Bob Dylan Is a Dead Man (A Bob Dylan Story, Chapter 7)

you thought you knew died. This is his story. This is Dr Ed Sailor. It's August four, day number seven, with the patient Robert Zimmerman, a k a. Bob Dylan here at my home in Middletown, New York. Bob is still depressed. This accident seems to have taken its toll on him mentally more than physically. This time out from what was a hectic lifestyle appears to have brought on some kind of reflection for him. I often catch him looking dazed. When I asked what he's thinking about, he

just says the lives I've lived. When he's sleeping, I often hear him shouting or babbling about his future. Right now. I say he is showing signs of a delusional disorder, and to be honest, I'm worried about his recovery. I was having a difficult time in my life. By the end of the nineteen eighties. I did some things I wasn't proud of, personally and professionally, although I must say it wasn't all that bad a decade. It might have

been my most interesting if you look closely. Not that the public can never get past the sixties, but the end of the eighties, though, I was a mess. I changed so many times that I just assumed it would keep happening. I didn't realize you can't force yourself to change, it has to happen naturally. That made me feel lost. I've always found when you're down, you think you can't get any lower, You're wrong. You can always go lower.

There's always a bottom after the bottom, a new level down, new desperation, renewed despair, renewed anger, fresh trouble, fresh disappointment, and of course fresh blood. On the tracks. Chapter seven, Bob Dylan is a dead man. M It was nighttime in the big city. The street I was on was dark, it was cold. I saw the Grand House I've been looking for. I took a deep breath of the cold, black air and walked up to the front door. In the second half of the the words stopped coming suddenly,

they just weren't there anymore. The well had run dry. I had lost interest in my career, to tell you the truth, I had reached a dead end of creativity. And not to sound like an egomaniac, but what was there left for me to do? That made me feel lost for a while. I wanted to have a big selling single, take it to number one. I've never had one, but that charity single We Are the World, which I was involved with, that did go to number one. I was thrilled, even if it didn't look like it in

the video. And yeah, I know there's some sort of viral video with me or whatever kind of half asking it at the end of the song. But there were a lot of greats there who really deserved to be heard. Great Charles, what a voice point of sisters. But a number one was the last thing left on my list. I've done it all, seen it all, and lived so

many different existences. At the end, I thought I'd reached some sort of nirvana, a zen like calm perhaps, But actually I got to the top of the mountain and found that the view was the same as it was at the bottom. You can always go lower, I said in an interview at the time. If the records I'm making only sell a certain amount anyway, then why should I take so long putting them together. That's how it felt, the pointless, worthless static. I started sleeping in what I'd

worn that day. I used to change my identity, but now I couldn't even be bothered to change my clothes. I also took up a new hobby. I liked wandering the streets on my own. I always did it late at night, always two places I didn't know. I enjoyed exploring deprived city districts the most, especially parts of town where no one recognized me. I started near my house, but then I went further afield. I'd get cabs two places and walk and walk and walk. It was peaceful.

It was the only way I could get away from whatever was dragging me down that day. Depression, loss, disappointment, lack of creativity, All that just disappeared in the darkness of those areas. I was anonymous, nothing to no one. I was having a difficult time. People get into the music industry for fame and money, right, but actually what you find is really all they want is the money. It might not seem like that to begin with, but it always ends up that way. Fame is well, here's

a good idea of what fame is like. Imagine walking into a room, any room, and every room you go into from now on. The moment you walk into that room, it's over. Everyone in that room changes like that. You can actually see it happen. Life becomes phony when you're famous trouble. After years of that, I wanted to be part of something else, something that wasn't me, something that wasn't Bob fucking Dylan. I first saw The Grateful Dead in and I had been close with their leader, Jerry

Garcia ever since. I liked them as a band and as people too, so it made sense to tour together. That happened in when they were riding pretty high on that touch of Gray song. And just like with the Hall of Fame, Live Aid and a lot of other things I had participated in at the time, it went to ship. I did some things I wasn't proud of. Rehearsals had gone well. I picked out this killer pink guitar. I really felt part of the band, a proper member.

