indeed. Lois keeps asking Ratso to replay the tape of the press conference and with each answer by Carter, the adman moans and slumps back into the seat. Answers which
seemed brilliant and courageous to Ratso just a few months ago now reek of rhetoric.

And Ratso realizes, as the limo glides to a halt, that no, Rubin was still no murderer, but he sure as hell might be a damn good con artist, and that realization wreaked havoc with Ratso’s sleep and drove storm clouds over tomorrow’s Night of the Hurricane.

Clouds which intensified at the preconcert press conference called by the New Jersey Carter Defense Committee. It was a shoddy affair, the highlight of which came when a slightly tipsy Rep. John Conyers got into a shouting match with Sapounakis who threw his drink, glass and ice cubes and all, at the Congressman’s august body. Ali, who was the star of the show, arrived an hour late, enabling Conyers and himself to make complete fools out of themselves with their lack of knowledge about the boxer’s case that they were so fervently defending. So Ratso fled to the Garden, hoping that at least the music would save the night.

Backstage, Imhoff had borrowed one of Bill Graham’s old tricks, and had set up free hot dog, pretzel, and beer stands. The Garden had been sold out the day the event was announced, and most of the patrons had no idea that Roberta Flack had been added to the bill and that Joni Mitchell was still on the tour, plugged into her guest spot, and that Ali would act as an M.C. of sorts. And there would be other surprises too, like Baez running out in the middle of Jack Elliot’s set disguised as a blond, white-go-go-booted teeny-bopper and being hauled off by security after about thirty seconds of the Hustle. Or that the audience would get a chance to hear Rubin live from prison on a phone hook-up thanking them and Bob, and the Revue, and Ali and Roberta.

Which was why Richie Kahn, a member of Rubin’s New York Defense Committee was sitting stage right, behind a bank of amplifiers, with a phone glued to his ear. In order to take no chances they called Rubin before the concert began, establishing a hookup, enabling Rubin to listen to the music, and then speak to the multitudes at the appointed time.

Which wasn’t quite yet. The crowds are still filing in and getting seated as Ratso storms into the Garden and heads backstage. And right at the foot of the stairs, Dylan’s huddling with Robbie Robertson and Joni.

“What are you guys gonna do?” Ratso wonders, thrilled at the prospect of seeing Bob and Robbie perform together for the first time since the 1974 tour.

“I don’t know,” Bob shrugs.

“Do ‘Dirge,’” the reporter pleads.

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I know all the words.” Bob shakes his head.

Joni buttonholes Ratso. “I think that Rubin is a jive nigger,” she frowns, “after what happened yesterday at the prison.”

“You turning fascist?” Ratso inquires, pulling on her policeman’s coat.

“Yeah,” Joni laughs, fingering the police memorabilia that she has been collecting all tour. “The more I get the more I think I turn Nazi.”

Just then Neuwirth and Guam take the stage and Ratso watches from backstage. And sure enough, perhaps because of the tension of playing in the Garden, perhaps because of the feeling that the concert is really a postscript to the tour, whatever, the edge is gone. Everyone seems to be plodding, so when Ali inherits the stage, along with four or five people from his enormous entourage, Ratso is grateful for the respite.

Grateful for about three seconds, because for some bizarre reason Ali, instead of pleading Rubin’s case, is delivering an unsolicited political announcement promoting some Southern businessman who’s been flying the fighter around the country in his huge jet plane, promoting this total unknown as “the next President of the United States.” Perhaps for the first time in his long career, an avalanche of boos descend on the champ.

“Maybe he can get away with that shit at the Apollo but he can’t tell white people who to vote for,” one cop says.

“Yeah,” one of the equipment men puts in, “just fly him around the country and he’ll endorse anything.”

Ratso glances behind him and Dylan who had come out early to watch Ali seems to be puzzled by the speech. “I got called about this concert,” Ali continues, “and they say Bob Dylan is playing. I never heard of no Bob Dylan.” Another chorus of boos descend. Ali throws his hands up, half in fright and half in laughter. “All you pretty girls came to see Bob Dylan and not me!” Dylan cracks up.

Ali finishes and fields a phone call from Rubin, chattering away and changing the subject every time Rubin starts into his rap about oppression. After a few more boring speeches, the music in the form of Jack Elliot finally returns, and a few minutes later, Dylan strides onto the Garden stage.

