Post by Xman on Nov 2, 2005 2:01:23 GMT -5
I think you will like this. You will know when you have read enough. Dylan had a deal with Vernon?
??
From Like A Rolling Stone, Summer 1985
"The 18th Annual Interview with Bob Dylan" by Marke Mothersback
It happened almost by accident. I was having a couple of margaritas with Cyndi, who works for CBS. She's a doll, but she's one of those people who thinks rock'n'roll has only been around since last week. Her idea of a golden oldie is Madonna's *first* album. Cyndi was handling promotion for Jim Vomit's latest LP, Picking Vomit Boogers Out of Your Nose. She wanted me to do an interview. But I was tired of the easy-listening pap that passes for meaningful these days.
"Why don't you get me an interview with Bob Dylan instead?" I sneered. (Everybody knew Dylan was holed up in his cork-lined recording studio, has been for years. He makes records and gives concerts, but he won't talk to anybody.)
Her reply was a blank, uncomprehending stare, so I showed her the cover photo on the mint-copy of Bob's Talking Mountain States Legal Foundation Blues that I'd just scored for $20. "That guy?! What do you want to talk to him for? I don't see how he ever got signed--he's got no fashion sense at all. Oh, well, I'll see what I can do." I surpressed a violent urge to giggle.
But damned if she didn't get him for me, a week later. Maybe people had stopped even asking, and her naive approach hinted to him that the times they were a-changin'. Before I knew it, I was being ushered into a long-vacant CBS conference room full of dust- covered Guy Mitchell gold records. With his faded jeans, scuffed boots, and "Bob Dylan" cap, he looked remarkably unchanged since the days of '69. A black-leather spike bracelet was his only concession to modernity. Which was real: the leisure suit look he'd sported on the '85 Live at Captain Barnaby's Restaurant LP, or this seeming return to the past? As usual, Dylan was playing with his different personae, with our notions of the past and the present, keeping us all guessing about what is real. Yet on the surface, he appeared relaxed and open, nursing a Tanqueray on the rocks and smoking only an occasional Gauloise ("No more Texas medicine and railroad gin."). As he rose to give a weak but not unfriendly handshake, he showed only a trace of the limp from the famous shrapnel wound he'd received during his brief volunteer stint with the Israeli Defense Forces--the one they'd passed off to the rubes as a "motorcycle accident."
We talked of many things that I agreed not to go into too much detail about (but, hey, I'm a reporter--you should know these things by now, Bob): his children ("Papa Joe Jackson's got nothin' on me--wait'll you hear the 'Dylan 6'! I got 'em practicin' dance steps every day."); his traumatic divorce from Sara ("Findin' out she was seein' Eric Clapton *and* George Harrison was the last straw"); and his loneliness since his reluctant new-found freedom ("It's a-hard--I shoulda balled that Edie Sedgwick when I had the chance."). But finally, I couldn't hold back any longer. I had to ask the question that everyone wanted to ask.
SO ONCE AND FOR ALL, I'VE GOT TO KNOW WHY. WHY ARE YOUR LATEST WAXINGS NOT FIT TO BE PLAYED AS MUZAK IN A VEGAS ELEVATOR? I MEAN, I'D TRADE EVERYTHING SINCE BLOOD ON THE TRACKS FOR THE RUNOUT GROOVE OFF A SCRATCHED COPY OF BLONDE ON BLONDE. AND YOU'VE GOT SO MANY OLD THINGS IN THE CAN THAT MAKE IT ALL SO MUCH PRESSED TURKEY BY COMPARISON. WHAT'S WITH YOU?
Well, Marke, the Lord finally gave me a sign. Columbia Records has had a major chunk outta my ass since way back when. If John Hammond could rip off Billie Holiday, he sure knew how t' do it t' a greenhorn from the land o' lakes who woulda traded his soul fer black coffee 'n' butterhorn after sleepin' in doorways on Sullivan Street all winter. 'N' that's not t' mention ASCAP, the IRS, Mike Bloomfield's estate, 'n' all the dwarves in the corner of Grossman's garage... Between 'em all I wasn't gettin' t' keep enuff fer a pack o' Zigzag wheatstraw. I was goin' insane/& feelin' a pain/Like a bad migraine/Even a Paine Webber couldn't restrain. Meanwhile, some jerk who sweeps out a studio in Nashville cops a tape o' me tunin' my Gibson, pressed up a few thousand copies & calls 'em Street Illegal 'r some stupid name, sells 'em fer 50 bucks a throw, & keeps it all. Well, Jesus came t' me with a gold record in each hand & said what profiteth in a man t' give his soul t' Babylon? Then there was a blindin' light, & underneath it said "Great White Wonder." Well, that said t' me, why can't you do the same thing?
