PART
THREE
1981
Europe.
To
my sweet Sir Callaghan.
I
In
81, the surprise!
Bob Dylan is again on Tour.
And
like everything related to Bob Dylan, no other information. I buy the
magazine called "specialized". The covert informs us
“The Priest on Stage”. shit!
They already judged.
Three
cities and three dates:
Toulouse June 21, Colombes June 25,
and July 25 Avignon. Maybe London and Birmingham. That's
it. Some ads on a well known and commercial radio. I
wonder what He will do between June 25 and July 25, nothing in
Germany?
I pack up my socks, I'm sure to see the three
French concerts, the rest we'll see. One of my sisters will come with
me in Toulouse.
We arrive at the station on a beautiful
sunny Sunday. No
poster. Perhaps we made a mistake? I
buy the local paper, a photo and a name: Stade des Minimes. On the
way two or three posters and a mesh banner "BOB DYLAN IN
CONCERT". It
seems that CBS did not want to advertize this tour. But
it doesn’t matter: we, the public, we do not need their shit. We
buy two tickets for 70 F, not too expensive, so good. Does the lack
of advertising drop the price of admission? We
take a look by the stage door, we never know! but
nothing moves, just the security playing cat and mouse. We
line up at the entrance before rushing to the front. We
settle for a sandwich and we wait. The kind of waiting that I will
know more than once, sad and empty, sleep weighing heavy on my
eyelids! people altogether are young, at least in the first rows. I
recognized Capdevieille and he is not allowed backstage. Mr.
President himself is behind the scene. They
arrive late and the back vocals singers sing their gospel. I'm not
surprised, I remember the U.S.A. 79 Tour. "The great (?) Priest"
is on, wearing a jacket - not leather as some have claimed - but
black nylon embroidered with dragons, a Japanese kimono kind. It’s
a little too big for him, I think, but the aesthetic
Mr.Dylan?
Compare to 79, He adds a few songs from the 60’s.
We must admit that his Gospel time in the States didn’t work at the
best, so in the 80’s He decides to please his old hippies fans who
make the most of his audience (in the States) by adding “Mr
Tambourine Man” or "Like A Rolling Stone". What
the public wants is the old Dylan.
It
rocks not bad. This
is not the preacher preaching but the rocker rocking. The
concert will be short. Too
short and perhaps not the best. The sound is poor. The
spots ill-fitting and the musicians seem to search the tune and
sometimes the songs they
should play?
I realize then that there is no set list!?. The Boss
begins two or three chords and the guys behind follow. Hence a
mess to begin with. One of the musicians also will tell me that Dylan
is sending the pace, not the drummer, as is done normally. Dylan has
even forgotten the lyrics. We leave a little disappointed but it's
Toulouse and it's still good Rock and Roll.
I
come home and go back almost immediately for Paris. I found the tour
schedule on the back of T-shirts. Between Paris and London, I have
two days to think. I
would hit the road again or not?
Paris. Or
at Colombes, a short distance. At 2:00 p.m., there is already the
queue. I
observe. The guys are young and dressed in the Dylan of the 60’s:
dark glasses, white shirt and bolero jacket, top hat, scarf around
the neck ... a little of his arrogance.
They are an hour
late. There are 4000 people who are not yet seated, we are told. 40
000 people were packed, the concert is OK, nothing more.
I
will sleep at the “Gare du Nord”, one of Paris train stations
where there are no cops. But wind drafts to spare. The next day I
spot some fancy hotels ; Maurice, Georges V.. no trace of the
group. Paris
is huge and Dylan is a ghost. I
go back home to prepare the final Grand Trip.
II
I
arrived at Victoria Station, dirty and cold. I'm waiting at the door
of London Tourist Board. I'm
waiting, still not open. Damn! I forgot the switching of time. I
pick a room plus breakfast at the Hotel St Simeon. I panick a little,
I've already checked in three years ago and I left without
paying. The
owner does not recognize me.
Breakfast:
eggs not cooked, burnt bacon, two toast with butter and jam, it will
be my only meal each day for a week.
So I stuff myself with
butter and jam and drink the entire pot of tea served for four. I'll
steal some peanuts and biscuits in the chic shops, but the milk at
the doors of houses I will not touch. I already tried that and I had
won cops control. So
tempting when you're hungry! However,
I’m glad, the hotel is not far from Earl's Court, I can walk
there.
The black market in full swing: fifteen pounds for a
ticket that is eight and a half and still not the front row. What
a scam! I bought mine for seven and a half .. the
“Blues” gets hold of me. I
hardly slept for two days, I'm cold, I'm hungry, it's raining. And
in London when it rains, it's not joy. I
read an interview from Bob. Evasive as usual. I
already want to drop everything, yet it is only the beginning, I’ve
seen worst.
I’m so far away from the stage in this
Bowl!
I
remember the schedule:
London
from June 26 to July 1
Birmingham 3 and 4
Stockholm
8
Oslo
on 9 and 10
Copenhagen 12
Bad Segeberg 14 and
15
Loreley
17
Mannheim 18,
Munich
from 19 to 20
Vienna
on 21
Basel on 23
Avignon on 25
I’m
sure that Bad Segeberg and Loreley are in East Germany. So I removed
the two cities of my program, you need a visa to get to East Germany
,that I do not have. Then to go from Birmingham to Stockholm, what a
drag! I am convinced that the boat is the only solution. I
have three days to get there, a challenge! For
the rest I heard about Inter-Rail, I will think about everything
tomorrow.
Back
to the Bowl. The
guy next to me greets me with an American accent. He’s from New
York and has never seen Dylan! The
lights go out, the crowd screams. The
choir begins smoothly .... LADIES AND GENTLEMEN ..... BOB DYLAN
....
He starts at full speed "Gotta serve somebody",
"I believe in you," "Like a Rolling Stone." The
first rows rise, "The animals", "Maggie's Farm"
particularly popular here where Maggie is Margaret Thatcher - "Girl
Of The North Country", "Dead Man, Dead Man," "Simple
twist of fate," "Masters of wars ", speeding up,"
Ballad of a Thin Man, "" Mr. Tambourine Man, "Slow
train".
Regina will cover the break and "Heart
of Mine," "What can I do for you", "Lenny Bruce",
"Just Like A Woman", "When you gonna wake up ","
Watered down love " , “ Forever young”, "Summertime”,
" In the garden”, first encore " Blowin' in the wind "
yet the second encore “Don’t Think Twice " on acoustic
guitar.
Tonight
he puts everything out, there is something for everyone, from
acoustic ballad to super Rock.
Three
hours of magic, super Dylan. It
looks like He wants to beat Springsteen.
The
crowd quietly moves away, without much comment, however, compared to
the French concert that was so great. But
the English have seen others. And
the sound in Earl's Court, it is something! When
such a concert hall in France?
I do not have the
courage to check out on the back stage doors. I
rush to the hotel and I sleep, I sleep, satisfied.
III
Saturday:
I get up at eight o'clock for breakfast, I'd better not miss. I
walk around London in search of the famous Inter-Rail card. It Is
closed. I
don’t have a ticket for tonight, it’s Sold Out. I hang around
Earl's Court and I realize that my ticket from the previous day had
not been torn out. I
try to get in. There are two turnstiles to pass. With
a great stroke of luck, I go in, but I don’t have a seat. Two
Scottish with a terrible accent make me some space. Three
for two seats: not very comfortable but I’m inside. They
disappear in the middle of the concert, I do not see them again.
