Bob Dylan Is Pretending to Be Bob Dylan (A Bob Dylan Story, Chapter 6)

you thought you knew died. This is his story. This is Dr Ed Taylor. This is day number six, now August third, in nine here at my home in Middletown, New York. Progress remains about the same with the patient, Robert Zimmerman, a k a. Bob Dylan. He seems to have lost some of the delusion from before, which is a positive sign. But I'm disappointed to say this delusion has been replaced by signs of depression. Bob, in his waking hours, of which there are a few, seems to

be very very low. So there's this story. A man lost his wife, the love of his life. She died young. Obviously, the man is distraughty. He can't continue life is meaningless until one night he meets the devil at the crossroads. The devil strikes a bargain. In return for the man's soul, devil will bring his wife back to life for one day and one day only. The man agrees without hesitation, But before the devil performs his work, he asks, is there anything you would change about her? Do you think

you could fix her nose? The man asks, I never liked her nose. M So the devil makes the change. The man then thinks, what about her eyes? Can we make them blue? So the devil changes her eyes. The man continues. The bags under his wife's eyes are removed, her skin is cleared, her temper curved, her trauma gone. When the man's wife is eventually brought back to his horror, she is a completely different person. In fact, she's a total stranger. Grief stricken at his foolish actions, the man

kills himself. The devil had claimed another soul. See when you change so much, sometimes you forget who you've been, a complete unknown as it were. Then you're left with something different. And all that changing and becoming something different, it's bound to le blood on the tracks. M Chapter six Bob Dylan is pretending to be Bob Dylan. I'm getting into my car. I don't know why I'm compelled to drive, but I am. I throw the station wagon it's gear and fly out of the driveway. I know

where I'm going, and it's already breaking my heart. By the time I got to the early nineties, I had learned a thing or two about loss and who the hell was Bob Dylan anyway? Vagabond, rock roll icon, counterculture hero legend. None of those spoke to me. The born again phase of my life had created a distance between me and some of my old friends and even family members that had been preceded by my divorce from Sarah

to battle involving my kids, man, that was rough. Then I was in court with my former manager, Albert Grossman. We had had a dispute over publishing rights to songs. It always ends up like that in the music business, and I was no different courtrooms, contracts and lawyers. That's what I was doing when I wasn't on the road or in the studio. But losing a wife and a manager wasn't the end of the loss. From there, I lost a confidante, my studio and possibly my mind. You

forget who you've been. I got this little studio in Santa Monica, Rundown. It was called it summed Me Up perfectly. At that point we caught albums like Street Legal and Shot of Love there. In fact, that's it on the Street Legal cover photograph. I liked that studio, but it became tainted. It started out as a comfortable place, full of creativity and life, but it fell apart so quickly. It ended up becoming a place that I looked back

on now and remember only fear and death. We were recording at Rundown when a woman called Carmel Hubble decided to leave her home in Michigan and come to the studio. That's when it all started to go wrong. We were going through the song to Ramona when I heard a commotion. Rundown wasn't a big studio, and all we could hear was shouting from outside the main room. I motioned for

the band to stop. I shouted, what's going on. The filmmaker Howard Ulk, who was with us at the time working on a project, told me that this woman, Carmel was at the main entrance claiming to be my girlfriend. She was demanding to come into the session. He awkwardly asked me if we were together. So there's this story. What do you think, Howard? Was my response, To be fair to him, she could have been with me. There were a lot of women on the scene at that time.

