Bob Dylan Is Lucky Wilbury (A Bob Dylan Story, Chapter 8)

you thought you knew died. This is his story. This is Dr Ed Sailor. It is August five, nine, day number eight. Here in my home in Middletown, New York, I am once again reviewing the patient Robert Zimmerman, a k a. Bob Dylan, although I don't think he'd answered to that name at the moment. After yesterday's concerns that Bob was experiencing some sort of delusional disorder, I'm disappointed to confirm we seem to be heading further down that road.

He seems extremely agitated. I think we might have to take him off as met soon to see if he can manage the pain, because right now he's struggling with some sort of identity crisis. Lucky is my name. I won't answer to any other name you have for me, any other name you or I might have given myself. I am no longer he or whatever he was. I am Lucky, part of the Wilbury people, the traveling Wilbury people. We are another species, another type of person to you

or your kind. I'm not saying we're better, just different, that's all. We all have our good and bad traits. It's just ours are different. H How did I become a Wilberry? Simple? The usual way transfiguration? Of course, haven't you been paying attention? Not everyone can become a Wilbery, though you have to have a certain set of skills. There has to be a certain set of circumstances, and of course there has to be a lot of blood on the tracks. Chapter eight, Bob Dylan is a Lucky Wilberry.

I can't remember what I was gonna say. I'll take another hit man. Can anyone remember the room number? I need some I need some food. Can we call room service? Can we get some drinks in here? Can we get the queen in here? She's just around the corner right, Let's call up her, Majesty but wait, not yet, I'll take another hit. Here's a brief history of the Wilbery people, My people people. This is taken from research conducted at the esteemed University of Krakatoa and also from my own

personal recollection. So listen up. The original Wilberries were stationary people who, realizing that their civilization could not stand still forever, began to move. Motion became our way of life, and on those journeys we became inspired, inspired to create music. Somehow we created music despite a lack of an over indulgent marketing budget, sycophantic session musicians, and opulent recording studios.

While the Wilberry people would become exceptional at music, there was a war coming during the Great War with the record executive people, which lasted a hundred years or more. Most of the Wilberries were killed. They are always in our hearts. Thankfully, some of the Wilberies survived, and some years later a few of them got together to continue the great Wilberry tradition of creating great music. Their names Nelson Otis, Lefty, Charlie T. Jr. And me Lucky Wilberry.

Lucky is my name. Our time together started as organically as you can get. Nelson, who at the time was playing the role of George Harrison, called me up to say he needed a studio to cut an extra song to promote his new album, Cloud Nine. He wanted a B side for a single he was putting out, so I offered him the studio at my home. He showed up with company, though Otis, who some of you might

know as Jeff Lynn, was with him. Otis was producing Cloud nine, but Nelson had left his guitar at Charlie's house. Now Charlie goes by the name of Tom Petty. I told you a little about him already, So anyway, after handing over the guitar, Charlie tagged along too. We are another species. Later we were also joined by Lefty, who for years had been performing under the name Roy Orbison. Otis was producing the next Lefty record. Otis was so

in demand he should have been called Busy Wilberry. As for me, I struggled with inspiration at that point of my life. So when it was suggested they go into the studio and helped Nelson with this B side, I left them to it for a while. I preferred to barbecue. I wanted to play host for my fellow Wilberry guests. Playing host that's a very big part of our culture people.

But I couldn't help myself. They were all sitting around working on this thing that Nelson was writing, trading guitar riffs back and forth, talking about lyrics, and me, I was grilling up some beef skills. I got more and more agitated as they were throwing ideas around. I began to press the meat into the grill harder and harder. It's sizzled loudly, so we go from that part into the chorus. I heard oh To say, that's gonna sound great.

The sizzling in front of me was getting louder and louder now, and I was getting more and more annoyed. That lick, that's it, I heard Nelson say over the burning beef. The sizzling was reaching an ear splitting volume for me. Now, the louder and louder it grew, the more annoyed I got. I didn't know why I couldn't articulate it. Haven't you been paying attention? And then it hit me. I remembered another life, different existence, an album

called Down in the Groove. I could feel another form of myself, a form which was disinterested in music, that had fallen out of love with it altogether. I won't answer to any other name. I realized why I was so annoyed by not taking part of what was happening merely feet away from me. I was becoming that different version of myself, the poorer version of myself. I am no longer he or whatever he was. I slammed the barbecue lid shut stormed into the garage where the other