He’s greeted with a standing ovation and, once again, drives a lagging band into a frenzied renewal, scorching through “Masterpiece” then “It Ain’t Me Babe” and “Hattie Carroll” in succession. Then after the new augmented version of “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here with You,” Robbie Robertson, looking dapper as ever in a slick blue denim suit, steps onstage and picks up his electric guitar.

“We’re going to do a song for Mr. Albert Grossman,” Dylan, whose hat by now is completely encircled by different colored flowers, laughs, “who won’t be our next President.” And it’s back to
Highway 61
, and “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry,” a torrid rocker that Robbie is lacing with amazing razor-sharp riffs. “Durango” is next, Dylan’s pulling out all stops, moving, singing, even breathing like the trapped gunfighter in the West. “Here’s another song about the marriage ceremony between man and woman,” Dylan pronounces and it’s into “Isis.”

But at some time during Bob’s dynamic set, Richie Kahn, who was still sitting on stage, holding the phone toward the amplifiers so Rubin could take it all in back at the prison, at some time Kahn sensed that something was wrong. He heard a faint muffled noise
coming out of the receiver, a noise that intensified as he brought the phone closer to his ear. It was Rubin, screaming his black ass off.

“I’m gettin’ out, I’m gettin’ out,” Rubin’s yelling.

“Rubin, I can’t hear you, wait until the end of the set,” Kahn yells back.

“I’m getting out,” the prisoner yelps, “I’ll be home by Christmas. I just saw it on Channel 5 News.”

“You’re kidding,” Kahn breaks into a big smile, “that’s great.”

“Rich,” Rubin continues, “this is what I want you to do. Let Bob announce it.”

“Are you sure, Rubin?” Richie, who handled press and media for Rubin, remains skeptical. “We should make sure it’s accurate.”

“Richie,” Rubin’s voice gets ominous, “I want to talk to Bob.”

“He’s playing right now,” Kahn looks over the stage at the singer, who’s miming his way through “Isis.”

“I want to talk to him,” Carter pouts.

“OK” Kahn concedes, “at intermission.”

The song winds to an end, the audience starts a standing ovation, and Dylan wends his way off his stage. Suddenly a stranger jumps in front of him.

“Bob,” Kahn points toward the receiver, “Rubin wants to talk to you.”

Dylan ambles over and picks up the phone. They talk for a few minutes. “OK Rubin,” Dylan smiles, “I’m gonna announce it and you’re gonna hear a roar like you never heard before.”

Dylan puts the phone down and starts offstage. “Bob,” it’s Kahn again, “you gotta wait on this thing. We gotta check it out.” Dylan nods.

By now, word of this has reached George Lois, who’s rushed from his seat with Paul Sapounakis and Leo Stevens, and is backstage attempting to verify the rumor Channel 5 had broadcast. Dylan steps down from the stage.

“Bobby,” Lois runs up, “don’t announce a fucking thing until we
check it out.” Dylan gives Lois a nonchalant shrug and heads backstage. The adman grabs his two compatriots and they start to look for a phone, assisted by Herb Jaffee, the New Jersey newspaperman. They rush down the corridor and stop at the first room.

“We have to use the phones in there,” Lois tells the two uniformed guards, “we have to call the Governor of New Jersey.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” the cop sneers.

“Look, man,” Lois raises his voice, “Dylan’s about to announce something to twenty thousand people and we’ve got to confirm it first and we got to use these phones.”

The cops stay adamant and Lois and Sapounakis’ Greek tempers get the best of them. The adman throws a wild right, the restaurateur a cross body block, and one cop starts to go for his gun when a Garden official rushes up.

“We gotta use a phone,” Lois explains to the bureaucrat, who leads them to another office. George tries the governor, then his aide, and then finally reaches a press officer in Byrne’s office. The adman looks grim as he hangs up the phone. “Not a chance,” Lois shakes his head, “the guy just said ‘not a chance.’”

Meanwhile, Rubin has been ranting on the phone to Kahn, screaming about Dylan making the announcement. And just as Dylan starts up for the second half, Lois comes barreling out from backstage. “Don’t announce anything,” George manages to yell up at Bob as he starts toward the front of the stage.

Meanwhile Kahn has been waiting in ambush and as the singer passes by, he jumps in front of him and almost gets speared by a Martin as a result. “Bob, you can’t do this,” Kahn throws his arms out like a left tackle, unaware that Lois had just delivered the word.

Dylan stops short in his tracks. “I ain’t doing anything until I hear from you,” he barks at Kahn, and then walks out to open the second half.