Obviously the man is distraught. Without any warning, the doors to the main room flew open, revealing a short woman with bright blonde hair. She was like a human firecracker, jolting and exploding and screams at random moments. The security guard was trying to subdue her as diplomatically as possible. Everyone stared. She squirmed in his arms, kicking and shouting Bob. She kept yelling Bobby, my sweetheart. Everyone looked at me. I don't know who this is, I shouted in response,

And I didn't. Man, I'd never laid eyes on this woman before. That's the truth. She's a total stranger. But I couldn't shake the sense that some people in that room didn't believe me. Howard and the security guard had to forcibly remove her from the place. God, she was screaming and screaming about us being lovers. I told everyone to take some time after that. Later, when I got home, there was a note on the gate to my compound,

again talking about a sweetheart. A couple of days later, another one appeared saying Mrs X equals Mrs Manson Manson. I won't lie. I was scared. I mean, look at John Lennon. He had only recently died at the hands of a crazy person. I didn't want to be the next one. The devil strikes a bargain. A few days later, Carmel hold one of my backing singers and threatened her life. That was enough for me. My lawyers and the police put a stop to it all. I had an awful

feeling that the whole incident would end in tragedy. My hunches were not quite correct. It turned out that Carmel Hubbell was not dangerous, but Rundown would witness of death that year. I wasn't that far off the mark. It started on tour. That tour was full of good shows, but the ticket sales were lousy. People have been spooked by the religious songs I've been playing during the previous shows. I mean, give me a break. Is there anything you

would change about her? Howard al was on that tour too. Like I said, Howard was a filmmaker, but he was also a close friend of mine. He'd worked on all my major films up to that point, like Don't Look Back, Eat the Document, even Ronaldo and Clara. It was re assuring to have Howard with me. I needed close friends at that point, people that knew the real me. I needed them there because I'd started to forget when you changed so much. Howard was filming bits on this tour.

I wanted to make a Ronaldo and Clara kind of film, something that played with truth and reality, but on a smaller scale than that film. Howard turned fifty one on that tour, so he's saying happy birthday to him on stage in Pennsylvania. He beamed from the wings, looking like a little boy. On Christmas morning. That was the last time I saw him happy. We took a break from the shows before the new year, and Howard was not

in a good way. His second marriage was over and he had nowhere to stay A man lost his wife. His wife now he had been living on my Malibu state, but he wanted to be on his own, away from everyone else. To tell you the truth, I think he didn't want to face the holiday with everyone playing happy families. Obviously, the man is destroyed. I suggested he could stay at Rundown. We made him a little studio apartment. He had a bed, a makeshift one on the floor, a kitchen, a bathroom.

He had breathing space, at least I hoped he did. I remember seeing him just before Christmas. Are you sure you don't want to come to the house for the holidays, I asked him. He shook his head. I'm fine here. I have everything I need, he said. I figured he had plenty of work to get on with, so I left him to it. The devil strikes a bargain. I remember looking at the little bed on the floor and thinking this shouldn't be where a fifty one year old

slept on Christmas. That was my last memory of Howard. He had been using junk for years. That Christmas, he put a needle in his arm for the last time. The coroner said it was an accidental overdose, but Howard knew what he was doing. He can continue. He knew the dose, he knew how much would be too much. I didn't tour again for years after that. I also left Rundown forever. Soon after Howard's death was the encore

to a bitter period in my life. Even the moments that should have been happy were a mess during that time. Something I would find out in front of the whole world. Soon enough, I pulled into l a X. I have a cap on some no one would recognize me. I jogged from the car to the terminal. I stagger in and find the large departures board. I look, but I can't see it. I'm scanning quickly now, but I still can't see it. Then I do, in big yellow letters.

I read it aloud, Duluth. Things should have been so much better than the way they were at this time of my life. I felt disinterested. I lacked confidence. I was hard on myself, too hard on myself. I didn't know what I wanted to be or where I was going. Life is meaningless. There were two moments in the nineties that should have been crowning glories, but both got away from me. They were both on a stage, they both featured legends introducing me, and they both fell apart. One

happened in Philadelphia, one in New York. One was at the John F. Kennedy Stadium, the other was at the Hilton. One was live Aid, the other was my induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. God, it was so hot that day. I had been drinking with Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood, which I wouldn't recommend before a performance, especially when you're performing with them. That's right. The Stones were my backing band that day, and they were drunk in New York. I wasn't drunk, but I had been