YOU MEAN YOU BOOTLEG YOURSELF?
Buyin' a pressin' plan in Tel Aviv didn't cost much, 'n' I took a course in masterin'. Fer labor all I had t' do was promise 'em each a copy o' whatever we pressed up--if they didn't like 'em, they could sell 'em. The worse my legit LPs did, the better the boots would do. My latest duet with Pia Zadora made sales triple o' the tape o' me 'n' Lennon eatin' burritos 'n' farin' back in '66. 'N' then after awhile I began t' realize, why stick t' actual tapes o' me torturin' poor, helpless Woody Guthrie in his hospital room? I could record a few strums on a phone answer machine, tell 'em it was a tape from Folk City in '63, 'n' sell more copies that Planet Waves, After the Flood, & Desire put together. After awhile I got inta doin' the same thing fer my friends, churnin' out counterfeit boots--hell, I made more money fer Springsteen 'n' Jagger than they'll ever see from CBS or WEA. I even had a deal goin' with Vernon Presley fer awhile 'til Colonel Tom 'n' RCA got wind o' it.
SO THAT'S WHY STEVIE WONDER HAD TO COACH YOU TO MAKE YOU SOUND LIKE YOUR OLD SELF DURING THE "USA FOR AFRICA" SESSION! WHAT CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT THAT HISTORIC EVENT?
Well, Marke, I was thrilled t' be doin' my part fer such an excitin' cause. But I'm even more excited about the record Pat Boone is organizin'--it's called USA for Nicaragua & it's t'raise money fer the freedom fighters down there.
YOU MEAN YOU'RE DOING A BENEFIT FOR THE CONTRAS?
I think it was Wallace Stevens, 'r maybe it was Smokey Robinson, who said, "The business of America is business." Hey, I know what yer thinkin', but this is the Eighties. After the harmonica holder factory I'd sunk all that money inta went bankrupt, I bought a lot o' United Fruit stock. Donovan had told me about electrikal bananas, and I figgered I'd get in while the gettin' was good. You figger it out. Anyway, Pat sez Jesus told him it's the right thing t' do, and that's good enuff fer me.
WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE BEING FAMOUS?
I'm walkin' down Abbey Road/With a heavy load/Feelin' like a toad/About t'explode/Can't load my microcode (pause) when the Director of Sanitation comes in. The Director of Sanitation has 3 machine guns, 5 enema bags, & always collects 200 dollars whether he passes go 'r not. He sticks a red, white, & blue candy cane up my nostril & says, "We know you hanged Phil Ochs, gave Tim Buckley his last shot, put angel dust in Donovan's joints," & I say, "Oh, no, you must have me mixed up with Tim Hardin." Suddenly, he turns inta Rob Halford & says, "'The Ballad of Frankie Lee & Judas Priest' is about my band," & rides his bicycle over my face. The Queen o' Clubs & Olivia Newton-John walk up & ask, "Can I have some nose candy?" & I say, "Sure."
YEAH, CELEBRITY HAS ITS PRICE. BACK WHEN A.J. WEBERMAN WAS GOING THROUGH YOU GARBAGE AND ANALYZING IT, IT SEEMED LIKE YOU WERE PRETTY PISSED ABOUT IT. HOW'D YOU EVER GET THE GUY TO STOP?
It got t' be too much after while. I mean, hey, how'd you like some geek sellin' yer kids' dirty diapers t' Joan Baez fer some voodoo love ritual? I wish she'd realize once 'n' fer all that it's *over*. Anyway, I thought I was rid o' that hippie retard Weberman for awhile. Jesus, that guy makes David Crosby look like a Yuppie. But I had t' give him a piece o' the bootleg action after he tapped inta my computer line & threatened t' sell the whole story t' The Village Voice. It wasn't such a bad thing, though, once I realized he knew what my songs were supposed t' sound like better than I did. He'd always ultimately wanted t' be like me & pee like me, so I let him. I'd been gettin' Jim Morrison t' write a lot of my songs fer me after he went underground--hell, he'd give me an LP's worth o' great stuff for a pint bottle o' Night Train. Even designed the cover o' The Basement Tapes fer me--but he was too unreliable. One time he gave me the lyrics t' "96 Tears" 'n' told me it was a new poem of his. Thought he could fool me by callin' it "*Obviously* 96 Tears." In fact, that album o' me doin' Barry Manilow songs was another one o' Morrison's big jokes. You might think I'm out o' it, but I'd never even heard o' the guy, 'n' the symbolism in Copacabana tied right in with my earlier stuff.