Wilberries were playing. What's this one called? I asked. Nelson looked up at me and said, I don't know. His eyes drifted up behind me to a cardboard box on the shelf that had a label on it. He read it aloud, handle with care. He said we should call it that Buddhist at him, And that's how we got our first song. It was a hit, a big hit. We knew we'd struck upon something that day. The brilliance of it was that it wasn't planned a species. See, you can plan all this stuff and get it all

worked out, but music doesn't work like that. Magic comes when you're spontaneous. If we'd have planned it, it would have never happened. Nelson took the song to his record company and they told him it was too good to be a B sideed In fact, it was so good they wanted more, and so did we. We went to Dave Stewart's house, you know him, He's one half of the Rhythmics. We recorded an album there, in a couple other places. Man I loved it. We cut tunes all

over the place. One we cut in the kitchen with our drummer, Sideberry, not one of the Wilbury people, but an honorary citizen who played drums on the fridge to travel in Wilbury people. After recording, we'd listened to lefties stories of how he used to play with Elvis. Man I was a huge Elvis fan. That was a thrill for me. We'd toss around ideas and trade little parts. I felt so at home, like I found my true existence, that other existence that I felt stood at the barbecue

that was so far removed from what I was. It felt like a different person in a different time. Any other name you I might have given myself. Yeah, I felt sorry for him. Lucky is my name as Lucky. I felt I'd found myself, But I couldn't shake this presence. I thought about the other lives I've lived, other lives where I had been with bands. They were different. There was a checkered history there, especially on Thanksgiving, and I'd take another drag. The smoke fills my lungs. My brain

is swimming. It feels like it's slowly lifting off. I turned to George next to me, and he's sitting on the expensive king size bed while a gold wall twinkles behind him. There's a knock at the door and we all freeze as fear engulfs the room. All that Wilbury talks got me thinking about the time I spent with the band again. Had some good times with the band, some less than good times too. I mean, we always

stuck together in the bad times. They were there with me on some rough tours and some good ones too. But after their time with me, they became a real big deal. They forged their own way, they invented themselves. I respect that transfiguration. Of course, somewhere down the line they decided to call it a day. I was always ellis of that. To escape from a band when you're ready to escape, when you're on your own, like me, you have to play your hand. You can't get rid

of it. You can't quit yourself even if you try. Believe me, I won't answer to any other name. The band wanted to get off the road because Richard Manuel injured himself in a boating accident. The road can be hard when you've been on it awhile. You either get addicted to it or it swallows you up. For the band, I guess they were getting out before they became slaves to it. We are another species. There was to be a final goodbye, though, one last hurrah, one last gig,

one last waltz. That's what they ended up calling it, the Last Waltz. This was back in They decided that this farewell gig should be at winter Land Ballroom, the venue in which they've made their debut as the band. Back in. A load of us were asked to perform with them, Muddy Waters, Neil Young, dr John Joni Mitchell, an unbelievable mix of artists. But I wasn't feeling it. I don't know. I had to think it over. We

all have our good and bad trads. Look, this was back when I was going through a divorce and working on my film. Ronaldo and Clara. That film was taking my creative focus. I was obsessed with it. The last thing I really wanted to do was play happy show biz families at a glitzy event. Plus Martin Scorsese was going to film the whole gig. Marty had released Taxi Driver that year. He was on top of his game, but I was working on a film too. I wanted to pay my respects to the band, but I wasn't

interested in being in two movies at the same time. Eventually, they convinced me to be a part of It has to be a certain set of circumstances. The deal was they'd only used three of my songs for the film. No more Fine. I got on a plane bound for San Francisco, but I traveled with my lawyer or in. Sometime later, I would curse that decision. When we got there, it was unlike anything I've seen before. Five thousand Turkey

dinners backstage, ready for the crowd. It was Thanksgiving after all, and the only thing that outnumbered the Turkey Dinners was the coke man. It was everywhere. It was like a blizzard. Man, I swear it was in the air that day. Just breathing got you fucked up. We are another species. Marty was constantly on the stuff line after line. Neil young too.