popping pills. One got me up, the other brought me down. The trick was finding a balance, which I would fail to do that night. It was chaos inside the JFK Stadium. Nothing had been planned. Guitars were everywhere, the lighting was all over the place. No one knew what was happening until the very last second. Not the right atmosphere for a show. The Hall of Fame night was the Obviously, it was fiercely planned. All of that night. All of the chaos was inside my head. In Philly, Jack Nicholson

introduced me in the band onto the stage. He said, some artists work speaks for its generation. It's my deep personal pleasure to present to you one of America's great voices of freedom, the transcendent Bob Dylan. Transcendent. I liked that description. The rest of the show. I didn't like it so much. It certainly wasn't a transcendent performance. Springsteen had the same job in New York. His words should have touched me. He said, the way that Elvis freed

your body, Bob freed your mind. Man, that was an honor, But at the time, it felt like he was talking about someone else, someone I didn't know, someone who died a long time ago. As I walked on to the stage to accept that award, I felt like a fraud. I didn't even recognize the person he was describing. As we walked onto the stage in Philly, the noise was immense, only matched by the wall of heat coming at us. I picked up my guitar and straight away the feedback

coursed around the stadium. It was deafening, a sign of things to come. I was nervous thinking of all those people watching. The expectation was overwhelming. It was the same in New York. God, I was so nervous. I mean, just look at the crowd that was watching me. Alan Lomax, Little Richard, Muhammad Ali. By the way, Muhammad Ali winst seven KOs five losses. I wondered what they all thought of the version of Bob Dylan that stood before them that day. I wondered if they still believed in him.

In Philly, there were so many big artists on that bill, Neil Young, the Beach Boys, led Zeppelin, some big contemporary artists as well, but Donna and Duran Durant, to name a few. I was the headliner, though all eyes on me. It was a worldwide event. It was a moment I had to say something important in that ballroom in New York. I had to give an acceptance speech. I took a moment to look at the crowd before starting. I mean, what could I say? I felt like asking the room

who the hell I was? To them? Who the hell I was to anyone? In the face of camera flashes, I cleared my throat and started by saying, thanks Bruce. We started the live aid set with the song Hollis Brown. It was supposed to be blowing in the Wind with a recently reformed Peter Paul and Mary, but I had changed my mind that day. Mary Travers was furious. That was the sort of headspace I was in, anxious, uncertain, lacking confidence. The same feelings had been circling before I

had taken the stage at the Hall of Fame. I'd mentioned how it was such an honor to be inducted, considering I couldn't read or write music. The comedian Tony Randall made some joke about finding me a teacher, and and it sounds stupid to say, but it devastated me. One joke, that's all it took. I couldn't shake it. I felt like I would be laughed at when I took the stage. That's all I was thinking about when giving my speech. The set it Live A had settled down.

In fact, halfway through Hollis Brown, Keith Richards tried to kiss the Sky with an acoustic guitar, which I admired. If anyone could kiss the sky with an acoustic Keith can At the end of the song, Keith delivered a huge shrugged the audience. Good on him for admitting that we didn't really know what the hell we were doing up there. I jumped back on the mic to say something. I was trying to make a point, but it kind of got lost. I wanted to make sure everyone in

need was being thought about that day. I wanted to highlight some of the problems I'd witnessed in my life, problems from my people. I said, I just like to say, I hope that some of the money that's raised for the people in Africa, maybe they could just take a little bit of it, maybe one or two million maybe and use it, say, to pay the mortgages some of the farmers, farmers here over the banks. It sounded like I was trying to take the focus off the point

of us all being there. But that wasn't my intention. Crowd cheered, but I knew it might not have played well. I guess it seemed unwise. American farmers may have been suffering hard times, but people in Africa were starving to death. I get it. It wasn't the time. But you know, despite people giving me a hard time, some good came out of it. Farm Made happened sometime later, raising money for those farmers. So I guess I won't take back what I said in New York. My nerves had managed

to survive much of my acceptance speech. In fact, I'd even cracked some jokes and people had laughed. I mean, you can't go wrong in that situation, can you. You're the hero of the night. But I felt so far removed from it. All of this, like I was at my own funeral, the Hall of Fame. Man I had earned something, but it also meant I'd failed at the one thing I'd been doing all this time. Changing. This felt like an ending, not a new beginning. I had