It
is not so well as yesterday, he messes up a bit and only two and a
half hour concert. A third encore with "Knocking on Heaven's
Door."
I go out and look by the back stage door, no
car, no bus, the King is gone.
Sunday
I stroll in London. Painters,
musicians, nice atmosphere. The
marriage of Prince Charles and Diana is announced everywhere. I
do not care. I'm accosted by an Egyptian that I succeed to get read
off. No
time for “fun”. Bobby
is waiting for me, or rather I expect it.
Back
to the Bowl ; some funny guys with top hats. Certainly,
they are all late. Dylan is wearing a silver cross! They
seem “clean cut kids”, not too rebellious, not too ragged,
but where did Rimbaud go?
A
guy calls me "you want a ticket?". I
check it: BB arena, a very good seat. I check if the ticket is not
false and taken aback I ask "why do you give it to me,it is
worth at least twenty pounds on the black market "
"
I do not need money "
"
Oh, thank you! ".
I
try to sell mine, not so good, I must sound strange, nobody wants it.
Yet it is still" sold out ". Too bad. I go in. I am ten
rows from the stage, a miracle. The guy seats next to me, nice!
A
new song (?) "Mary from the Wild mirror" with a mandolin
and a duo with one of the singers. Nice this song, it sounds
like an old country song. He
has more than one string to his bow. And presto! again
the Rock & Roll "All Along The Watchtower". At
first encore I run to the front. His
face unshaven and swollen, a short trunk planted on cowboy legs -
Rock and Roll Lucky Luke -. Fans
swing t-shirts on stage. Tim
Drummond, bassist, smiles when Dylan himself, remains perfectly
stoic and places them on the rear console. A fantastic "It's
Alright Ma" alone on guitar. A "goodbye, we will return
next year" and that's it.
Monday:
breakfast, I get four toasts, a real treat! After research, the
Inter-Rail card, I can buy it only in France. So
I lose hope for Birmingham. I
lie down on the grass in a park and think ... if I succeeded in
getting in once with an expired ticket, why not two?
But
this time no luck, they dissect it and I notice that there are
numbers for each day: 1,2,3,4,5,6. I
get ejected nicely. So
as there are still tickets for sale, I buy one wisely. I
am well sitted and observe the crowd during the show. It's
almost a church. Not
a false move. Not a cry of hysteria. I
would not like to sing Rock and Roll in front of such a public. Yet
for Bob, this is where he seeks to be the best. Did
he get the idea that only the English can fully understand his
language? The language may be, but for the "message", it’s
another story. How
lonely should He feel! And
I, for the first time, I'm bored. Him,
there on stage, is in a bad mood, I feel it. Tim
comes up to him several times, to ask the next song? - Result? Many
times the Boss starts alone followed by the band in a hurry. Moody
the Boss!
I
think the singers appear less and less, certain songs remind me of
others ; when he sings "Lenny Bruce", I find myself
continuing with "Is your love in vain". The lyrics seem
somewhat popular, it’s true that he confessed having written
that song in two minutes? So. There
are some who can not even reach this level in two months(or in a life
time). But the spirit is there, a profound voice.
This
concert is precipitated. The
songs are massacred. Three
times, he forgets the lyrics, the verses and even mix them back
twice. He walks on stage, pretends to tune his guitar, chats with the
musicians. I’m bored
too. I
stand in front of him for the encore. He
sees nothing, he’s burn out, he will never return. These
are my impressions of the moment. But
who knows? Chameleon man? But
tonight he was wearing his black leather jacket.
Tomorrow is
the last concert and I'm glad. I
do not like London. Too cold.
The
next day he attacks C.B.S. The album is still not released and it's
been a while since he had been touring
"if the new album is
not released you must see with to CBS" he angered on stage.
I
learned later that Columbia didn’t want to release the album, hence
the delay.
He also attacks his audience
"you
live in the past," he says to someone who calls for an old
song
"Here's something I did long ago" and begins
" Barbara
Allen. "
Slap! In
fact few people jumped in his Slow Train.
It has been said
that Dylan was paranoid. But
his “paranoia” has enabled him to keep healthy inside. Getting
away from each day reality has keep his heart pure?
The
paranoia was often justified because the field of showbiz is a
shark-infested water.
The press has never really liked him
and vice versa. He never offered champagne and “petits fours” to
these gentlemen. When he spoke he was accused of saying nonsense or
else they distorted his thoughts. When he did not speak he was said
to be confined in his ivory tower and he manufactured a legend of
untouchable.
Replied "Do not follow leaders and let me
be myself."
Recently he said
"people ask
me where is Bob Dylan because they do not know where they are
themselves."
He was accused of being aggressive. Yes,
yes, not so long ago he punched a journalist. But
put yourself in his shoes ; you can’t walk quietly in the street
without being attacked by a crazy paparazzi, flashing you. Not the
kids who want an autograph, no, but journalists who are there to make
an exclusive.
Yet he had given his chance to A.J.Weberman, -
who didn’t make any good with it -, and also to Larry Sloman, a
journalist from Rolling Stone Magazine that followed The Rolling
Thunder Review at the expense of the Boss. He did good, though.
His book “on the road with Bob Dylan” is not
negative.
He
was also criticized for being focused on himself. In the States they
took this as an excuse to put down "Renaldo & Clara"
saying it was a self-centered film.
Imagine you are twenty
years old and suddenly you find yourself a millionaire with crowds at
your feet.
Each
person suspended at each one of your words and each one of your
moves. Copying the way you dress, your hair style, even your facial
expressions and the intonations of your voice.
With
people around you so considerate they don’t let you go to the
toilet alone. We laugh at your jokes, there is silence when you
silence. Everyone
agrees about your comments on anything ... So how can you not think
that you are God the Father himself. Elvis
was mistaken and also John Lennon and Dylan ... it's also human.
And
if he constantly doubted about himself, there would have been
nothing.
Yet
it is one of the few that has constantly questioned himself, changing
many of his believes and up to his "religion". "Religion
is a word," he said recently.
I think while driving to
Birmingham, the next stop.
IV
It
starts badly ; I have to turn around by train to the concert hall and
also it was the wrong days. The dates are 4 and 5, not 3 and 4. I'm
here in the countryside, I’m starving. There is nothing to buy,
nothing to do. I spot a small forest about three hundred meters
away. I jump the barbed wire, pull up my tent and lie down while
listening to the birds. Wait and forget the hunger. Here at least I
can sleep. I put my notes up to date and finish on a terse "if I
die on the road make the world know that I died of love for Bob
Dylan"
I find myself day dreaming.
I'm with Bob and we
sip coffee quietly and then he shows me around his Xanadu, we become
best friends.
The next day I hang around a little behind
the stage. They slam the door in my face. They’re afraid that I put
the piano in my backpack! Fools!
The "freaks" are coming
in. The black market is in full swing. 70£ for a ticket. A record. I
must say that it is Sold Out. Not a ticket left according to the
organizers - not true. I will be told later that they reserve 10% of
tickets for the evening of the concert – I got a ticket I
after two hours of queue. I meet a tall, thin guy to share my
sandwich and he offers me a drink.
The guy sitting next to
me is the most; he sings, he dances, he claps his hands. Finally a
fanatic like I like. He says he is Greek, not English. No wonder! On
the whole trip, the most enthusiastic people I’ll meet will from
Egypt, Greece, Italy, Spain ... A little sunshine in the gloom. They
know the songs by heart.
We’ll get “Barbara Allen”. Oh
Mom! What a version? At the end he removes his dark glasses to
please us.