We must have gone through a hundred songs, man, I was having the time of my life for a minute. The first gig was in Massachusetts, a big place, a stadium. We were in good spirits, but the band seemed a little thrown off by my set list. I felt we should mix it up. Like I said before, I like to keep bands on their toes. It might have been my most interesting. I couldn't wait to get out there to play my songs with the Dead. We walked out onto the stage. This is it, I thought, this is

what I've been missing. Our first song was the Times They Are Changing. We started and I don't know what went wrong, but it all sounded wrong. Everything sounded like it was in the wrong key. Fresh disappointment. It must be the song. I thought. Man of Peace was the next, and it sounded the same. It was as if we'd never practiced. I'll be your baby tonight, John Brown, I want you all wrong, wrong, wrong, renewed despair. What the

hell was happening? It sounded so bad. We limped off the stage that night, with me wondering what I had just been part of the next gig back at that damn JFK Stadium where I had graced the live aid stage a few years earlier. It was the same. In fact, that night was even worse. I started to forget the lyrics to my own songs. Not only were like finding it difficult to write new material, but I was forgetting the stuff I had already written. Great bottom after the bottom.

I put all these problems down to back pain. I've been suffering a lot of it since that motorcycle crashed two decades prior. But but honestly, thinking about it now, it might have had something to do with my drinking at the time too. The tour went on like that. A couple of years later, I showed up at a Dead show in Inglewood, California. After the first half of the show, I was desperate to get up there and play with them, so I went backstage and asked, of course, Bob,

we'd love that. Jerry said right away, and so the second half of the show was all of us on stage again. The sound of the Dead was immense. It was so tight but had a free spirit. I was thrilled to be standing there on stage with them, but I suddenly realized I got a bit carried away when you're down and you think you can't get any lower. I didn't really know any of their lyrics. The mic in front of me became a viper. I was scared

to approach it. I started off strong, but ended up mumbling into it, mumbling in front of ten thousand people basically that we are the world video clip, but a hundred times worse. It was my fault. I had demanded to play dead songs, none of my own stuff. I didn't want to be Bob Dylan. That night I couldn't bear it. I changed so many times. Bob Ware from the band shot me a hateful look when I repeated my mumbled performance on the next song. In fact, the

whole band did. I looked down at my feet and realized how drunk I was. My shoes looked blurry as I weakly strum the guitar. After that song, the band demanded I sing my own songs and I had to get off the stage. We played a couple of mine and it was great, well, I thought so. Anyway. The next day I called the it's office and asked if they would have me in the band full time, I was serious, man, They took a vote, a fucking vote. Even worse than that, The answer was no. I was crushed.

I drank an entire bottle of whiskey that night. Still, remember you can always go lower. Right, Another band and another tour would see my situation get even worse. It would be a real heartbreaker. The house is still and so quiet. In one room, I could see beautiful wrongs all laid out over a wooden floor. I'm clutching a load of papers tied to my chest. Suddenly I feel like someone is behind me. You're an alcoholic, That's what she said to me. It's not true. Of course, she

is one of the women I'm currently seeing. By the way, I put her in a house in Beverly Hills Worth five thousand and All she has to say is I drink too much. No gratitude, none whatsoever. I am giving up women. Write that down. There's always a bottom after the bottom. Although having said that, Elizabeth Taylor, now there's a woman. She came on to me once in Washington,

d C. You heard about that. It was at a tribute concert to Martin Luther King Jr. God, she was something I was in a flannel shirt and she still came onto me. It wasn't all that bad, you hear that. Look, drinking has always been something I've done, but it's not something that slows me down. Okay, I'm not drinking morning, noon and morning. No morning, noon and night. A new level down. That tour with the Dead was it didn't work. I told you that, right, but you know, to hell

with it. We did it and it's sold. So what's the problem. People bitch and moan that it wasn't this or it wasn't that. Forget him so anyway, Oh yeah, the tour right, So, the Grateful Dead tour happened around the time. I was also going on tour with another band, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I got married around that time too. I probably should have mentioned that I've always been good at keeping my personal life a secret. People

didn't see that one coming. Cheers to me. I guess. Look, sure I was married, but I had girlfriends too, not a big deal. Everyone involved knew the situation, new desperation. What was I saying? Oh yeah, those Heartbreaker shows, they were great. We had a ball on that tour. I loved it. My new wife was singing backing vocals with me. Her mom was part of that too. On tour with my mother in law. They said never do it, but it worked out just fine. Wasn't all that bad. In fact,

it was my favorite bit of the tour. Those women we had on backing vocals, there was something else. Their harmonies were incredible. I used to get them to come to my hotel room in the dead of night and practice with me. Their sound was unreal man, and I love those women almost as much as Bourbon Fresh Trouble. We played Tel Aviv on that Heartbreakers tour. That was my first time in Israel. I found it fascinating the crowd, though they were less excited about my show. They moaned

about about guess what the usual? They wanted the greatest hit set. Well, I don't do that. I do what I want. You don't want to just get up there and start guessing what the people want. You can't let the audience start controlling the show. Write that down. That was a great tour, a great, great tour. I'm stunned we can even remember it well. I can remember it fine. Thanks. You seem to have forgotten a pretty awful moment in it. Remember it's not ringing any bells. It's not ringing any bells.