stopped evolving, stopped inventing, stopped transfiguring. Was that it would I no longer change. It was just the end of the road. I ended my speech that night by saying, peace, love, and harmony are greatly important, indeed, but so it's forgiveness, and we've got to have that too, forgiveness. I didn't really know who I was talking about when I said that. I didn't know who I was trying to get forgiveness from that night. Some years later, I realized it was

for myself. We'll be right back after this word word word. The car comes to an intersection and we wait. The driver lets the traffic go. We seem to wait there for what feels like an eternity. My palms are drenched in sweat. My breathing is shallow and very audible. Another car goes by, and another and another beyond them. Is the thing I've been staring at this whole time. Seventh Avenue, Hipping Minnesota, my childhood home. I've always liked punk rock.

My kids were young in the eighties, but they were still in the punk I used to slip into shows when I could. I'd leave my house in Malibu and go watch bands like X Once I went to Santa Monica to see the Clash. I like the ethos of it, the freedom of it. I wanted to perform in a band like that, just show up to a bar un announced and play a show without anyone knowing who the hell I was. Sometimes you forget who you've been in

another life. I might have made a punk album, but I've never really liked to go with the sound of the times, especially when they're changing so fast, you have to make your own way. I've always stuck to that. I made a reggae sounding record called Infidels with Mark Knopfler from Dire Streets. I had worked on The Slow Train LP with him, and by the time we came to work on Infidels, he was a big star. Sly and Robbie you know them. They played rhythm on that record. Man,

they could play. They made that album. Critics thought it was my return to secular music. Rubbish. There was plenty of the same type of stuff in there that had been on those so called Born Again albums. The difference was this LP. This one did well for me in a business sense, so much so that I had to make a pop video for it. MTV had become a thing artists had to pander too at that time, and I was no different. Then you left with something different.

Now I hate videos. That's not an art form to me. People call it an art form, but I disagree. I needed a band for the video, which I had, but we were missing a drum. I'm not talking about Sly and Robbie and the guys that played on the record. This was for the video, okay, So like all good rock stars in need, I turned to my tour manager's secretary's boyfriend. Obviously he was a drummer. We put him in the video. Charlie Quintana. That was his name. I liked him a lot. We got to chatting during the

video shoot. He's a good spirit, I admired. His attitude was very punk. Turns out his band was pretty good too. They called themselves the Plugs with a Z. On the end, there was a guy called Tony Marsco on bass. After the video shoot. I wanted to hang with these guys, so we set up a jam at my house. A few months later, when I was due to play the David Letterman Show, I thought, what the hell? I asked him if they wanted to come. So there's this story.

They had everything I liked about punk rock. They were raw rock us even they played like they were in the middle of a bar fight. It was so exciting. The guitarist was this guy JJ Holiday. He wasn't actually in the plugs, but J J. Holiday. What a name. The Letterman Show was pretty young at that time, only what a couple of years old. This was eighty four. I think Letterman he was punk too. You don't have to wear safety pins and spike your hair to be punk.

Letterman showed that it was anarchy on his show and all that changing and becoming something different. I wanted to be part of that, to prove that I could still change, still evolved into something new. We got to New York on taping day and checked into a fancy Park Avenue hotel. As we did, the guys told me the last time they played in New York, their managers slept in their van with a gun because they thought their drum kit would be stolen. Now they had their own hotel suite.

I was seeing it all through the band's eyes. It was like I was seeing this whole life for the first time again. It brought me such joy. We rehearsed fifty songs for the Letterman Show. I didn't tell the guys which ones I wanted to play. I like to keep the bands on their toes. It gives the performance an energy, especially for a band like that. Among those fifty we'd rehearsed were some Infidel's tunes and a Sunny Boy Williamson cover. That night on the show, Liberacci was

appearing with us. He was cooking an egg cast role. I'm not even joking, man, I told you that show was punk. As we waited to perform on the stage at Studio six, we faced a packed house. I took a look over at j J, who seemed to be both completely in awe of the whole thing but completely ready for it too. I could already feel the energy of the performance, and we hadn't even played a note yet. The house lights dimmed and the audience broke into applause.