Playboy Magazine: "You always wear dark glasses,
right?"
BD: Yeah
PB: Is it so people do not see your
eyes?
BD: Right now it's just a habit. I still wear dark glasses,
there is no underlying reason for this, I guess.
Hmm Hmm Someone
very close to him told me that his dark glasses have corrective
lenses and he wears them because he’s terribly shortsighted. I
suspected.
One evening, a so-called fan went to see him in
Malibu. He walked around the property with insistence. When Dylan,
wearing normal glasses, approaches him and asks him what he wants.
"I
want to see Dylan"
"But Dylan's me"
"Oh no,
Dylan does not wear glasses."
I leave from a poor
concert. I leave by the back stage doors, just in time to see the bus
pulling away. The next day I’ll see it arrive and disappear inside
the parking lot. I waited four hours.
Tonight he’s really bad.
He has a cold or something. An hour and a half of show for 8.50£.
It’s a rip off.
V
I
hate Lennon's killer. After his tragic dathe there is a kind of
hysteria around the pop-stars. They
feel obliged to be surrounded by a crowd of “gorillas”. I'm
not even sure it's effective and it prevents some Love to travel, a
little humanity. I do not blame Dylan but it's hard not to be able to
offer him
flowers.
VI
Now
I feel that my trip will be from railway stations to concert halls,
from concert halls to railway stations, from railway stations to
railway stations.
Euston Station, back in London. I'm
exhausted but I'm afraid to lie down on the floor, there are cops
everywhere. And
damn! I go for it, I have nothing to lose. If
they put me in jail I’ll be warm. They
do not hurt me and it's clean here. I
sleep a little until the first light of
day.
VII
On
the boat back to France with a half-price Transalpine ticket, I think
of Woody Guthrie who was traveling in a freight train with his broken
guitar on his back.
He jumped from his train and was going
to sing for workers in the fields.
Now
they buy a plane ticket, bring together 40,000 people for a two-hour
concert, and that's it. "The Times They are A-Changin".
I
wonder if I'm not going to hold on to “punk rock”, though it
smells "commercial" too, more and more. But
I'm tired of the static public.
VIII
They
speak French on the train that rolls into Lillle. I
don’t like it, I lose my English and suddenly all
my dreams vanished. I spend the rest of my
money to stuff myself of all kinds of junk food. After
three days of fasting, I will be sick!. I look in a
mirror. Whoa! what a look! It no longer
surprises me that people don’t speak to me. Too
bad, I prefer writing to talking.
I arrive in Lille train
station at 5:30 p.m. and the ticket booth closes
at 7:30 p.m.. Chance. I buy my
Inter-Rail card. The next train
to Stockholm leaves at 8:00 p.m.. I will
arrive on July 7 at 11:00 p.m.. Just in time. I
buy bread and water for the journey will
be long. I have to transfer in Germany and
Denmark. I do not speak German or Danish. I
still hope not to miss my train.
The crowd and
solitude.
Loneliness in the crowd.
Solitude out of
the crowd.
They walk in front of me as if they were from
another planet, "Nausea" J.P. Sartre, a bad
trip for a junky .... oh I would like
so much to sleep!
On the train, I dream ; we
stop in Hamburg. I see Bob coming down and
sits on a bench. I walk up to him.
-"Bob you're
alone, where are your bodyguards?". He looks
tired and lost.
"Come have a drink."
-"What
do you drink?"
"Same"
-"two
coffees".
I lay my head on his shoulder and place
my hand in his hair
"All is well. You're
a nice guy."
END OF THE DREAM.
In
this train taking me to Copenhagen, I’m down and
at bottom of the black hole, I want to throw
myself out the window with my ticket. Jump in the
water that goes down. I have not slept and
have not had a bath for a long time, I have
to wait until Oslo. Exchanging money for
each country is also a big problem. I take two seats
and transform them into a bed . I fall asleep at
the sound of the rails.
IX
Stockholm:
11:11 p.m.. The
exact schedule. But everything is closed. No change. I
heard that poverty does not exist in Sweden. I see two boys who are
begging, immediately arrested by the cops. There
is no poverty because they hide it?. Nobody
sleeps on the floor here, but I'm so tired that I lay
down.
"Hello." I
open the eyelids. Shit! The
cops
"You can not sleep here, we close at 1:1
a.m.."
"Do I have to sleep in the street?"
"As
you wish".
I creak "as if I had a choice."
I
go out with a shudder. SHERATON
HOTEL next door. Something for me? They are lucky that I am a
pacifist.
I
meet an Algerian guy who speaks French. Nowhere
to go either. We
will be two to shiver. And
God has mercy on us and sends us an Angel. And what angel! Completely
drunk. We
explain the situation.
"I have a cheese shop." he
says. "Come."
With
the Algerian guy I feel a little safer. Cheese stinks cheese, of
course. I
eat two pounds with biscuits all kinds mixed. We chat until four in
the morning ; he was born in northern Sweden where eagles and bears
still exist. Blonde hair, blue eyes: he is a Viking. He's used to eat
raw meat bear and drink the blood of freshly killed goat. Then
we lie down all three on the ground. I
have nightmares : cheeses,
bear, goat blood all mixed.
Someone
shakes me up. Where
am I? I breathe fully. Ah yes the cheese ... ... DYLAN,
Stockholm... It
is 6h30 a.m. we must clear out, the store will open. No
time to pee, we are out. The
guy greets us well. Thank
you cheese Man.
I
search for posters on the walls. I do not know where the concert will
take place, or where to buy tickets .. clueless.
It is a
society that seems extremely well organized, very well educated
people. Pedestrians never cross at the red light, as if they were
programmed. green you pass, red you wait. Not for me. Yet during the
night I met people completely drunk and lost. A too well-organized
society is a society of despair and agony. Sweden is the
country where they commit the most suicides. There reigns a great
emptiness inside. I spot a record company. It
is not sold out. I have a ticket. The
seat is far, far away from the scene. Too
bad.
I
find a trip to do on a boat for few bucks. I recover on the boat that
floats gently. The sun warms my body and day’s people seem happy.
Then I will sit on the steps of the central square and listen to a
violin player that reminds me of " the kid with the Botticelli’s
face " alias David Mansfield, Dylan's violin player in 78 and
also the little hero of the film "the gates of paradise”. I
liked that movie. Not the United States. They turned it down
and removed the posters pretesting it was pro-Communist! (?). If it
was red then! Anyway this funny character reminds me of someone else
whose name was Alias. And as if by chance you'll find Chris
Christofferson in both movies..
There
is nothing to do here. I have not seen many movies, not many record
stores: Iggy Pop, Emmilou Harris, and Mozart. Ah! Mozart! Hooves on
his feet. There we recognize a stranger by his shoes. Boring here,
luckily I only pass by.
Strange:
I find myself behind the stage. I
see the back of Bobby. I hope he has the jacket with the dragon. At
least I’ll see an image. .. At 7:15 p.m. the hall is not half full,
and here it’s odd, the concert starts 7:30 p.m.. Bob's face on
T-shirts has changed and instead of the programs they sell scarfs. It
is true that here it is cold and a program around the neck is less
convenient than a scarf.
The bus arrived at 6:15 p.m. in
the parking lot. There
is no rehearsal time! I do not even fall asleep. I
float in an atmosphere and a language I do not know. Clean T-shirts,
clean jeans, clean ideas ... Too clean for me here. There's
even no security. No
danger that they go beyond the barriers. They
are their own cop.