I heard they had to edit a smudge of coke from his nose in post production, but for some reason they didn't blur out the ridiculous Kama Sutra T shirt he had on. The gig itself was great. The atmosphere was incredible. Now. I'm not usually into nostalgia. I made a film called Don't Look Back for Crying Out Loud, but nostalgia can grab ahold of you and refuse to let go that night. However, with the band, it felt like the right way to say goodbye. That is until

I changed my mind. I had this sudden realization. You know what, I didn't want to be in the film. I am no longer he or whatever he was like. I said, I didn't want to be in two movies at once. It didn't feel right artistically. I didn't even want the three songs we had agreed to be used in the final film. But I can't change my mind. We all have our good and bad traits. After the show, I found Marty, I can't be in your picture. I told him, are you fucking kidding me? He responded, Marty

cusses like the characters in his movies. Man, he's the real deal. And then he said, you are joking, right. I searched for an answer for him. I said, you know, I've got this other film coming out and uh. I looked over at Robbie Robertson. He was turning pale, a crisp white, in fact, as white as the coke on the table in front of Marty. I didn't even get to finish my sentence. Marty barked back at me, your songs are going in the fucking film. He was angry, now,

drawing closer to me. I could feel his breath on my face. I was furious too, Man, I'd come here to pay my respects and play the gig. I don't give a funk about the film. It wasn't my film. You have to have a certain set of skills. I stormed off with my lawyer, Or, and we went to my dressing room. I started on the whiskey and smokes. What can we do, I asked Oran. His reply was essentially nothing. We could do nothing. The film was technically theirs, it had been shot and that was that. Unless Or

joked we take the tapes. We looked at each other. Next thing, I knew we were running out the door. After another shot of whiskey. That is, I smashed open the door of the production truck. Did you film me? I yelled at the director of photography or whoever was sitting in there. He didn't have a clue what was going on? Haven't you been paying attention? Boring rifled through spools of film, picking up a couple of heavy looking cases. They're here, he announced, and then told the director we'd

be taking them there. Mr Scorseses, this guy said, his voice all wavy and thin. I was about to say, I didn't give a funk who they belonged to, and I'll be damned if the man himself hadn't just appeared in the doorway. Marty looked even more angry than before. He'd been stewing over our previous words, and, by the looks of it, had been nursing his indignation with more cocaine. He told us to hand over the tapes. Oran clutched them closer to his chest. I told him to back off,

otherwise I dashed him against the wall. Marty went for Oran, Orange jumped out of his way. Which caused the director to crash into a couple of monitors. Oran and I ran out of the truck, the tapes in his hands. Marty sprinting after us that powder had turned him into an Olympic athlete man transfiguration. Of course, he tackled or in. The tapes fell on the ballroom's parking lot. We all caught our breath. Marty turned to me, the tapes back in his hands. Now you really think the is all

about you, don't you? He said. I am lucky. He kind of had a point, but what he said next surprised me. Well, you're right, he said, and he sighed heavily. The truth is we need you. Bob Warner Brothers won't give us the money if you're not in it. And that's the truth. Now, I've had a difficult relationship with the truth. I didn't know whether to believe him or not. But you know, truth is all relative as far as

I'm concerned. You can use it however you need it, telling a story, writing a song, or getting what you want. And that day Marty got what he wanted. Well, he got three songs. We'll be right back after this. We were were there's paranoia everywhere, everyone suspects the worst. No one makes a move, But then I feel it in my throat, in my mouth. Then my hand instinctively comes up. I coughed loudly. The game is up. I've given us away that lucky stuff. That's all over now. I won't

answer to any other name you have for me. Look, I loved my time in the Wilberries, but you can't hang around in a situation like that forever. The moment you get comfortable, you're dead. I mean that literally. You always have to be a little bit too far in the water, just enough so you're not always sure if you're safe. Six weeks after we released The Traveling Wilberries Volume one, our debut album, I knew it was over

the Traveling Wilburrie people. We were filming a couple of videos in London, all of us Lefty, you know Roy Orbison. Roy looked exhausted. Days after we wrapped the video shoot, he was dead, a heart attack, just like that. No warning signs, no second chances, nothing. We did make a second record without Roy, but it was the end of our little experiment. I knew that much. I always felt close to George Harrison before and after we were in the Wilberries. Whenever I spent time with him, I felt

at ease. Like I said before, sometimes when you're famous, people treat you differently. They're phony other famous people too, but George he was He was different. Hell. I loved every Beatle in one way or another, simple, the usual way. I like to think I played a little role in getting them to transfigure them selves. They went from one band to a completely different one. Some of that had to do with pot. Yeah, man, I was there when the Beatles got high for the first time. Well, I

mean when they first got properly high. Have been paying attention. This was way back in they were touring the US. They had a suite at the Delmonico Hotel in New York. I was invited over, so I brought my roadie, Johnny with me. Now, the boys couldn't leave this swite, okay, they were the Beatles, for God's sake. They couldn't go anywhere they'd be mobbed species. So I brought the party to their suite. After our introductions, I sent out for wine, and while we waited, I asked Johnny if he'd like