I turned to the band and shouted let's do this Sunny Boys song to start. They nodded, except for JJ, who didn't even flinch. Without hesitation, Letterman gave us the old intro, and the place went crazy. I forgot what a crowd like that sounded like. I was used to the stereophonic din of the stadium or arena, but here in this theater, the crowd all whipped up this band hungry for blood. It felt exhilarating. We tore that place apart. I hadn't played like that in years. No, I hadn't

played like that ever, I still haven't. The audience couldn't get enough. We were only supposed to play a couple of tunes, but Letterman asked for another. Sure, I said, so we launched into another. The man agrees without hesitation. As we played the last song, Joker Man, we were flying. It was the best song of the night. I knew the harmonica solo would be the jewel in the crown, and I couldn't wait to play it. It would be even better than the harmonica solo I just played in

the previous song, Licensed to Kill. So when the moment came, I picked the harp up from the top of the martial lamp in blue. Uh, it was awful. It was the wrong harp, It was in the wrong key. It was the harp I had used for license to kill. The two notes I got out over the mic sounded like oh and never was there a true or musical equivalent of language. I shot eyes to the side of the stage, furious eyes, looking at the people scattering about, only just realizing what had happened. There we are on

network TV time, treading water. What was I supposed to do? I thought the whole thing, which up until this point had been incredible, was about to come crashing down. Can't continue? I felt like this was just typical of my time of late. Nothing seemed to be working. Even the things that started out good fell apart. I cursed the universe. This was like Rundown, like Howard, like Live Aid like. But then then the band they just got on with it.

I just said to them, keep on playing, so they did. Honestly, I've seen season pros thrown by stuff like that, but this little punk band was holding it together on national TV. In fact, they weren't holding it together. They were lighting it up without hesitation. The sound was incredible, slick, punky, I left it to him. They deserved the spotlight. After what felt like ours, the right harp was finally placed in my hands. We finished the song and the crowd

lost their minds. That incident with the harp represented what the show was, rough around the edges and chaotic, but a fucking classic. Man. I felt like I was in the Rolling Stones that night, and there wasn't even a rolling stone to deliver a big shrug afterwards, it gave me a brief moment of rebirth. Letterman asked me if we could come play every Tuesday night. I laughed, but honestly,

if he'd have been serious, I would have done it. Afterwards, a guy called Ed, who had been running back line duties on the show that night, apologized to me for the harmonica mess up. It turns out I told him the wrong key anyway, so I guess it was yours truly who was to blame. Grief stricken at his foolish action. The band partied that night, and Liberaci came along for

the ride. I got his egg casserole recipe too. At the end of the night, I told j J and the boys I'd give them a call and talk about a tour. I never did. In fact, I didn't see them again. Why that night, that moment, it was too pure. I didn't want it to be tainted to fall apart. I did, however, take one person from that night on tour with me, though. Can you guess who ed harmonica guy? He came on a European tour with me, and he never put out the wrong harmonica again. Minnesota, Palmero ran

down a quiet street near his home. He clutched a hockey stick and his teen aged hands and imagined he was in the Stanley Cup as his legs worked over. In time, he'd gone back home for lunch after another morning at Hipping High School. He flicked in imaginary puck. He shoots, he scores, and then stopped dead in his tracks. A car was parked in front of his house, and there were never any cars parked in front of his house. Two men sat inside the vehicle, one in the front,

the other in the back. Pat studied the car as he walked by, skeptically and couldn't quite believe what he thought. He saw. MA, that looks like Bob Dylan in that car. Pat announced to his mother Angel inside their house. Angel never met Bob Dylan, but she knew his mother, Betty Zimmerman. Angel bought the house she was standing in from Betty after her husband, Abe, Bob Dylan's father died from a heart attack. In Pat watched his mother walk outside and

approached the park car. She wrapped on the window. The man who emerged wore dark sunglasses, a baggy shirt, and scruffy pants. He removed his large shades, revealing tired eyes that had the remnants of eyeliner on them. Can I help you in some way? Angel asked. Though she didn't know Bob Dylan, she knew she was talking to Bob Dylan. Dylan looked down at the ground. He offered a bashful response, I was just going to Duluth, where my father's buried, and I just thought i'd come and see the house.