If you have something to say it whining and fucking say it. Gary Schaffer, Oh, here we go. You're all high and mighty. Yeah, maybe just lay off the booze for a second and we can give me a break. Are you going to tell them the story? Or should I? I haven't got time to discuss hearsay, hurt feelings or okay? So Gary was our road manager. A road manager sorts out hotel arrangements, media obligations, support staff, equipment, all that stuff. God,

this is all terribly fascinating. Gary was more than a road manager, though. He was a really good guy. And I we okay, okay, enough, I'll tell them Gary was our road guy. And at one point on that tour he had to leave. He had to head back to California for some private business. Britta Lee, a woman on tour with us, was Gary's girl and a musician too. Gary loved her, worshiped her. But while he was gone, we got close. We had an affair. We had an affair.

Gary had been devoted to us, And let's not lay it on too thick. Okay, these things happen sometimes they've just happened. We betrayed someone close to us. Look, she was part of it too. It's not all down to me, you know. But you're here and she's not. I still remember the faces of everyone when he left the tour after he found out. Man, that was awful. Oh please,

you're loving us? I felt shamed, disgrace what and I didn't feel those two You remember his statement when leaving the tour, I suppose you have a copy of it. Do you bring it with you wherever you go? Huh? This is what he said when he left. It was a privilege to be there for the years I was there as an artist. I respect the guy as an artist. He respects us, not a person. I honestly don't blame him. We'll be right back after this word, word word. There's

a man in the corner of the room. He's dressed all in black. He smiles and asks if I'm ready. I say yes. I can feel the excitement pulsing through my blood. At this point in my life, my musical path was no longer clear. It was overgrown, full of vines, and I knew it. There was a missing person within me that I needed to find. I fantasized about leaving the music business. That tour with Tom Petty. I was convinced that was my last, one, last payday to see

me through to retirement. What would I do next? Go to church, sail the seas, live in another country Italy, Scotland, Greece. I had no idea. You can't force yourself to change. I even called up a business expert I knew. I told him I wanted to sell everything I owned to invest in something new. He came round to my house with a brochure for all these different businesses. I was interested, no doubt. It felt like an escape route, a new horizon.

Why not turn into a business man? That felt easy, enticing, revolutionary, even for me anyway, most interesting, A more conventional life called me, and again I deserved it. The albums I had been making for the past few years weren't really doing it for me, and in fact, I felt like they were doing it for less and less people. If it doesn't interest you when you're making the music, it probably ain't gonna interest other people when they're listening. I

made the album Knocked Out Loaded. Tom Co wrote a song on that, But the real gem was Brownsville Girl. The critics love that one, and I can see why. I wrote it with the playwright Sam Shepard. We were at a creative dead end in the studio, which was pretty common for the time. Sam said we should tell stories, so we both exchanged a couple of good ones. One of mine was about going to see a film what's it called The Gunfighter? That's it. It stars Gregory Peck.

Sam jumped up and said, that's it. Let's write a song about that, so we wrote this epic. A beam of light shot into my mind. When we did that, I felt like I was off again, off to the races with my writing. But while in that moment there was joy and excitement, it made the aftermath even worse. After that brief second of inspiration, I was straight back into the waste land, straight back to torched grass and dry wells. It was a false dawn. I still couldn't

write There's always a bottom after the bottom. The rest of the album sort of passed me by, and so did the next one, renewed despair. After that record, I injured my hand. I thought I might never play guitar again. I remember looking at it one day, the plaster cast up to my elbow, and I remember thinking what if I never played the guitar again. Honestly, I didn't feel that bad about it. I had no connection to inspiration of any kind. Even my own songs were strangersment. The

injury forced me home. I spent time with my new wife. I did nothing. Mornings were spent in bed. Afternoons were spent falling asleep my armchair the nighttime, that's when I was awake, and even then I would just sit around. One night, when everyone was asleep, I was at the kitchen table staring at the hillside. I could see nothing but a bed of shiny lights twinkling in the distance. I don't know why, but I picked up a pen with my good hand and wrote. And I wrote and