a quick smoke. So we popped into a little bedroom in the suite, and he had a toke. Next thing, I know, there's a loud knock at the door. Johnny and I froze. Who is it? I said, laughing, we're doing official business in here. You have to have a certain set of skills. No one said anything. I threw the door open and standing there and its frame was in their entirety, the Fab four. They look stunned, like kids in the big city for the first time. You want to come in, I asked, It has to be

a certain set of circumstances. They strolled in like school kids. I asked them if they wanted to join in the festivities. Paul said they'd tried smoking the stuff before and it didn't do anything for them. I didn't do anything. I shouted, so like I get high in your song? That was what a lie, see? I thought, that's what they sang in their song, I want to hold your hand. Turns out the lyric was actually I can't hide. They all agreed to give it a second go. Transfiguration, of course.

I passed the joint to John. He held it in his hand like it was a bomb or a precious jewel. That made me laugh. He brought it up to his lips as everyone in the room leaned in watching. Actually, he said, Ringo, you go first. Why am me, cried Ringo, you're the drummer. You can be our test subject. We all laughed. But Ringo, he's made of stern stuff. He picked it up and took a long drag. We all waited. What's it like, Paul asked, It's like the ceiling is

creeping down, Ringo said, smiling. Then they were all in. The little canary had survived, and so the Beatles went in head first. Then the wine came, then more pot, then more wine. We were all in that little bedroom, thick smoke hanging in the air, laughing and exchanging stories. I was so stoned I demanded we call up the queen. Thankfully we didn't. Paul kept talking about different levels in the world. I had no idea what he meant, but

he kept writing it down on the hotel's paper. Chaos was descending on our little sweet but it was good chaos. Then there was a loud knock at the door, but this time it came from the sweets main door, not the bedroom door. And again I had just taken a big hit as the sound of the knocking on the door reverberated through the suite. Cops, said Paul, quiet said George. The smoke was in my lungs. I couldn't hold it in anymore, so I coughed loudly. I had given the

game away. Whoever was at the door knew we were in here. I went to the sweets front door. Before I opened it, I ap peered through the peep hole. The pot and the spy holes distortion made for an image that was hard to view, but I could sort of make out a man in a uniform. God, it is the cops, I thought to myself. Mr Dillon came this voice, cold and hard, business like. I won't answer to any other name you have for me. I decided that I had to open the door. My thinking was

that I could persuade one guy to go away. The last thing I wanted for him was to come back with his buddies. That would be the end. I prepared a little charm offensive and opened the door. I'm sorry, officer, I didn't. I am no longer he or whatever he was. But I stopped because standing in front of me in a black uniform was one of the Delmonico who tell bell boys, Mr Dillon, He said, they told of me

you'd be here. You're wine, sir. Everyone behind me broke out and laughter, and by the time I closed the door, clutching a couple of bottles in my hand, tears were rolling down my cheeks. George slapped my back as I noticed tears on his too. He was a beatle then, but I admit that I preferred him as a Wilberry. I loved our time in that band. It only strengthened our friendship. It's usually the opposite when you're working with someone.

He died too young, of course, way too young. I was on stage halfway across the world when the memorial concert for him was taking place. I was crushed that I couldn't make it. I made sure I tipped my hat to him, though, just like I did with the band. So that night, while I was playing at Madison Square Garden, I made sure he got to mention there's a more real concerts for George Harrison going on, I said, standing under those bright lights a year ago he left us.

I just wanted to play something for him because we were such good buddies. We played George's song Something I dedicated it to George, but in my mind I was playing it for Nelson Wilbury. Mr Edwards A K adds to his friends and his client ants. Was laid out flat in the kitchen of number eighty one Elmfield Avenue, crouch End, London. His torso was almost entirely under the kitchen sink. His bottom half was sprawled across the expensive

granite tiles. Thanks for coming around so quickly, king the voice of his customers sitting at the kitchen table, which was just as expensive as the tiles. Not a problem, it's responded, while tightening a nut. He jumped up from the floor to run the water from the tap, watching closely as it ran down the train. Satisfied with his work, he shut the tap off and grabbed a rag draped over his radio to wipe his forehead. A DJ on the radio introduces guns and roses his cover of Bob