I'm
not very happy with my position. Bob, I have seen from above, from
below, near, far, from the front, back ... It remains for me to be
sitting on his lap. Where I am it's interesting to see him turn to
blow his nose or at intermission remove his shirt and bolero and be
dried by his three boys. A
poor little guy shaking like a plum.
The
singers appear less and less, only three songs tonight. And Dylan
starts with acoustic "She belongs to me" and "The
Times They're a-changin '." All
boring here sir! And
the sound that doesn’t reach the back. What
wound! No charisma tonight. I rush to the exit at the end. Just
enough time to catch the metro and hop on the next train to Oslo at
23h00 p.m.. Will Dylan be in it?
I
think so, I recognize one of his guards, of course first class and
sleeping wagon. I have a seat in the second class and sitting. I
sleep more or less until Oslo. Once again everything is closed. I’m
starving. I find a fruit stand and swallow two bananas. I go down the
walkway and miracle! I see the tour bus parked right in front of a
hotel. I turn around and I see Klydie King coming out. No doubt this
is the place of the Boss. I go and ask the price of a room: about 500
F. The guy does not hesitate and says that there is no room
available. Is this true or do I look in a really bad shape? In any
case even with the money I would not stay. To stand in front of the
entrance is not a good solution for bringing out the tiger from his
lair. I had already tried in 79. I stayed three nights in the same
hotel without ever crossing him(by chance?) down the stairs. But I
recovered a bible from one of his “converters” who had said there
would be three Christian albums ". A contract with the Heaven(or
Hell!)?
As I am not a groupie, I leave the place and gently sends
him some flowers anyway. I try above all to find myself a ticket. It
would be so easy to knock on his door saying
"Excuse me
Mr. Dylan I am alone and a little lost and somewhat broke, could you
hand me a ticket?"
I think about Klydie, but I do not
know her well enough. I walk into a record store? "Dylan? I
don’t know." Oh, well thank you.
I found the hotel when I
was looking for it any more.
I found a loaf of bread when hunger
had faded
I found some comfort when I finally got used to
solitude
I hope to see Bob so I certainly will not see him before
5 or 10 years, when I will not seek for him any more. Things do
not happen as I want or maybe I ask too much.
Again I say to
myself: Damn! What am I doing here following this fool around?
To
get rid of these evil thoughts I send him red roses - the flower of
the poet -
Did he receive them?
In Oslo, a little
distraction: the musicians who play (well) on the street. But they
are all Americans. It's easier here than in the United States. There
is less competition.
X
The
concert hall is completely outside of Oslo. Crazy
Bobby! or
mad organization. To sleep tonight, the grass - not the grass that
you smoke although one can have sweet dreams too - no shower, no
water to drink, and I'm afraid of cops.
People come
slowly. They
are in no hurry there. Many do not speak English. But
the two concerts are sold out, even if the kind of garage that serves
as the concert hall is not full. They are hard, very hard. "When
you gonna wake up?" "Do you have to share Any
Love?".
Bitterness in my heart and tears in his eyes.
Please God I do not change me, they can not be right.
I
should believe in miracles and keep Faith. I meet a nice guy and we
start talking in English. Suddenly
we realize that we are both French - oh la France! its
camembert and red wine! –
Even
if I’m not patriotic, it's good. He
sells me a ticket for the 10th and I buy one for tonight at the box
Office. He tells me that Bad Segeberg and Loreley are in West Germany
and not East. Of course it was stupid, it does not preach Christ in a
socialist country. Karl
Marx is the Antichrist.
I
look at the back stage door, there is no security but many people. I
see a white bus, which is progressing slowly, I recognize the
musicians and wave them hello. Young people around me to take me for
a “nut”. Do they expect a procession of limousines? This
is Bob Dylan, fools! Not the Rolling Stones. The
bus made a detour and back. The
driver obviously does not know where the entrance is. Fortunately
he did not mistake the train station for the concert hall! They
pass again, I salute again. Meyers
is in front, behind Tim smiled. I
do not see Bob. Finally they come.
The
concert begins half an hour late. Four
gospels and the band begins "Gotta serve somebody." The
lights are on. Shit!
Dylan is not there. The
musicians play the intro again and again. Bobby runs from nowhere,
rushes to take his guitar on stage, crashes against the microphone
-he could not see- and in a breath begins "You May Be an
ambassador .."
wearing a short sleeve shirt, the same
as it was in San Francisco in 80. You see I know everything about the
man. Soon I will tell you how many sugar spoons he puts in his tea. I
can tell you that he did not quit smoking a very American brand. Ah
Satan is strong! And
I did not (yet) search through his garbage. I'm sorry for the
newspapers (bad) but I do not know how much he pays his musicians.
According to their face, they do not seem happy to play with
Zim.
He,
tonight, is a good mood. Good show. The
audience applauds in rhythm and Dylan feeling “the spirit blowing
on the clay” begins to clap and to hop from one side to the other
of the stage, chats with the singer and sings a new song "Jesus
is the one ", collecting sticks and giving the rhythm "
that's not Rockefeller ".... that's not Rooooosevelt .... Jesus
is the one ".... then set up on his keyboard for a beautiful "
Heart of Mine ". You know, Bob, how angelic and fun you can be
when you want. How many songs did they rehearse? The creation of this
man knows no bounds: and unlimited patience from the musicians ready
to hang behind the strange Boss mood.
I
make my way out, just in time to greet the bus and the company
already receding.
And
enthusiasm falls a little when I see myself forced to find a place to
sleep. The
grass is wet. It's dark. Oh
my God! “ Am
I here all alone? "I
am glad that the nights are short. Have you heard of
the Midnight sun? It
is July 24th at the top North of Scandinavia.
The
rain that falls wake me up at four in the morning. I
fold my tent in a hurry. The next day half asleep I take the train to
Oslo and I plant myself in front of the hotel. I meet another "crazy
nut" that has been there since three in the morning. We
stay there all day. Musicians
and roadies come and go, but no Bobby no where to be seen. At 18:00
p.m. we cross the street and we await the release of the matador. The
bus is here and one by one the musicians are engulfed in it. Meyers
is also there, more crazy than ever. This
guy is a machine! everyone
is waiting patiently. Bob's
best friend is also waiting with a guitar. 18.30
p.m. Meyers suddenly rushes out, grabs the guitar and the man in the
process. He disappears into the bus pulling away, shouting to our
attention
"he's going to take a helicopter"
(??).
We do not believe our eyes or our ears and we think,
naive, that they will turn around. This ‘circus’ for three poor
fans who were there, and not dangerous, even without cameras. I will
be told later that Bob was on the bus arriving at the hall. What
a trick! And
what a great paranoia if it was to avoid us. But why so much
inhumanity? Why not ask us politely to move away? Safety
they say. Security
my a .s.
They
push just the people to do crazy stuff like this ‘crackpot’ who
started drumming on the bus as it pulled away, at the risk of being
crushed. Take a helicopter? How about a rocket? Meyers! you take us
for idiots? constipated Businessman!
We run to the station. The
next train is at 7:37 p.m., it's too late. We run to the next
station. Just enough time to jump into a wagon. My friend hides in
the luggage holder to avoid paying. We arrive 5 minutes late. The
guards are diligent and make me open my backpack
"no
bottle? No cameras? No magneto?.”
”No, just my color
T.V. and my fridge!”
I leave with regret two cans of Coke.
But they let me get in with my tent pegs. Because metal tubes thrown
on the stage it is not dangerous, perhaps?
