few years, Troy Jonson will insinuate himself into the music scene and become a major force there. He will make millions, he will be considered a genius, the toast of both the public and his fellow artists.
Riding that thought, I drift off to sleep.
Dylan shows up at the Eighth Wonder the very next night in the middle of my note-perfect imitation of Duane Allman on “Statesboro Blues,” perfect even down to the Coricidin bottle on my slide finger. There’s already a good crowd in, the biggest crowd since we started playing. Word must be getting around that we’re something worth listening to.
Dylan has about half a dozen scruffy types along with him. I recognize Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso in the entourage. Which gives me an idea.
“This one’s for the poets in the audience,” I say into the mike; then we jump into Paul Simon’s “Richard Corey,” only I use Van Morrison’s phrasing, you know, with the snicker after the bullet-through-his-head line. I spend the rest of the set being political, interspersing Dylan numbers with “originals” such as “American Tune,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Life During Wartime,” and so on.
I can tell they’re impressed. More than impressed. Their jaws are hanging open.
I figure now’s the time to play cool. At the break, instead of heading for the bar, I slip backstage to the doorless, cinder-block-walled cubicle euphemistically known as the dressing room.
Eventually someone knocks on the doorjamb. It’s a bearded guy I recognize as one of Dylan’s entourage tonight.
“Great set, man,” he says. “Where’d you get some of those songs?”
“Stole them,” I say, hardly glancing at him.
He laughs. “No, seriously, man. They were great. I really like that ‘Southern Man’ number. I mean, like I’ve been makin’ the marches and that says it all, man. You write them?”
I nod. “Most of them. Not the Dylan numbers.”
He laughs again. From the glitter in his eyes and his extraordinarily receptive sense of humor, I gather that he’s been smoking a little weed at that rear table.
“Right! And speaking of Dylan, Bobby wants to talk to you.”
I decide to act a little paranoid.
“He’s not pissed, is he? I mean, I know they’re his songs and all, but I thought I’d try to do them a little different, you know. I don’t want him takin’ me to court or—”
“Hey, it’s cool,” he says. “Bobby digs the way you’re doing his stuff. He just wants to buy you a drink and talk to you about it, that’s all.”
I resist the urge to pump my fist in the air.
“Okay,” I say. “I can handle that.”
“Sure, man. And he wants to talk to you about some rare records he hears you’ve got.”
Suddenly I’m ice cold.
“Records?”
“Yeah, says he heard about some foreign platters you’ve got with some of his songs on ’em.”
I force a laugh and say, “Oh, he must’ve been talking to Sally! You know how Sally gets. The Speed Queen was really flying when she was going through my records. That wasn’t music she saw, that was a record from Ireland of Dylan Thomas reading his stuff. I think ol’ Sally’s brains are getting scrambled.”
He nods. “Yeah, it was Sally, all right. She says you treat them things like gold, man. They must be some kinda valuable. But the thing that got to Dylan was, she mentioned a song with ‘tambourine’ in the title, and he says he’s been doodling with something like that.”
“No kidding?” My voice sounds like a croak.
“Yeah. So he really wants to talk to you.”
I’m sure he does. But what am I going to say?
And then I remember that I left Sally back at my apartment. She was going to hang out there for a while, then come over for the late sets.
I’m ready to panic. Even though I know I locked the music room before I left, I’ve got this urge to run back to my place.
“Hey, I really want to talk to him, too. But I got some business to attend to here. My manager’s stopping by in a minute and it’s the only chance we’ll have to talk before he heads for the West Coast, so tell Mr. Dylan I’ll be over right after the next set. Tell him to make the next set—it’ll be worth the wait.”
The guy shrugs. “Okay. I’ll tell him, but I don’t know how happy he’s gonna be.”
“Sorry, man. I’ve got no choice.”
As soon as he’s gone, I dash out the back door and run for Perry Street. I’ve got to get Sally out