Bob Dylan is Dead
“I’ll take a pint of the Wild Turkey and a pint of the 100-proof SoCo, please.” I told the grey-haired black guy behind the counter.
He started putting the bottles in individual brown paper bags and then stopped and peered at me over the rims of his glasses. “You sure you don’t want a couple of fifths? You’re a pretty big guy.”
“No, I need them to fit in my back pocket… I’m going to the Dylan concert tonight and I don’t want to get repeatedly raped for cocktails,” I replied while counting the bills in my wallet, “but thanks for your concern.”
“Dylan?” said the old man with a quizzical look. “Bob Dylan?”
“Yep, Bob Dylan. You know, good ol’ Robert Zimmerman.”
“I thought Bob Dylan was dead.”
“I have an $85 ticket in my pocket that says otherwise.”
“You should probably return that ticket, son. Bob Dylan is dead.” He said assuredly. His confidence was slightly disconcerting, but I swept the ominous thoughts from the forefront, grabbed my bottles and turned to leave without a word.
I slipped the bottles into my backpack as I walked out of the liquor store. I paused for a moment to look at the metro schedule on the large piece of plastic protruding form the sidewalk before heading down the large bank of escalators to the left. I couldn’t keep the macabre scenarios from running through my head, most involving tour bus crashes on the way down from Berkeley and crazed fans on murder/suicide missions. Granted, Bob Dylan wasn’t exactly a young man anymore. But dead? I looked down at my ticket. It couldn’t be true. Not today.
The subway platform was crowded with early afternoon commuters. Mostly young black men in suits and Mexican women. The redline toward Union Station pulled up right on schedule. Four and a half minutes and I would be in Hollywood. There was one open seat on my car; right next to a dejected Asian guy in a tan suit, staring at his cell phone, fighting the urge to cry as he shook his head back and forth, mumbling “No…no, no….” in a barely audible whisper. I elected to stand.
“Hey man! You wanna buy some oranges?” There was a tiny Mexican carrying a huge bag of oranges stumbling down the aisle toward me. I got both my headphones in my ears just as he staggered past, swaying from side to side under the weight of his livelihood. I closed my eyes and bobbed my head with the music flooding into my ears: When, she said don’t waste, your words they’re just lies…
A couple of minutes later, as the train pulled into the station at Hollywood and Highland, I took one last look at the procession of sorrow-filled faces lining the rows of my car before stepping out onto the platform. No one was reading a book or a magazine, just staring blankly out the window and into the blackness. The riding the subway was always depressing for me—like Bukowski said, “death before death is sickening.”
Ascending the last set of escalators to street level, I lit a spliff and inhaled deeply. Then braced myself as I exited the subway tunnel and was ushered into the crowd of tourists. There were old ladies hunched over taking pictures of the stars on the sidewalk, whole families dressed in their swimsuits and couples with matching Tommy Bahama shirts and cameras strung around their necks excitedly watching the street performers .
“Oh darling! Look at that one over there! He’s dancing just like those people on TV! Come on, I have to get a picture, Grandpa will never believe this!” I heard a fat woman in a pink wide-brim visor say as she scurried past me.
I took one last hit off my spliff just as I saw the 185 approaching, made a dash through the crowd of ubiquitous Midwesterners and hopped onto the bus. I exhaled the last of my smoke right in the driver’s face, but he didn’t even look up. He was hunched over the steering wheel, his gazed fixed upon the Hollywood Boulevard traffic in front of him.
Three stops later, at Fairfax and Melrose, I got off the bus and waited for my ride. It was 4 o’clock. The concert started at seven-thirty. In a little over five hours, I’d be staring at Bob Dylan. Seeing Dylan live was something I never took for granted, no matter how many times it happened. It was always a spiritual experience, seemingly tailor-fitted to my current existential crisis, always full of wisdom and elucidation. In short, it was sacred.
I was snapped out of my reverie by the blasting horn of the sliver Audi A4 as it skidded up to the curb in front of me. “Rainy Day Women #12 and #36” was blaring out of the speakers as Chris leaned across the passenger seat and yelled over the music, “Yo bro! You ready for this or what?!”