”When you're
stupid, you're stupid” to paraphrase Brassens.
Bob is already on
stage. I feel like crying when he coos "And you break just like
a little girl" From where I am, He does not look very fit. Not
very "full health". Klydie seems to encourage him with
sweet looks. No smile, no bitter word. A Dylan not aggressive, he’s
not a Dylan “well in his shoes”. And I wonder: "Why this
tour? To pay his taxes?".
After a night half outside and in
half in the tent, I find myself at this famous hotel. I do not know
what to expect. I heard rumors that he would make a sightseeing tour
of the city.
I will take the only ship to Copenhagen at 17:00 p.m.
tonight. The hotel told us that the Band left at 11:00 a.m.. I see
Meyers moving around. At 3.30 p.m. the bags are ready to go
somewhere. The 5:00 p.m.boat? I wait until 4:00 p.m. The singers are
out. Meyers looks at his watch every minute. Dylan is never on
time.
I remember a day in 79 when someone had left a note on the
door of his studio,
"Bob your plane leaves at 11:00
a.m., there will be a lot of traffic, go early."
Without
knowing if Bob in question is Dylan, a friend and I are driving full
speed to the airport. Locating the plane taking off at 11:00 a.m. we
settle in the waiting room. The plane leaves without Dylan. We think
that the message was not for him. When walking down the hall, who we
meet? Mr Dylan in question, dressed in the Lucky Luke outfit. We
follow him. He is surprised that the plane did not wait for him and
turns around. He inquires at the counter for the next flight, and
within a second disappears from my sight. We find him back in the
studio before following again to the airport where this time he flew
to Phoenix where the next show was taking place.
Back to Oslo:
Meyers is still pacing. I say goodbye to my friend who gives me some
‘stolen’ food. It is 4:45 p.m. when I got into the boat and I saw
the bus nowhere. Shortly after departure, I'm starting the
inspection. I see who? Not Bob, it would be too good, but his
inseparable friend and photographer who talks to the man with gray
hair. They found a third stooge and plots here. Have they seen me? I
feel that there is nothing to be learned from these crooks. They will
do anything to push me away from the Boss.
Howard Alk -
photographer - told me later that he took pictures of me on the boat
and invited me to go see Bob in his studio. Is this a joke? In any
case I will not. I feel a little better anyway. Bob is on board for
sure. To see him or not doesn’t matter. His spirit floats on the
waves. I put my notes up to date and that night I cry a lot. Of
course I'm just crazy, of course he does not care about me, but I
wish it was HE who made the decision to reject me and not
parasites.
I remember that guy Larry Loman, a reporter for Rolling
Stone magazine, who was tired of being throw out from anywhere and be
treated like a dog. Finally he spoke directly to Bob, who kindly took
him under his wing. He added him in his Band by paying him day by
day, and he even gave interviews. So who is paranoid? Bob or his
henchmen? What do they think I can do? Jump on him? I
could have done it much earlier. I did not look
like a groupie either: it has been two
weeks since I’ve taken a shower. So why all
this circus? What are their relationships with
him anyway? They are just employees. It's
too bad that the servants themselves think
more important than the King.
Walking around the
boat, I see sitting on the floor and waiting in the
dark Klydie, and a minus guy wrapped
in a hooded jogging and wearing clear
glasses. I walk away quietly. The henchmen are
not far, but I did nothing, so they do not care about me
XI
Copenhagen:
Meyers is looking for something. A
bus? I
wait and identifies a group of people who advance. Bob is in the
middle: white pants, black nylon jacket, dark glasses, a large woolen
cap covering all hair. Useless!
young people have found him. But
with great respect, --considering their age- they will not budge from
their positions. It is true that with the “gorillas” around, it
is not discrete, the descent of the King. They show that they
protect, but do they really protect? He looks so small, so fragile in
the midst of these giants! Here is Dylan? The super-star? He slips
into the car that waits with Klydie and important staff. I tell
myself that Klydie must be someone special in the Bob’s eyes. I
tremble a bit and my heart is pounding. All
those sleepless nights to see a little guy gets into a car. I'm
really crazy!
The
search for ticket starts again. I
forgot it was Sunday, everything is closed, the change too. I walk
for miles to reach Central Station and get Denmark money. ‘The dust
of rumors’ is floating in the air ; there will be three concerts,
they’re sold out, you can not have a ticket. I have heard this song
before and I do not care.
I meet with Fred Tackett,
guitarist and pianist Willy Smith, sitting at a bar. I
give them something for Bob. I
do not think He’ll get it but I would like to be friendly. I
thought the musicians were clever people: Fred is as cold as an
iceberg!
Of course I spotted the hotel, I just followed Meyers
from the pier. But
that does not do any good.
At
the entrance to the hall, for the first time, I see people with
Christian crosses. A typical Jewish guy with an American accent is
wearing a badge ; "Jesus saves". I
ask if he is a Jew for Jesus
"yes, like Dylan".
Does
he have the power to convert?
"Do not follow leaders"
he said in the 60's. Does
He still believe it, or would he like to see his power coming
back?
Young people here seem so selfish. They
do not even share a joint. Me,
what I want is a piece of bread. I'm sick. Drinking
this infamous water in the train stations! My eyelids feel like lead.
But who cares about me? That's
my fault. Voila! Well
done with your stupid ideas!
It was sold out but still I get
a seat ten rows from the stage and and the encore run to the front.
The dark glasses make a screen, no way to know who he looks at!
I
pull up my tent in the middle of a soaked field. It will rain the
whole night and seven in the morning, freezing , I hitchhike.
I
turn around the hotel before I walk away, disappointed. Nothing is
moving.
I
unfold my tent on the lawn of a park and read a book "Steve Mac
Qeen, featuring the legend of a rebel." One
more!
I buy a program with photos from 78 and a newspaper. I
do not understand what they say, but journalists have confused Steve
Ripley and Fred Tacket. If they do not even know the names of
musicians, I wonder about the value of their comments!
I meeting two Britons. They
tell me that the economic situation
has deteriorated terribly for some time and that
people are increasingly hard. They want to leave
France. Good luck!
I took the train to Bad
Segeberg with two changes. I missed the train in
Hamburg. Shit! the drag again.
XII
Bad
Segeberg: for the first time I feel among my kind. The guys with
sleeping bags, guitars and harmonicas sing Dylan. None
of the "upper class" I met so far. For
the first time I eat my fill for next to nothing. For
the first time people smile at me. They
do not seem to speak much English, but at least that of Dylan. It's
amazing how many people have learned English with BOB. English
teacher?
I
buy two tickets for two outdoor concerts. It's
raining. Always something wrong. Up,
down, up, down, I'm sick of these feelings. What
am I doing here? The
others sing, laugh, drink, I feel the urge to cry.
I run
forward, as in Toulouse as in Paris. By listening well, I do not like
the songs of these freaks, old story of the 60’s. No
new ones, no one of their own creation. A
tribute to Mr. Dylan, something new? They
just looked a little flustered. I
have spoken to anyone all day and they trample my bag and they walk
on my feet without excuses
I
look dead but I'm wide awake. I
do not like their language, it sounds hard. And they speak, they
speak, can not they think? I
hate the crowd. Any crowd ... as I need my solitude.
Almost
an hour late. No
choir, but He starts dry "Saved" and again the dragons
jacket. I do not miss anything, singing and dancing. I
request songs "Lenny Bruce", "Watered Down
Love". Photographers
near - but what they do at the forefront these cons? - Look at me a
dirty look, I disturb. They
take pictures that no one ever sees anyway. Then
scam! Go hunt
rabbits and partridge. Bob
is so pleased with the public that he throws his harmonica at the
end. So
long Bob ...