And what a start, Dylan resplendent in a white Wallace Beery shirt, black vest, flowered hat, and makeup, and he’s followed by
Baez as Dylan in white Wallace Beery shirt, black vest, flowered hat and makeup. Ratso finds a seat next to Beattie out front as the two Dylans break into “Times They Are A Changing.” The reporter sings along in his seat.

“If Dylan goes broke, he can always play New York,” Beattie smiles at the reporter; “you’ll buy the first ticket.”

The Dylans finish that and launch into the good-timey “Mama You’ve Been on My Mind,” prompting Ratso to elbow Beattie.

“See,” Beattie laughs, “I’m always on his mind.”

Suddenly Ratso develops an intense headache, compounded by the blaring speakers no more than twenty yards away. “Beattie,” he moans, “you got any aspirin?”

She makes a quick check of her purse and comes up empty-handed. She shakes her head.

“What?” Slocum spits, “what kind of Jewish mother are you? No aspirin!”

“I never had a headache in my life,” Beattie brags, “Bob and his band were singing like this for ten years in my garage and I never got a headache.”

“Anybody remember Johnny Ace?” Bob asks from the stage. “I hope so.”

“I don’t know him,” Beattie shrugs, “who is he?”

Dylan and Baez soar into the old ’50s song and Beattie watches enthralled. Then she turns to Ratso. “He should wear his glasses more often,” Bob’s mother worries, “he’ll hurt his eyes this way.”

“Doesn’t he wear contacts?” Ratso stabs.

“No, no,” Beattie shakes her head with relish.

“We’re gonna send this next one out to Mr. Herman Melville,” Bob dedicates.

“What label is he on?” Ratso screams out.

“I don’t know the guy,” Beattie shrugs.

Ratso turns back to the show and starts to watch, when a familiar figure wanders in front of him. It’s Mike Porco, the owner of Gerdes Folk City.

“Porco,” Ratso screams and grabs the club owner, steering him to an empty seat in the row ahead, “what do you think of this?”

“Issa great,” Mike smiles, “issa great but my taste … I enjoyed the other concert in ’74 with the Band more, when he was alone. He sanga lot of songs I was more familiar with then. I went back ten years with that concert.” Porco smiles. “I been seeing him now for fifteen years, Ratso. And it’s funny, in the beginning, I didn’t get much impression of him. I didn’t say, ‘Oh this guy’s gonna be a star.’ It was just another person that came in and performed. Then he started to come in every Monday, I don’t think he missed a Monday, and a few people liked him. They started to call my attention to him, they said, ‘That kid is pretty good.’ And as he kept coming in, I paid more attention to him and I noticed that he wasn’t a really great singer but his songs used to penetrate.

“People said they thought I should give him a break, then some people like Gil Turner started coming in and singing his songs, and I thought that they sounded pretty good even though other people were singing them, and I started paying more attention to his words, and they were great. He musta been at the hoot night twenty times or more, when I spoke to him and said, ‘Bobby, I know you will like to work here. Maybe we can get you a job.’ And his eyes almosta pop out of his head, and he said, ‘Oh yes, man, anytime.’

“So I made arrangements and I gave him a date in April 1961, a couple of weeks after Judy Collins performed there,” Porco continues, straining to be heard over the enchanting din of Roberta Flack and her ensemble. “I knew Bob didn’t have a cabaret card or belong to the union, so I put him into the union. I took him up there and I pay for the card, I think it was $80 or something. At the union, they ask how old he was and he said twenty and the guy says if he was only twenty he gotta bring somebody from his family to sign the contract, to come back tomorrow with the contract. So Bob said, ‘I ain’t got no mother,’ so the guy says, ‘OK come back with your father.’ And Bobby says, ‘I ain’t got no father either.’ So the guy looked at me and said, ‘What are we gonna do? I can’t put
him in the union unless, Mike, you want to sign for him.’ So I asked Bob and he said he’d appreciate it, so I had to sign as his guardian. Then we went downtown and he was all happy, he kept saying how glad he was and we stopped at a picture machine to get some pictures for his cabaret card and his hair was all bushed up at the time. So I gave him a comb but he wouldn’t comb his hair. I said, ‘Tell me the truth, how come you no comb your hair?’ And he says, ‘Wanna know the truth, I’m a little superstitious. The last time I combed my hair something bad happened to me, so I don’t like to comb it.’ And then I gave him $2 for a haircut, and he came back the next day with the hair a little bit cut, and it didn’t look like a barber’s cut. I think some woman did it.”