2.
We weaved in and out of traffic for a couple of minutes and then we were parked outside the Hollywood Palladium, collecting our supplies for the concert. Along with my two pints, I had three joints in an empty cigarette case. Chris brought two water bottles filled with vodka and a splash of orange juice for the line. As we headed around to the front of the theater to get in line we passed the side entrance where the buses were parked. There was a small line of groupies waiting at the side door behind a velvet rope. It was just like at any other concert except these women were all in their 50s—at least. It wasn’t anything new, I was becoming used to the fact that, besides a couple of kids with their parents, my friends and I were usually the youngest people at the Dylan concert.
Just as we passed the grandma groupies, a thin, diseased-looking man holding a canvas jumped out from behind the last tour bus.
“Hey,” He said with a slight tremble in his voice. “You guys have anyway you can get this to the Man?” he held up his canvas and revealed an amazing black and white watercolor of Bob Dylan on stage with his guitar, overlaid on what appeared to be sheet music and the lyrics to Forever Young.
“Damn,” I mumbled as I stared at the painting. “That’s pretty good. You want to give that to Bob?”
“Yeah, do you guys have anyway to get it to him?”
Chris laughed and offered, “We wish. Were about to go stand in line with everybody else.”
“Why don’t you try giving it to one of those groupies over there.” I suggested as we continued walking. He muttered something about stuck-up old bitches and turned back toward the parking lot.
“Good luck,” I called to him over my shoulder but he was already busy approaching the next group of people.
It was only half past four when we reached the line but there were already at least 300 people ahead of us. We settled into our spot, got out our water bottles full of vodka and watched the rush hour traffic roll by on Sunset Boulevard. The faces reflected the same emotion as those in the subway car—defeat. They were like mechanical sheep of all different shapes and colors being ushered down a concrete ravine. I switched my position so my back was facing the street and fired up a spliff.
In front of us was a lonely looking guy with shaggy brown hair holding two Dylan t-shirts he had just bought from a Mexican. He was staring at the floor in front of him.
“Hey man, you wanna hit this?” I asked, extending the spliff.
“No, I better not, “He replied meekly, “my mom is going to meet me here any minute.”
Chris snorted. “You’re going to see Bob Dylan with your mom?”
“Yeah, all my friends think I’m crazy. I had to find someone to drive out here from Milwaukee with.” He replied without taking his eyes off the floor.
“You came all the way from Milwaukee?” Chris asked in a much less assuming tone. Apparently the fact that he drove 2,000 miles to see Dylan garnered him a little respect.
“Have you seen Bob perform before?” I inquired, trying to sound as friendly as possible.
“Yeah, I saw him here yesterday and the day before.”
Dylan was playing three sets in a row at the Hollywood Palladium, just as the west coast leg of his Together Through Life tour was drawing to a close.
“Oh damn, how was it?” I asked, slightly jealous.
“It was great.”
“I wanted to go to all three myself but I couldn’t afford it. You know, bad economy.”
It was only after I caught myself making excuses for being unemployed that I realized how high I was getting. I reached into my bag and took a pull off the bottle of Wild Turkey, attempting to regain some balance. The nameless Milwaukeean wasn’t opposed to taking a hit of the Wild Turkey, so we all sat there, discussing Dylan shows we had previously seen, passing the bottle of whiskey around the three man circle. I was starting to feel pretty good and reached out and put my arm around Chris.
“Me and this douche bag,” I slurred through a mouthful of marijuana smoke, “have never seen Dylan indoors. We’ve only seen him in open-air venues, baseball stadiums and such. We’re pretty excited to see him inside, aren’t we Chris?” I asked as I tightened my grip around his neck.
“Oh yeah, it’s going to be fucking awesome!” He replied, his voice getting louder with each word. “And I’m already fucking drunk!”
“Drunk already, huh? That’s a surprise.” I said sarcastically.
“Hey, I haven’t eaten anything today.” Came the defensive reply.
“Of course you haven’t Chris. If you ever ate anything you wouldn’t look like a fucking cancer patient.”