I pull up my tent in a field of wheat, it
rains. I'm
soaked and dirty. I
do not expect help, I’m even ashamed of what I do. I
made myself a burlap bag in which I had written proudly BOB DYLAN
1981 TOUR and in red "journalist". Poor
me, poor wretch, I now return the bag upside down. This
is not the public I expected. Is
it the right star?
Good people in a good consumer
society. But
this is not my audience, then! Perhaps
that is what you want, man! After
all they buy your tickets, they know your old tunes, they know that
you've crashed on a motorcycle at 66 ... blah blah blah, the
beautiful history.
No one has seen 'Renaldo and Clara'!
I stuff myself with
food all day and again Bad Segeberg. I'm
just in front of the microphone with, next to me, an enthusiastic
Italian. He’s
got “badges” everywhere. The
show is one of the best, two hours and a half, the audience sings and
dances. Dylan
is in a good mood. Someone
from the staff greets me. Sympathy?
Challenge?
I
heard that yesterday the King was surprised at the good reception of
the public. After the reserved British and cold Scandinavian, such a
welcome was unexpected.
At
the end, I wait, stunned, for the crowd to scatter. I
had put my backpack at the station and it is closed until tomorrow
morning. A
blonde chick from New York is led by a guy on back stage. What about
me? I
find myself thinking. But
who are you to think so? Back stage? And then what? You, you're a
fan, you stay behind the barricade ....
My head reasons but
my heart bleeds and I burst into tears. No one should let his
emotions override his head. “Love is a four-letter word”!
I
try to sleep on the floor, without sleeping bags. But it is cold! So
I walk until 5:00 a.m.. I
meet a guy quite ordinary: short hair, well-dressed, going to
Hamburg, like me. I
told him my story, without conviction. He
is so surprised that he decides to take a day without pay, gives me a
breakfast and invites me to take a shower at his home. I
go there. Tonight there is no show.
This
is a great community house with about eight people, cats, dogs. Home!
Sweet home! I take a bath, wash my socks, finally! I eat well and
warm myself. I rest, we are talking about ... Dylan. How
He looks frail and without health, what the public expects of him and
what he wants to give. The public expects the 'old' Dylan and he
tries to stay young in the game, “in””, to question himself all
the time, He and his Art. Now
he needs to believe in something other than tequila and "chicks".
Of the eight guys here, only one went to see Dylan. Another
worked as a roadie for Santana and saw so many concerts he’s fade
up ; Showbiz,
so many people focused on one person is too much for him. After
all, he is honest, he did not go see just because Dylan is Dylan. He
didn’t turn him down because of his conversion. No. He found
something else, that's all.
I
feel too comfortable here, I want to leave. If I stay longer, I will
never have the courage to go back on the road. I jump quickly into
the next train. Thank you guys for that little heat, it warmed my
heart.
XIII
Manheim?
Shit! I missed my station. I had to stop in Frankfurt. I slept
too well. I'm coming anyway by hitch-hiking. I am surprised to see
the hundreds of “Bedouins” who already pulled up their tents.
Lots from sausage stalls to T-shirt. What a business! They swallow
beer as milk. They look at me when I ask for a Coke. Beer makes me
sleep, it's really not the time.
Loreley open-air concert. I'm
in front. The gray hair-man opened the guitar boxes in the front row.
He’s looking for a bomb?
Not need for a bomb to kill a
man, lock him in his solitude, and he destroys himself.
The
guy asks me if I am not tired of seeing Dylan. I do not like Bruce
Springsteen? Who does he think am I? A groupie of rock and roll
stars?
Do they understand him these parasites? Not even.
This guy has the nerve to pass me a badge out dated, "a
souvenir". Motherfu… go! He asked me my address
"we'll
send you an autographed picture."
I see Rory Gallagher
on back stage door. Some young people ask him for an autograph. I do
not flinch. I like him though, Rory. I saw him twice. Super, super.
But the King is gone. I'm sorry for Gallagher.
I am furious, the
audience was ugly tonight, I enjoyed myself singing. They looked at
me like I was a wild beast.
I pull up my tent. It's like
Woodstock, less the spirit of brotherhood. A masquerade. I still have
that damn badge stuck on my pants and suddenly I got a few
considerations, they understand me when I speak English, I am gently
served a coke. Fools!
I hitch hike to go down the hill. Thirty
cars pass, do not stop, "Do you have Any Love to share?"
I
still believe in things like purity, innocence and tenderness, but
where are they hiding? I think of my darling. How alone should he
feel! What inner strength he must have! I hate the popularity that
makes him out of reach. But without it I would have never known him.
Vicious circle.
We
are anonymous and we fight to be someone,
We
become someone. We get “fans”
The greater the "fans"
the more we are hiding from them
More
people around us, less friends to rely on.
Who to believe
when we are rich and influential? Easily influenced too.
XIV
Munich:
I take a great breakfast after a good night sleep on the train.
Last
night in Manheim,
I
was in the front row, standing here for three hours and pushed and
pushed back here! my legs were like cotton, but I stuck it out. There
was a lot of GI's in civilian clothes.
I borrow the binoculars
from my neighbor and see close-up Dylan. He sees me too and take two
steps back, the eyes into space, without grining. He looks often at
the singers and especially Klydie as if searching for comfort. The
public is good, warmed by the bottles of beer, rum, Shnap. Some moody
spirit as well; we’re crashed into the barriers in the front. All
the same, the atmosphere is good, except that they boo the gospel. It
ends without incident and I go out just in time to see the bus
pulling away. Furnished as a hotel room with the even a T.V.
I
head for the station and meet four French from Stasbourg who hitch
hiked to come and see Dylan. They tell me that one of them was
stopped at the entrance by the police and searched. They can not
leave us alone! At one o'clock in the morning re-cops at the station
where we’re asked for our train tickets. The guys don’t have any.
"This
is not a hotel, out!"
We
know that this was not a hotel, it's cold. Outside it's worse, it
rains. I believe they will never return. Too bad for Bob.
Munich
is a big city. I hate big cities. There are “pests” everywhere,
the streets full of despair and criminals on the watch, not one
idealistic Anarchist, no, just poor bums that would kill me, me who
have almost nothing, to still my backpack. The shame of a supposedly
civilized society.
Its falls “cats and dogs”. Heavy rain that
penetrates you to the bones the first time. The show is at Olympia
Hallen, the great modern stuff they had built for the Olympic Games.
There’s not a cat. With such a weather! I'll get my ticket to the
Box Office, located completely opposite. I am drenched when I go to a
cafe to take something warm, it's almost that the server does put me
out.
At 8:30 p.m. I advanced to the stage door, and miracle! The
guy responsible for the safety of Boss recognizes me and brings me
through the back stage. He leads me directly in front of the stage
and recommends me not to buy tickets anymore, he’ll let me get in
for free. I am so happy that I want to kiss this colossus. His name
is Jim Callaghan, and I never thought that a bodyguard could be so
nice. An angel. People around looks at me with contempt. Fuck!
The
public is reserved. Maybe because it's a big city and they have seen
another. The concert is more truncated ; no more gospel at the
beginning, no more words between songs, it’s a rush. But Bob is in
good spirits, he smiles and even hops on stage. At the end suddenly,
Meyers recognizes me - he was also the road manager in '79, he was he
who would give me the twenty dollars that I had refused - anyway
there is nothing to expect, he’s a paranoid manager.