BUT YOU HAD THE LAST LAUGH ON JIM. "YOU DESERVE A BREAK TODAY" WAS YOUR BIGGEST SELLER SINCE YOUR REGGAE ALBUM BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME. WHICH BRINGS US TO THE QUESTION OF RELIGION. THAT RECORD WAS RECORDED DURING WHAT SEEMED TO BE A PERIOD OF INTENSE DEVOTION TO JAH RASTAFARI. AND YOU'VE REFERRED TO JESUS, AND THEN THERE'S YOUR SUPPORT OF ISRAEL. A LOT O' PEOPLE ARE WONDERING--JUST WHAT RELIGION ARE YOU?
Episcopalian.
YOU SEEM TO HAVE A LOT OF INFLUENCES. YOU MENTIONED WOODY, OF COURSE...
Yeah, there's somethin' about the name Woody... When I was makin' Renaldo and Clara, I went and hung out with Woody Allan every day, t' learn about filmmakin'. I'd met him when he was with the Rolling Thunder Revue fer awhile. Them Woodies. They've all taught me somethin'--Hayes, Herman, Woodbury, Woodpecker...
BUT WHAT I REALLY WANNA KNOW IS--HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF "NAM MYOHO RENEGE KYO?"
No, what's that?
IT'S EASY. YOU JUST CHANT FOR WHATEVER YOU WANT AND YOU'LL GET IT. TRY IT-- NAM MYOHO RENEGE KYO, NAM MYOHO RENEGE KYO...
Nam myoho renege kyo, Nam myoho renege kyo... Hey, I don't have to give up Pepsi, do I? That's what made me break it off with the Mormons, must as I was in love with Marie Osmond. She was absolutely *sweet*...
NO, NO. WE'VE GOT A MEETING STARTING IN A LITTLE WHILE. IT'S RIGHT UP THE STREET. TINA TURNER AND HERBIE HANCOCK WILL BE THERE...
??From Like A Rolling Stone, Summer 1985
"The 18th Annual Interview with Bob Dylan" by Marke Mothersback
It happened almost by accident. I was having a couple of margaritas with Cyndi, who works for CBS. She's a doll, but she's one of those people who thinks rock'n'roll has only been around since last week. Her idea of a golden oldie is Madonna's *first* album. Cyndi was handling promotion for Jim Vomit's latest LP, Picking Vomit Boogers Out of Your Nose. She wanted me to do an interview. But I was tired of the easy-listening pap that passes for meaningful these days.
"Why don't you get me an interview with Bob Dylan instead?" I sneered. (Everybody knew Dylan was holed up in his cork-lined recording studio, has been for years. He makes records and gives concerts, but he won't talk to anybody.)
Her reply was a blank, uncomprehending stare, so I showed her the cover photo on the mint-copy of Bob's Talking Mountain States Legal Foundation Blues that I'd just scored for $20. "That guy?! What do you want to talk to him for? I don't see how he ever got signed--he's got no fashion sense at all. Oh, well, I'll see what I can do." I surpressed a violent urge to giggle.
But damned if she didn't get him for me, a week later. Maybe people had stopped even asking, and her naive approach hinted to him that the times they were a-changin'. Before I knew it, I was being ushered into a long-vacant CBS conference room full of dust- covered Guy Mitchell gold records. With his faded jeans, scuffed boots, and "Bob Dylan" cap, he looked remarkably unchanged since the days of '69. A black-leather spike bracelet was his only concession to modernity. Which was real: the leisure suit look he'd sported on the '85 Live at Captain Barnaby's Restaurant LP, or this seeming return to the past? As usual, Dylan was playing with his different personae, with our notions of the past and the present, keeping us all guessing about what is real. Yet on the surface, he appeared relaxed and open, nursing a Tanqueray on the rocks and smoking only an occasional Gauloise ("No more Texas medicine and railroad gin."). As he rose to give a weak but not unfriendly handshake, he showed only a trace of the limp from the famous shrapnel wound he'd received during his brief volunteer stint with the Israeli Defense Forces--the one they'd passed off to the rubes as a "motorcycle accident."