Chris was the little brother of my best friend. We had all lived together in the Bay Area until recently, when Chris and I had moved down to LA, and Chris’s brother Justin had embarked on his version of Henry Miller’s Air Conditioned Nightmare. We didn’t hang out much—I had much more in common with his older brother, who was my longtime friend from college—but our mutual love of Dylan (supplemented by the fact that, like our Milwaukeean, most of our other friends thought we were crazy for going to see a Bob Dylan show) had brought us together on this fine night in West Hollywood.
“Fuck you man, just pass the bottle.”
3.
The inside of the Hollywood Palladium was much smaller than I had anticipated. The theater was shaped in a half circle, with the stage situated right along the back wall. The ceiling was low—probably only 20 feet or so, and there were only two or three rows of seats on the second level. There were no seats on the first floor at all. Just an open area, probably about 500 square feet, of wood floor standing room. By the time the dust settled, we were about six or seven rows deep, dead center on Bob’s keyboard. Now, all we had to do was wait.
I sent Chris on a mission for drinks and tried to spread myself out to cover enough space for two people. As I turned to the right to restrain the rush of people I could feel getting closer and closer, I noticed that two girls, just about my age, had positioned themselves right next to me.
“Excuse me ladies, but I need to save a spot right here for my friend.” I said, as I looked them up and down. They were both about 5’6”, decent looking with big tits, one blond and one brunette. “He went to get us drinks…” I continued.
“Ooooh, drinks!” The blond girl said excitedly, “I forgot about that!” She turned to her friend to inquire about a drink preference and was gone, leaving the brunette and I standing there, staring at each other.
“Looks like you have to save two spots now.” She said with a smile.
I drunkenly chuckled and replied, “Yeah…” Then just stood there with a stupid grin on my face, trying to place her. Could she really be a Dylan fan? She wasn’t old. She didn’t look like an artist or a bohemian or a hippie. I was gradually coming to the conclusion that I needed to just accept my good fortune and stop questioning the serendipitous appearance of the only young, attractive female I had seen since we arrived at the concert, when she interrupted my pondering.
“So, forgive me if this is a stupid question to ask someone standing six rows back at a Bob Dylan concert, but are you a really a Dylan fan?” Evidently, we were thinking the same thing.
“Me?” I responded quizzically, looking down at my Zimmy’s t-shirt and dirty blue chucks. “I should be asking you that. At least I’m in desperate need of a haircut and reek like weed. If anyone is out of place here, it’s definitely you.”
She looked up at me with a radiant smile and then reached out and ran her fingers through my curly mop of brown hair. “Oh, don’t cut this. These curls are beautiful.”
“Thanks… I wasn’t planning on cutting it… uh, I just meant…” I stammered, slightly taken aback by the forwardness.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that I don’t usually see guys your age at these things. The last two nights I don’t think there was a guy under 50.” She went on to relate the story of her mom, a Dylan-obsessed bohemian who raised her on the church of Dylanology.
“So you’ve been here the last two nights?” I asked, still surprised.
“Yep. It’s been amazing. Anyone who tells you Dylan can’t sing anymore is full of shit.”
Just as I was telling her how excited I was to finally get to see him indoors, for that exact reason, Chris returned donning two cranberry-vodkas. His arrival reminded us we didn’t know each other’s names, so we did the introductions, and I found out that she was named Marie after the song “Oh, Sweet Marie”. I found myself in unfamiliar territory. Instead of actively attempting to convince myself that a female was worth wasting my time on, this girl had me trying to figure out what was wrong with her. I didn’t know girls like this existed.
After a few awkward minutes of Chris plying her with stupid, drunken questions like “You wanna see my Dylan lyrics tat?” her blonde friend returned with their drinks.
It turned out that the blonde one, Stephanie, was a new Dylan fan. Marie explained that, as her roommate, she forced Stephanie to listen to Bob constantly. And while she wasn’t that into it at first, she had slowly come around and now was even listening to Dylan on her own. She wasn’t as well versed in Dylanology as the rest of us, but she was as eager student.
Chris, who could spot and easy target from a mile away, immediately turned and started focusing all his efforts on the visibly-tipsy blonde.