Angel looked back at the house and caught Pat's eyes as he watched through the window. Of course, she told Dylan my pleasure. Dylan felt the swelling of emotion as he made his way up the short path to the front door of the angular house. Angel let him in, and Dylan stepped inside for the first time in nearly two decades. He was greeted by a silent, intentative pat who could barely form any cohesive words. Feel free to have a look around was the only thing Angel could

think to say. Dylan looked lost. He turned to Angel and asked if she could give him the tour. He walked through the rooms with the two current residents, remembering things that had happened to three, even four lifetimes ago. He remembered whole moments he'd forgotten, home cooked meals from his mother, playing Little Richard's songs on the piano, the

side of sheets drying outside the kitchen window. When he asked Angel if they could go to the basement, she was taken aback, You want the full tour, she laughed. Dylan mustered a small smile, but couldn't hide his true emotions. Once downstairs, he told the story of how his father spent an entire winter putting up the pine paneling in the basement. He was still there. Dylan ran his hands over it as he spoke. He felt like he was touching his father again. The subterranean room was a time capsule.

I've got something for you if you'd like to see it, Angel said. From the back of the cupboard, she pulled out some plates Betty had left behind. Dylon held the plates in his hands, studying the design. He remembered them so clearly from his youth, but now in his hands at this moment, they seemed so different. The design was faded. The previous red and brown coloring that had been so bold and colorful now looked muted. We only used them to put left doors up for the birds now, Angel explained.

Dylan smiled, still clutching the plate. He was taken up to his old room. He climbed the stairs of the house, his body instinctively knowing the route that he made a million times, and Pad opened the door, but Dylan didn't go in. He stood in the doorway and took the whole room in from a distance so small it seemed to have shrunk over time. Then Dylan stepped inside the room.

His heart pounded, History and memory circled around him. He felt as though he stepped into a past life, like he was regressing, and everything he had become, everything he was, had been stripped away. In that room. He was bare. His accolades, his status, his money were all gone, and they were meaningless in this room. But so were all of his problems, his weariness, his mistakes, and they were all gone here. He was Bobby Zimmerman, not Bob Dylan.

He turned to look at Pat, who sat quietly on the bed, just in the way Dylan had done all those years ago. He felt like he was dancing in time, like he could zip back and forward, up and down his life's timeline at any given moment. And then, after just a few seconds of that intoxicating feeling, it was gone. He was Bob Dylan again. He thanked both Pat and Angel as he walked out the front door. Don't forget your souvenir, Pat said, picking up one of Betty's plates

that Dylan had tried to leave behind. As he walked back down that old path to the car, he looked at the plate with the faded design in his hands. He looked tired and dated. The red and brown and merged into one another. The closer we looked more just like Blood on the Tracks. Blood on the Tracks is produced by Double Elvis in partnership with I Heart Radio. It's hosted an executive produced by me Jake Brennan, also executive produced by Brady Sather. Zeth Lundi is lead editor

and producer. This episode was written by Ben Burrow, Story and copy editing by Pat Healey. Mixing and sound designed by Colin Fleming. Additional music and score elements by Ryan Spreaker.

This episode featured Chris Anzeloni is Bob Dylan. Sources for this episode are available at Double Elvis dot com on the Blood on the Tracks series page, follow Double Elvis on Insta, Graham at Double Office, and on Twitch at scrace Slant Talks, and you can talk to me per Usual on Instagram and Twitter at Disgraceland, Pond Rock and Roll, Dike Crazy or Dad