wrote and wrote it that bad. Nothing had changed, Nothing was different except I couldn't stop writing. I finished with twenty verses, which became the song Political World. It emerged like a fire hydrant, bursting open, completely out of the blue. It was like someone had struck a gong and brought me to my senses. When I finished writing, I looked down at the scratchy page. Moonlight was cast across it. I knew then I could use these words. It felt

like the start of something. The next week, I was in New York. I had been to see a play and had some drinks. On the way back to the car, I passed a homeless man being ordered to move by some cops. His head was in his hands. The whole thing was desperate. Everyone in that situation looked hopeless, despair. That night, at home, in my little art studio, I wrote the song what Good Am I? It came to me all at once, delivered from up above, inspired by that homeless man. The next morning, I was at the

breakfast table again. We had the radio on and I heard the sad news that Peter Maravich, the basketball player, had died. He collapsed on the court and never got up. Almost instantly, I wrote the entire song Dignity for Peter. They kept coming and coming, one, two, three. They continued like that for a while. I kept writing them on these sheets of paper, then stashing them in a drawer in my house. I couldn't understand where they were coming from.

You can't force yourself to change. I had some people over for dinner one night, friends from far and wide came. One of them was Bonno, the front man for you too. I like Bono. He's kind of a philosopher but tough. He could have been a New York City cop in another life. After the dinner, everyone else had gone to bed, and it was just the two of us polishing off of creative guinness. Yeah, an irishman brought a creative guinness

to my house. The stereotype is true. Man. We watched a freighter make it slow way across the ocean from my giant window, and we spoke about everything from the history of America to religion and then inevitably music. I changed so many times. Bonno asked if I had written any new songs. I tensed up immediately, thinking of the drawer with all my sheets of paper in it. Yeah, I said, in kind of a dead end wayn I see them, he asked, I could feel the sheets of

paper now. It was like Edgar all imposed Hell Tale Heart. They were beating like a subway train in that drawer, giving me away the dumb the dune, the dune. I hadn't shown anyone those words. I had not said anything about this new inspiration, nothing at all. I didn't know if I was ready. I didn't know if I could face it all again. That made me feel lost. But Bono, he's persuasive. He looked them over as he drained the final drops of guinness. You should record these, he said.

He told me he had just the guy to help. It has to happen naturally. Before I knew it, I was standing in the great city of New Orleans shaking hands with Daniel Lanois. Daniel had produced some pretty successful records for Bono, and he said we would be a good match. Fate seemed to have taken me into a gulf stream. Just when I thought it was the end, Once again, I found myself on the verge of a

new existence. It's interesting if you look closely, the first thing you notice about New Orleans is the burial grounds. The cemeteries. I saw so many when I first got there. I remember passing one, and I felt like I was leaving behind whatever existence I'd been living over the past few years. It felt cleansing. I strolled to this huge house just off of Audubon Park, one that Daniel had rented for the recording sessions. I felt nervous. I did some things I wasn't proud of. I felt like if

I didn't do these words justice. It might really be the end for me. And while that prospect of the end had seemed intriguing and even comforting after that Tom Petty's tour, this time I wasn't ready to say goodbye. My heart began to beat faster as I walked up the drive. I pushed open the front door, took a look around and saw Daniel standing there, dressed in all black. He was noir through and through. Man, are you ready,

he asked, I've never been so ready fresh troubles. We emerged that next month with one of the best albums of my career. Oh Mercy was a true rebirth. Maybe, I thought to myself, maybe I'm not done yet. I called up that business expert, the one that came to my house with the investment opportunities. I rang him the day after we finished the record. I'm gonna put everything on hold. I told him. Something new has come up. The lights the Odeon Marble Arch Cinema shine brightly against

the gray London sky. All sorts of famous faces make appearances on the red carpet, heading towards the cinema's glass doors. Standing at the top of the red carpet is Gerald Abrams, executive producer at Phoenix Entertainment Group. He nervously pulls back the sleeve of his Saville Row suit jacket to reveal his gold rolex. It is eight fifteen PM, getting close to the point of no return. Hyde Park wounds in

the distance. The huge banner hanging to Abram's side reads in glossy red letters, Hearts of Fire Premiere, London, October. Abrams scans the faces of the people walking towards him for what feels like the millionth time that night. Damn, he mutters, before checking his watch again and it is still eight fift He catches the eye of producer Jennifer Award looking hopefully at him, but her smile disappears when Abrams shakes his head. Let's who spend the next half