“You know,” he said, trying to sound causal, “I have the same birthday as Bob: May 24th.”
I could see where that was headed and—not interested in hearing his Dylan tattoo story for the 4,500th time—turned to Marie and attempted to strike up a conversation.
“Not to pry or anything, but since I never get to have this discussion with a female… I have to ask you what your favorite Dylan album is.”
“Well, I’m sure you think I’m going to say Blood on the Tracks.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “that’s exactly what I thought you were going to say.”
“Guys always think, because I’m a girl, I have to like the emotional, breakup album the best.”
“Well, I apologize for stereotyping. So, which one is it?”
“Bringing it All Back Home. To me, it’s the album that launched American rock music and essentially defined the entire genre… not to mention an entire generation. ”
“That’s a great album…one of the best…” I was beginning to get a little light headed, evidently getting high on the words coming out of Marie’s mouth. I took a long drink off my cranberry and vodka and regained some composure.
“Which album do you like the best?” She asked, looking up at me.
“I don’t know if I can narrow it down to just one… because it always seems to change, but right now it’s a tie between Desire and Blonde on Blonde. I fucking love Blonde on Blonde”
“Me too! Considering my namesake is a Blonde on Blonde track, it really should be my favorite album too.”
All of the sudden I got an image of me on top of her, fucking her hard with a huge handful of that dark brown hair in my hand as “Oh, Sweet Marie” blasted out of the bedside speakers. I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face.
I snapped out of my daydream. “It’s probably good you didn’t say that though, you don’t want me to fall in love with you right here.”
She looked like she was going to blush but quickly recovered, “So, you bring any weed into this thing?”
“Of course,” I replied confidently. “You smoke?”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic prescription jar from a cannabis club. She popped it open and inside were three joints. I was starting to think I’d found my soul mate… not that I believed in such things, but I was getting a little drunk. I showed her my stash of spliffs and we agreed that, as Bob took the stage, the first two went in the air.
4.
“I think I can fuck this girl.” I heard Chris whisper in my ear as the lights dimmed and George Thorogood stepped up to the microphone amid scanty applause. “She was really feeling my Dylan tat.”
“Good, because I’m definitely going to fuck her friend,” I said as I handed Chris the bottle of Southern Comfort, “I mean, Jesus Christ! She’s named after a fucking Dylan song.” I yelled over the music while glancing in her direction to make sure she didn’t hear me, but she busy was swinging her long brown hair to the rhythm of “Born to be Wild”. “I think I’m in love…” I told Chris.
George played a decent set but by the end of the fifth song, you could hear the crowd starting to get restless. Some of us had been there for five or six hours now and when Thorogood started in on the sixth song, the crowd let out a collective sigh. When he (finally) finished, and was thanking the crowd, the anticipation sweeping over the audience made his words inaudible. Dylan was up.
The lights dimmed and you could barely make out a few figures shuffling around stage, setting things up just right for Bob. All around the crowd, the glow of lighters illuminated the faces– nothing but pure excitement, a stark contrast from the faces I’d been seeing all day.
“Spark that shit homie.” Chris called above the stirring of the crowd. I lit the joint, inhaled like a drowning man sucking down a breath of fresh air, and glanced up just in time to see Bob’s band come walking onto the dark stage in tight procession. They took their places behind their respective instruments and waited. About thirty seconds later, still under the cover of darkness, Bob walked briskly across the stage to his keyboard. I passed the joint to Marie, who gave me a huge “that’s Bob Dylan!!” smile as he immediately broke into “Gonna Change My Way of Thinking”. One of the best things about a Dylan concert is his refusal to talk to the crowd. None of the lame one-liners you experience from most performers, none of the usual bullshit, just the Man and his art.
By the time we got to the fourth track, “Beyond Here Lies Nothing”, the Palladium was in full swing. There wasn’t a single person in the crowd who wasn’t dancing furiously, singing, waving their arms… Dylan’s voice, as it cut through the lingering cloud of marijuana smoke, sounded like it was coming straight off the album; crisp, clear and strong. Marie and I had been interlocked in passionate embrace for some two tracks now. Somewhere between dancing, making out and fondling each other, we belted out lyrics at the top of lung as we passed bottles and joints back and forth. A spiritual experience, to say the least.