On leaving
I salute the bus and the company in pouring rain.
I know
what to expect ; it's a night under the stars. Nothing for my tent.
At four, along with other lost souls, we make a makeshift bed on the
floor. At four o'clock in the morning we wake up, soaked, not by rain
but by a turnstile of water that a fool has connected to clear us
out. Sprinkle in such a weather! What a joke! My sleeping bag is
soaked. Shit, shit, shit! At six o'clock we all meet for breakfast in
the station café.
I stroll in Munich and bought a souvenir for
dear Bobby - that he will probably not receive -. Anyway he received
so many gifts that he would need a whole plane to bring back
everything to the country. Oh well, I please myself!
Tonight I see
the concert for free. To my disappointment, I'm not the only one.
Since they spotted me a while ago why they didn’t help me before?
What does it cost them to open the doors? It’s also true that
I did not ask. I didn’t want to be pushy. But I did not want to be
like that girl in the "Rolling Thunder Review" saying,
"Damn! How many guys I have to ‘fu…’ to get to Dylan?".
Probably all, and reaching Bob, she was not even sure. I knew it.
Bob
has a sixteen young singer on stage. After the song he asks if
there's a producer who would be interested. Me, the song, I didn’t
find it too great.
He seems terribly concerned about his safety ;
from the stage, between two songs, he waved to a security guy to
watch a girl in front. Does he think she’s got a revolver?
Well!
The search of the guitar cases in Loreley, the search in Manheim and
now Munich. Would he have been threatened? It is true that Lennon's
assassination is not that far.
In
the afternoon, in order to avoid the rain, I was in the Olympic pool
and I
I
met a U.S. citizen on vacation, he was a Bruce Springsteen fan. He
even made the trip New York-Munich to see him oversee. I thought at
this time "they are crazy these Americans! "He told me that
Bruce is super nice, he talks to his fans after the concerts, we can
meet in movie theaters and he has even been invited by
a fan’s mother.
What an anti-Dylan!
I'll
never be happy? I go in free today, this saves me a lot of money. Yet
I do not care, until now I made it good. Sleeping out every night and
eating on the run, I had money to buy tickets until the end of the
Tour. It became such a habit looking for a ticket. I would have
preferred to be invited by the Boss himself, as in San
Francisco where Meyers had said:
"It’s a ticket from
Bob in person"
or
in Santa Monica where he told me
"sure,
I'll get you one."
Here
it’s to Jim that I owe everything, no matter what, because he said
"you
know I let you in for free, it costs me nothing",
of
course, but the (good )
thought counts. A
opening door is more fun than a door slammed in your face.
Bob
is in a foul mood tonight. His
arrogance is such that he looks horrible. The
devil in person. I
would not want to be around.
The
station is closed. Shit!
even in Munich. I try in vain to sleep in the front seat of a
van. It's
cold. I’ve
had enough ; "you look so fine first, and then just like a
ghost."
The
train leaves at 6:45 a.m. after a breakfast on the run. Here
we go again. I
have a wagon all to myself and took the opportunity to extend my
clothes to dry them until an ass… comes. “We share?”.
XV
Vienna
12.00 a.m. I do a quick toilet before a ride into town. Sightseeing
commentary ; they explain that there are 360 churches, one for
each day. We visit the Schönbrunn Palace with all the history. I do
not remember anything except that the castle was beautiful. I feel
something about so much wealth for the Kings and Queens when the
farmers .. And this is not just history. Not much changed.
PLAYBOY:
"What do you think of the relationship of the artist with the
money?"
Bob Dylan: "The myth of the starving artist is a
myth. The big bankers and big ladies who buy the art began. They want
to just keep artists under their thumb. Who said that an artist must
not have money? Look Picasso. The artist who is starving, starving
for those around him want to. You do not have to starve to be a good
artist. All you need is Love, inside view, and a strong point of
view. And you have to fight the corruption. Not compromise. Look at
Matisse, he was a banker. In any case there are other things that
enrich than money or poverty. "
A new stadium? Bob has
never been so athletic, or the location is cheaper? It is small,
perhaps 10,000 people. Jim, my friend, let me go first. I do such a
fuss that Bob finally recognizes me and greets me. That is, he points
at me, a way to say
"you,
I've seen you somewhere."
Pulling away, the bus driver
avoided a catastrophe ; a fan is almost under the bus. So many
‘freaks’ I met! People ask me if I take photos. Oh no! I’m not
a fan of the click click, it’s the music I love, the memories are
in my head that I put on paper in my moments of solitude. They should
find me "not normal" as much as I find them "outsiders"!
I
realize that what I want is to be on the other side of the barricade,
on stage, to scream to them that their are robots just stuck in their
daily routine.
I
walk in Vienna, my train is not due until 8:10 p.m. I go into the
church of St. Stephan. Why this one rather than another? I burn a
candle for Bobby. Suddenly, the 'spirit' falls on me, and I pray
someone, whoever he is, to protect this man who so badly needs it. To
give him health and energy and a bit of happiness he deserves. It
would have been a synagogue or a Buddhist temple, I would have done
the same prayer, I did it so many times just by looking at the
stars.
"May God bless and keep you Always and May you stay
forever young ".
I lie down in a park some time before I find
a place on a crowded train.
XVI
9:45
a.m. Basel, Switzerland. It
rains, it rains. My god! the
deluge!-already?-I have no rain coat. I
walk into a store, and choose one and go out. I
buy chocolate in Switzerland, and it's expensive. I seat on the
terrace of a cafe and perceive between the drops Steve Ripley the
guitarist. I follow him up to the entrance of a big hotel ; it’s
the den of the tiger. I bought for Bob red roses - flower of the
poet, the female sex symbol - and give them to one of the guys for
Bob. The guy is very happy to see me going out, he was so scared that
I bump in the Boss himself.
I
walk away from the hotel and cross a big bridge. I
stop there and watch the river flow; empty. When
I turn around I see the gray-hair man, the photographer, and
Bob smiling at me in the middle; wool hat, black nylon jacket and
frayed old jeans, a wooden umbrella at his arm. He asks me if I'm
happy with my trip and if I understand English. (?). I
choke by answering
"yes,
of course"
What
a question? Did he ever receive my notes, my mail to the studio,
didn’t he remember that I talked to him in Paris, San Francisco,
in Santa Monica? Or
is it just a way of saying something, like in San Francisco, when
looking at my sneakers, he had strangely made the remark "I had
the same for five years."
In any case it does not seem
bothered at all by me, and I'm happy. Do my patience pay a
little?
Of
course I try to follow him. The
fool guy in dark glasses threatens me
"stop
or you'll make him uncover."
Nobody
pays attention to us, I could stir up the whole street, but wisely -
for Bob - I retire and return to the hotel door. He will eventually
return. I
swallow my anger. This guy, I want to crash on him. What
crap! I had the chance to do a bit of road with Dylan by far, yes,
but for me what ecstasy! Stop
where he stops, look at what he looks, etc.. I
seat there, lost in my thoughts when I see what C. tracking
back the King. Bob
touches me with his umbrella and whistles softly to make me look
up. He
smiles again. I
melt, I feel like a little girl in fairy tale with a Charming Prince
who had given me a candy. He
gets in, I stay sited. Maybe
I missed my chance. If I had told him
"Bob,
can I talk to you for a moment?".
Would
he have asked me to the ball? He probably would have shown his
businessman face and would have said
"I
have much to do."