hour waiting for the film premier's most notable absence. It's not the pictures director Richard Markwin, who sadly passed away from a stroke going a month before. It is, in fact, the film's top build actor, who, despite being paid a reported one million dollars, is nowhere to be seen. He's got fifteen minutes. Abram smiles across the carpet. Howard, who

forces a smile. Just then, Abrams spots a man with curly hair, wearing a leather jacket and gloves, with the fingers cut off in sporting and earring in his right ear. It must be thanks to himself. It must be The bodies on the red carpet finally shift to reveal a man's face. Abram's exhales and hope goes with his breath. It's not the man he's looking for. He checks his

watch again. Barely five minutes away from the theater, Bob Dylan sits in his usual A Little Sweet in the Mayfair Hotel, surrounded by magazines and cassette tapes that sit upon an unmade bed. Plates of food cover the counter. A loud knock at the door. Dylan stands up, slowly, walks to the large entrance hall and opens the heavy

ornate white door with a loud click. Ah, Mr Goldsmith, The announces go on in the legendary concert promoter Harvey Goldsmith stomps into the room, moving like he's a bee's nest on two legs. Is everything okay, he asked Dylan. I don't usually get something to your suite. Dylan had seen Goldsmith leaving his show the night before. He felt a little embarrassed to even mention it. Goldsmith inhale slowly and sits on a large armchair. I saw you get up and I saw you leave. Dylan says, did he

like it? I didn't know, comes Goldsmith's sharp reply, In fact, I hated him. The rain starts to fall on the sweets window pane. Dylan cracks a smile. You know, my eyes set. It's really bad. I mean it's awful, but among ten thousand people in the Wembley Arena, you were the one I saw sneaking out halfway through. Goldsmith doesn't smile. In fact, he's annoyed. He proceeds to explain to Dylan that the UK was his biggest audience outside the States,

which many had to deliver high quality shows there. What he played the night before was just crap, more silent, more rain, that familiar London in the autumn pitter patter sound on the window. Goldsmith waits for Dylan's reply, hoping for a reaction. It didn't matter if it was anger, regret, disappointment. He just wanted a reaction. Dylan gives him a reaction all right, and laughs loudly. It's okay, Harvey, He shouts, it's okay. Don't worry about the shows. I'm going to

the bar. You want to drink. Goldsmith pulls out his invitation to the film premiere of Hearts of Fire, Dylan's face front and center on it, flanked by the singer Fiona an actor Rupert. Ever, Dylan's name is in large typeface. Now it's Goldsmith's turned to laugh. He smiles, holding up the invitation. Aren't you coming that? Dylan says, oh no, I'm going to the bar. Forty five minutes later, Dylan polishes off his third gin and tonic of the evening.

The muted lights in the Mayfair Hotel Bar make the rain drops on its window twinkle. Inside the odeon marble arch, Gerald Abrams said, slumped in his cinema chair, he knew what he was watching was garbage. He knew it was going to bomb, and maybe that's why Bob Dylan didn't show. He looks up at the face on the huge seventy ft screen. Dylan looks slender, tanned and healthy, a genuine film star. But the face that looks into the glass and the Mayfair Hotel bar is bloated. And red with

darkened eyes. It's exhausted from an endless life on the road, and bare stresses that it's inhabitant doesn't care to show outside. It starts to rain again. This time it's a hard rain. It hammers down large drops splatter violently against the bars window. Dylon continues to drink, and the splatter of the rain gets harder and harder, louder and louder, and Dylan thinks to himself, you know that sort of sounds like Blood on the Tracks. Blood on the Tracks produced by Double

Elvis in partnership with I Heart Radio. It's hosted and executive produced by me Jake Brennan, also executive produced by Brady sath Zeth Lundi is lead editor and producer. This episode was written by Ben Burrow, Story and copy editing by Pat Healy. Mixing and sound designed by Colin Fleming. Additional music and score elements by Ryan Spraaker. This episode featured Chris Anzeloni is Bob Dylan. Sources for this episode are available at double Elvis dot com on the Blood

in the Tracks series page. Follow Double Elvis on Instagram at double Elvis and on Twitch at s Grace Slanta talks, and you can talk to me per usual on Instagram and Twitter at Disgrace Land Pond, Rock and Roll h R Dad