Chris and Stephanie seemed a little more into the making out/groping portion of their experience, but Marie and I walked the line between Dylan and each other adroitly. Pulling out of a kiss just in time to shout a climactic lyric in unison, I was beginning to think I really had found my soul mate. Just when I didn’t think it could get any better, I heard the unmistakable opening to “Most Likely You’ll Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine)”, only the second Blonde on Blonde track I had ever heard performed live. The crowd erupted, the lights went up and Dylan’s band seemed to have cranked the volume. The massive sea of people was swaying in rhythm, dancing harder and harder as the first chorus approached.
Anyone who doubts Bob Dylan’s voice definitely wasn’t in Hollywood on that warm October night. “Aaaaannnnnnnnnddddd I’lllll goooooooooooooo laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Just as my metaphysical reverie was reaching its peak, Marie spilled whiskey down the front of her dress, mostly in between her boobs, and smiled up at me with a “are you just going to let this go to waste?” look. Of course I wasn’t. I was having the most ethereal experience of my life.
5.
I turned to pass the bottle of Wild Turkey back to Chris just in time to witness Stephanie’s body go limp and begin to crumble to the floor. Chris tried to grab her but her tits alone weighed more than him and the best he could do was to guide her over in my direction where I barely got my hands under her armpits to keep her from collapsing. Marie was trying to say something over the music but there was no need, the expression on her face said it all. In about two seconds, she had gone from euphoria to despair. A second ago, my tongue was between her whiskey-soaked tits. Now, she was yelling something about the paramedics.
She leaned in and yelled in my ear, “Please! Help me carry her out!”
I glanced over my shoulder at the crowd behind me. At least 300 people deep. It was probably only a hundred feet or so but it might as well have been the Sahara Desert. The only way out was toward the stage. Bob was just beginning the second verse.
Marie was starting to head forward. She looked back at me, gesturing for me to follow with her unconscious friend. A million thoughts started running through my head. This girl could be the one for me… or, on the slightly more realistic side, at least she would want to listen to Bob Dylan while we were fucking. I glanced back up at the stage. Bob was really getting into the second verse. Eyes closed, black hat pulled low, could anyone be cooler? If only I had gotten her last name or phone number… if I didn’t go now, I’d never see this girl again. I had been having one of the greatest concert experiences of my life up until about 15 seconds ago. It was too much to process. I tried to reassess the situation as rationally as possible. Was this girl the reason I was having such a great time? Or was it just the Bob Dylan contact high that made her seem so amazing. She was named after a Blonde on Blonde track! She smoked weed.
I looked back into Marie’s pleading eyes for another second and then swiftly passed the KO’d Stephanie to the guy in front of me, who passed her to the guy in front of him. Marie was staring at me in disbelief as she was swept through tumult of the crowd behind her friend. Before they were 10 feet away, they were out of sight. Just as suddenly as she had appeared, she all but dissolved into a cloud of dancing baby-boomers and marijuana smoke. Destined to be nothing but a memory.
I looked over at Chris who nodded his approval of my decision before taking a massive pull and finishing off the Wild Turkey. I reached into my pocket, lit a spliff and sang along with Bob; “Cuz time will tell, just who has fell, and who’s been left behind… when you go your way and I go mine”. I exhaled and fell back into step with the rest of the crowd, only with slightly more passion, an added touch of exuberance.
After the concert, walking through the parking lot past the various groups of elated fans, talking about the show and belting out drunken lyrics, I half-heartedly glanced around a couple of times, hoping maybe I would spot Marie. I knew I wouldn’t. I already made my choice.
As we approached the car, I couldn’t help but hear the words of the liquor store attendant echoing in my head. I didn’t know if I had made the right choice. I didn’t know if I had thwarted the cosmically-destined grand scheme. I didn’t know if I had missed my one chance at love, if such a thing existed. I didn’t know which way it was to the car. I didn’t know anything, really. But the one thing I did know with absolute clarity: Bob Dylan was definitely not dead.