We talked of many things that I agreed not to go into too much detail about (but, hey, I'm a reporter--you should know these things by now, Bob): his children ("Papa Joe Jackson's got nothin' on me--wait'll you hear the 'Dylan 6'! I got 'em practicin' dance steps every day."); his traumatic divorce from Sara ("Findin' out she was seein' Eric Clapton *and* George Harrison was the last straw"); and his loneliness since his reluctant new-found freedom ("It's a-hard--I shoulda balled that Edie Sedgwick when I had the chance."). But finally, I couldn't hold back any longer. I had to ask the question that everyone wanted to ask.
SO ONCE AND FOR ALL, I'VE GOT TO KNOW WHY. WHY ARE YOUR LATEST WAXINGS NOT FIT TO BE PLAYED AS MUZAK IN A VEGAS ELEVATOR? I MEAN, I'D TRADE EVERYTHING SINCE BLOOD ON THE TRACKS FOR THE RUNOUT GROOVE OFF A SCRATCHED COPY OF BLONDE ON BLONDE. AND YOU'VE GOT SO MANY OLD THINGS IN THE CAN THAT MAKE IT ALL SO MUCH PRESSED TURKEY BY COMPARISON. WHAT'S WITH YOU?
Well, Marke, the Lord finally gave me a sign. Columbia Records has had a major chunk outta my ass since way back when. If John Hammond could rip off Billie Holiday, he sure knew how t' do it t' a greenhorn from the land o' lakes who woulda traded his soul fer black coffee 'n' butterhorn after sleepin' in doorways on Sullivan Street all winter. 'N' that's not t' mention ASCAP, the IRS, Mike Bloomfield's estate, 'n' all the dwarves in the corner of Grossman's garage... Between 'em all I wasn't gettin' t' keep enuff fer a pack o' Zigzag wheatstraw. I was goin' insane/& feelin' a pain/Like a bad migraine/Even a Paine Webber couldn't restrain. Meanwhile, some jerk who sweeps out a studio in Nashville cops a tape o' me tunin' my Gibson, pressed up a few thousand copies & calls 'em Street Illegal 'r some stupid name, sells 'em fer 50 bucks a throw, & keeps it all. Well, Jesus came t' me with a gold record in each hand & said what profiteth in a man t' give his soul t' Babylon? Then there was a blindin' light, & underneath it said "Great White Wonder." Well, that said t' me, why can't you do the same thing?
YOU MEAN YOU BOOTLEG YOURSELF?
Buyin' a pressin' plan in Tel Aviv didn't cost much, 'n' I took a course in masterin'. Fer labor all I had t' do was promise 'em each a copy o' whatever we pressed up--if they didn't like 'em, they could sell 'em. The worse my legit LPs did, the better the boots would do. My latest duet with Pia Zadora made sales triple o' the tape o' me 'n' Lennon eatin' burritos 'n' farin' back in '66. 'N' then after awhile I began t' realize, why stick t' actual tapes o' me torturin' poor, helpless Woody Guthrie in his hospital room? I could record a few strums on a phone answer machine, tell 'em it was a tape from Folk City in '63, 'n' sell more copies that Planet Waves, After the Flood, & Desire put together. After awhile I got inta doin' the same thing fer my friends, churnin' out counterfeit boots--hell, I made more money fer Springsteen 'n' Jagger than they'll ever see from CBS or WEA. I even had a deal goin' with Vernon Presley fer awhile 'til Colonel Tom 'n' RCA got wind o' it.
SO THAT'S WHY STEVIE WONDER HAD TO COACH YOU TO MAKE YOU SOUND LIKE YOUR OLD SELF DURING THE "USA FOR AFRICA" SESSION! WHAT CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT THAT HISTORIC EVENT?
Well, Marke, I was thrilled t' be doin' my part fer such an excitin' cause. But I'm even more excited about the record Pat Boone is organizin'--it's called USA for Nicaragua & it's t'raise money fer the freedom fighters down there.
YOU MEAN YOU'RE DOING A BENEFIT FOR THE CONTRAS?
I think it was Wallace Stevens, 'r maybe it was Smokey Robinson, who said, "The business of America is business." Hey, I know what yer thinkin', but this is the Eighties. After the harmonica holder factory I'd sunk all that money inta went bankrupt, I bought a lot o' United Fruit stock. Donovan had told me about electrikal bananas, and I figgered I'd get in while the gettin' was good. You figger it out. Anyway, Pat sez Jesus told him it's the right thing t' do, and that's good enuff fer me.
WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE BEING FAMOUS?
I'm walkin' down Abbey Road/With a heavy load/Feelin' like a toad/About t'explode/Can't load my microcode (pause) when the Director of Sanitation comes in. The Director of Sanitation has 3 machine guns, 5 enema bags, & always collects 200 dollars whether he passes go 'r not. He sticks a red, white, & blue candy cane up my nostril & says, "We know you hanged Phil Ochs, gave Tim Buckley his last shot, put angel dust in Donovan's joints," & I say, "Oh, no, you must have me mixed up with Tim Hardin." Suddenly, he turns inta Rob Halford & says, "'The Ballad of Frankie Lee & Judas Priest' is about my band," & rides his bicycle over my face. The Queen o' Clubs & Olivia Newton-John walk up & ask, "Can I have some nose candy?" & I say, "Sure."
YEAH, CELEBRITY HAS ITS PRICE. BACK WHEN A.J. WEBERMAN WAS GOING THROUGH YOU GARBAGE AND ANALYZING IT, IT SEEMED LIKE YOU WERE PRETTY PISSED ABOUT IT. HOW'D YOU EVER GET THE GUY TO STOP?
It got t' be too much after while. I mean, hey, how'd you like some geek sellin' yer kids' dirty diapers t' Joan Baez fer some voodoo love ritual? I wish she'd realize once 'n' fer all that it's *over*. Anyway, I thought I was rid o' that hippie retard Weberman for awhile. Jesus, that guy makes David Crosby look like a Yuppie. But I had t' give him a piece o' the bootleg action after he tapped inta my computer line & threatened t' sell the whole story t' The Village Voice. It wasn't such a bad thing, though, once I realized he knew what my songs were supposed t' sound like better than I did. He'd always ultimately wanted t' be like me & pee like me, so I let him. I'd been gettin' Jim Morrison t' write a lot of my songs fer me after he went underground--hell, he'd give me an LP's worth o' great stuff for a pint bottle o' Night Train. Even designed the cover o' The Basement Tapes fer me--but he was too unreliable. One time he gave me the lyrics t' "96 Tears" 'n' told me it was a new poem of his. Thought he could fool me by callin' it "*Obviously* 96 Tears." In fact, that album o' me doin' Barry Manilow songs was another one o' Morrison's big jokes. You might think I'm out o' it, but I'd never even heard o' the guy, 'n' the symbolism in Copacabana tied right in with my earlier stuff.
BUT YOU HAD THE LAST LAUGH ON JIM. "YOU DESERVE A BREAK TODAY" WAS YOUR BIGGEST SELLER SINCE YOUR REGGAE ALBUM BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME. WHICH BRINGS US TO THE QUESTION OF RELIGION. THAT RECORD WAS RECORDED DURING WHAT SEEMED TO BE A PERIOD OF INTENSE DEVOTION TO JAH RASTAFARI. AND YOU'VE REFERRED TO JESUS, AND THEN THERE'S YOUR SUPPORT OF ISRAEL. A LOT O' PEOPLE ARE WONDERING--JUST WHAT RELIGION ARE YOU?
Episcopalian.
YOU SEEM TO HAVE A LOT OF INFLUENCES. YOU MENTIONED WOODY, OF COURSE...
Yeah, there's somethin' about the name Woody... When I was makin' Renaldo and Clara, I went and hung out with Woody Allan every day, t' learn about filmmakin'. I'd met him when he was with the Rolling Thunder Revue fer awhile. Them Woodies. They've all taught me somethin'--Hayes, Herman, Woodbury, Woodpecker...
BUT WHAT I REALLY WANNA KNOW IS--HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF "NAM MYOHO RENEGE KYO?"
No, what's that?
IT'S EASY. YOU JUST CHANT FOR WHATEVER YOU WANT AND YOU'LL GET IT. TRY IT-- NAM MYOHO RENEGE KYO, NAM MYOHO RENEGE KYO...
Nam myoho renege kyo, Nam myoho renege kyo... Hey, I don't have to give up Pepsi, do I? That's what made me break it off with the Mormons, must as I was in love with Marie Osmond. She was absolutely *sweet*...
NO, NO. WE'VE GOT A MEETING STARTING IN A LITTLE WHILE. IT'S RIGHT UP THE STREET. TINA TURNER AND HERBIE HANCOCK WILL BE THERE...