I
found Jim in the evening and Willy who laughs to think that I am at
every concert, and Steve asks me my badge, Patrick the tour manager
greets me. I found, they suddenly became human. Touch the King and
the court is at your feet.
I am in front and I dance and sing. The
public, I forget! I feel in the other side. It feels good.
Bob
puts on his glasses at the end and recognizes me. Jim confidently
gives me the name and telephone number of the hotel in Avignon. I
have to contact him there. He
recommends, however, to say nothing, both to the public and to the
security. It's
just between us, it might cause him some problem. I leave with a
light heart and mind and I'm happy to see the bus that pulls out. I
wave good bye. This gesture I do from the beginning, without a second
thought. The crowd is so dense that I pass the bus while walking.
Suddenly someone calls me by name, the front bus door is open and
someone invites me to climb. I don’t believe it but I get in. Bob
is sitting three rows back on the right side wing. Dark glasses,
stoic, he says:
"We
will drive you where you want, your hotel?"
I
say
"oh
no! Only the train station."
I
sit on the left, two rows in front of him. I turned my back to him.
The guy(Bob Myers), that may have been worried that I turn to discuss
wit Bob, starts to babble nonsense. I tell them that Jim is an angel,
I am Gypsy ...
And
Bob is so close and yet so far. They'll eventually ride to the hotel
'Les 3 Rois' ("three kings"). I say goodbye to Bob.
"Goodbye"
he
replies dryly. He had already forgotten?
I
reach by foot the train station that is closed ....
At
six o'clock I get my sleeping bag and lie down on the floor. The cops
shake me. Oh yes! I know. How come so many cops at the stations to
shake the pour souls in the morning?
XVII
Eight
hours train to Avignon. A big crowd. Thousands of people.
I
called Jim. He will be there to at 11:00 a.m. he answers me
spontaneously. The roadies bus is parked right in front of the hotel.
What discretion! The freaks who pass by comment :
"this
is the Dylan place."
I
found a campsite. I return to the hotel around 10:30 p.m. The
photographer (Howard Alk) is there. He first tries to get read of me
and tells me not to hang out because the concert does not happen
here. And then he changes his mind and just talks to me nicely. He
tells me that Bob is stuck at the station and with this circus,
musicians, suitcases, he is afraid of detection. I think if he wears
a wool hat, it is rather sure, because the temperature here is around
100°F. He continues
"Bob likes what you do, you follow the
tour and see every concert without trying to contact the man himself,
without asking for tickets, no rides on the bus. In 19 years, it’s
the first time we see that. And you know, before we allow you to
approach, we studied you well."
Oh
yea! Because they let me approach?
Bob
enjoys?
"He
likes when on the boat deck you did not bother, he needed some
privacy ".
If
I had done anything anyway they were ready to jump on me. But I'm not
stupid. I understood for privacy. I did nothing out of respect for
the man. He repeats four times
"Bob
appreciates."
A
cup of tea, Honey, I would not have refused.
“One
day maybe
Who
knows, Baby
I’ll
be crying and coming to you.”
But
I firmly believe that the best is when Dylan is on stage “stark
naked” and so badly pure!
He finally arrives, greets me with
his umbrella and a smile that I can not forget : frank and friendly,
capsizing the heart.
I
found my Prince Callaghan asking me to go shopping for his two
daughters. He gives me a handful of 100F bills to buy
T-shirts. Is he naive or he completely trusts me? An Angel that guy!
"What a sweet heart like you doin 'in a dump like this?".
It
is the Avignon festival. Thousands of tourists, not all for Bob. I go
through the stands, meet Fred Tacket, Steve Ripley, Jim Keltner –
drummer - but Bob, no! Is he super-disguised or is he afraid of being
seen by all these "hippies". I've never seen so many
backpackers, beggars, tramps, smugglers, smoking ... Dylanics Avignon
is a beautiful city. Too bad he has to be sequestered. The weather is
great but an "idiot wind" is blowing.
We are three
Fans walking toward the stadium, we share a snack. Jim is looking for
me everywhere (riding a bike) and brings me in the front row. The
public looks at me with dirty looks. The stadium is already full. I
lie saying I’ve been given a pass.
Two
chords from the Band and bam! No more electricity.
Without
panicking the musicians pick up some percussion sticks and begin to
make the crowd wait. Dylan does not seem angry. Yet he left the stage
after some time. Mr President declares that there was a short circuit
(someone has been electrocuted). I will learn by the press that a
crazy fan climbed along the fence to enter without paying and has
touched the high voltage cable. That night a young girl will be
killed in a fatal fall! Who is responsible?
Don't
we need, here, the cops that bother us in the stations?
Not
that I'm against the free entrances, but not at the risk of one’s
life anyway.
An
hour later, they start again.
They
push behind me, people faint, and the sound is awful. I rush out with
a farewell gift for Bob. They have already left. Shit! I'm afraid
they have gone directly to the airport and I missed the farewell.
I
call Jim. He's not here but tomorrow he wants to be woken up at 7:00
a.m. I did not ask but the accuracy is great.
I
wake up. Did I even slept? It is 6:00 a.m..
I
go to the hotel and find Jim in the lobby.
"May
I say goodbye to Bob?"
"I
don’t think so since he leaves in five minutes."
When
Bob appears, he offers a leather jacket to Jim, who gives me his
"stage pass" as souvenir. I ask Bob if he agrees to take my
gift,
"Yes,
thank you."
He
turns his head shyly, he looks like he does not know where to hide,
he faces me again: "What you gonna do now?"
He
says softly,
"I
don't know" .
The
atmosphere is strange. He looks like a ghost ready to faint, a
vaporous man, unreal, inaccessible, unpredictable,
incomprehensible.
"I
follow you in your dreams,Mr Tambourine Man, to find myself hazy in a
world of clouds. Nothing is real.
You make me hit the road in
search of values that don't exist, those feelings with which I
must fight.
You
show me one path and then you make me doubt, you lead me through the
labyrinth of your mind. Are they right, them, who think you're an
imposter? I do not think so. But it gives them an excuse to keep one
foot in reality, their reality, the reality of every day life with
which we must live because we're not YOU.
To understand someone
you must put yourself in his shoes. Either one dies because it is
impossible to be someone other than oneself, it is impossible to be
YOU, it is even impossible to define you. When one comes back, from
the road trip, each and every one, one is definitely changed and
damaged : one has not reached one's goal and one can not go back to
his starting point. One will float between genius and mediocrity,
between a world that belongs only to the "great" and a
world of daily reality. Those who end up in asylums are those who
never realized their dream and still deny reality.
The
ones who will never reach the 'unknown'. Rimbaud's
'inconnu'. "
Bob
(or his ghost) hops from the hotel lobby to a bus that was waiting at
the door ; silhouette fragile and nervous. Klydie enters the bus,
waving to me. Thank you, it's a very friendly gesture. Bob is
standing by and seems to discuss with Klydie. When the bus pulls away
Bob turns to me and waves goodbye. Farewell Bobby! or goodbye.
I
LOVE YOU AND I HAD REASON TO BELIEVE IN YOU.
AGAINST
THE LEGEND, AGAINST THE MYTH, AGAINST SARCASM AND LAUGHTER, AGAINST
VIOLENCE PHYSICAL AND MORAL, COLD, HUNGER, AGAINST FEAR, AGAINST
FATIGUE, AGAINST TEARS, AGAINST INCOMPREHENSION AND INDIFFERENCE .
DYLAN
YOU ARE AND DYLAN YOU WILL STAY.