Dylan's knocking on Heaven's Store eds. With the smallest nudge, turned the volume up ten tho ft above him. Bob Dylan was falling at four miles per hour destination Heathrow Airport. Upon arrival, Dylan received the same familiar question at the airport's immigration desk? Is he really who he thought he was? Was it really him? Really who? Dylan? Bob Dylan? The woman at Immigration was visibly excited. Now I last touch

with that man years ago, Dylan replied. Across town, Dave Stewart, one half of the hugely influential eighties pop duo He Rhythmics, sat in his large and already in house and crouch end. He took a cushion from a plush leather sofa and plumped it up with his hand. He put it back. Everything looked perfect. He was ready for his guest back at Heathrow. Bob Dylan got the question again when he stepped inside a cab idling outside the airport. Is it

really him? Dylan gave the cabby the same response he gave Immigration inside. He throw really who? The cabby was so gobsmacked to have Bob Dylan in his taxi that he spent the first ten minutes of the ride driving around aimlessly asking a million questions. Finally he got around to asking Dylan where he wanted to go. Dylan pulled a small scrap of paper out of the large pocket

of his hoodie. He could hardly read his own scrappy handwriting, it read Crouch Hill, and the Cabby informed Dylan that the numbers stopped at seventy eight Crouch Hill, but there was one crouch Ant Hill only a few streets away. Sure, Dylan assumed that was it back at Elmfield Avenue and crouch and the water was everywhere. That happened all of a sudden, an unexpected tsunami from pipe work. He thought he just fixed it, soaked it's clothes, his hair, and

after emitting a weak crack, killed his radio. He knew he'd be staying late for this job. And just a few roads away, Dave Stewart flicked his kettle on and neatly arranged two mugs in front of the teapot. He poured a small amount of milk into a jug and positioned a silver spoon into a small pot of sugar. Meanwhile, Bob Dylan, now exhausted from the Cabby's NonStop and derogation, was desperate to get out of this AXI. Just here

on the left, he told the driver. Dylan wasted no time, jumping out of the back seat and marching up the steps to number one. Dave Stewart's doorbell rang out. Just as the kettle steamed up his kitchen, he cleared his throat and strolled to his front door. He opened it to reveal not who he was expecting, but a postman with a large parcel from his record company r C. A. Stewart lingered at the door. After receiving the package. He looked up and down the street, but he was unusually quiet.

Bob Dylan ran his hand through his wild hair and pushed the bell of number one forty one. Almost instantly, he was greeted by a woman. Does Dave live here? Dylan asta, Why, yes, she responded, but he's not here at the moment. He's due back soon if you wanted to wait. Dylan walked inside, and just before she closed the door, the woman asked, is it really you? At eighty one m Field Avenue, Ed's finally got the sink under control and stood holding his recently deceased radio. His

client asked who he can make the checkout too? My friends call me eds game. The response he should make it out to Dave Edwards. Inside Crouch gent Hill, Bob Dylan sat in the front room, listening to the ticking of the clock as the woman who had welcomed him inside, brought him a mug of tea. She told him that Dave wouldn't be too long now. Dylan smiled and didn't

say anything. His eyes scanned the large stack of records on the shelf in the room, not a single release by The Rhythmics, in fact, nothing from the British pop scene at all. He looked closer and saw his own name on the spine of one LP, a copy of his nineteen sixty three album The Freewheel and Bob Dylan. The door of the front room suddenly swung open, and then walked Dave Edwards, a k a. Eds home for the night after a long day of repairing wee he sinks.

He could hardly believe his eyes. He looked at the man standing in his front room clutching his copy of The Freewheel and Bob Dylan, and then looked at the man on the cover of the album and then gassed it's you. Bob. Dylan meanwhile realized that he had copied down the wrong address and that he was now being greeted by the wrong Dave. A few roads away, Dave Stewart picked up an unused mug that had sat on his counter for hours. He looked at it for a

moment and then put it back into the cupboard. I guess Bob's busy, he said to himself. He walked back into his living room and turned on his record player. He scanned the album stacked on the shelf. With Dylan on his brain, he figured that tonight was as good as any night to spend. Blood on the Tracks. Blood on the Tracks produced by Double Elvis in partnership with I Heart Radio. It's hosted an executive produced by me Jake Brennan, also Exact Get It 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 Spreaker. This episode feature Chris Anzeloni is Bob Dylan. Sources for this episode are available at double Elvis dot com and the Blood in the Tracks

series page. Follow Double Elvis on Instagram at double Elvis and on Twitch at s Grace Santa Talks, and you can talk to me per usual on Instagram and Twitter at Disgrace land Pond rock and roll or dead