A Freewheelin' Time (18 page)

I identified with the men in the film, not the women, who seemed insignificant in the midst of these wild, funny, and offbeat guys. I wanted to be them but didn’t know how. I envied their freedom.

Many years later when I saw the film again, I was shaken by that memory. This time I was cognizant of the women and their role in the story. They were inconsequential and extraneous in the way a prop is part of a set. At worst they were nags, ruining all the fun with their talk. In the narration the men have names, but the women are Wife and Sister. I saw the female characters as recognizing and accepting their sidekick role in the lives of their men. It was depressing. It was beyond imagining that women could be part of wild, free craziness, too.

Marx Brothers movies were the favored un–Hollywood Technicolor extravaganzas. In those years, Hollywood films played in the big palacelike theaters around Forty-second Street. The only movie theater like that in the Village was the Loew’s at Greenwich Avenue and Twelfth Street, now long gone. Weeklong festivals of Marx Brothers movies were held at the New Yorker theater on the Upper West Side. Up until then I had only seen their movies on a small TV so it was great fun to see them on a big screen.

The downtown theaters such as the Bleecker Street Cinema had festivals of Japanese, French, and Italian movies. And there were artists, or maybe they saw themselves as filmmakers, who scratched and painted directly on film stock and then showed the results at obscure venues in the East Village. Some of these were fascinating and others were sleep inducing, but all of them set the groundwork for Andy Warhol and his endless films. I remember going with Bob to a loft somewhere and watching one of Warhol’s films, a work in progress. Bob didn’t think much of the film or of Warhol. His taste in movies could be quite conventional. Storytelling was important.

The New Wave films from France were a revelation. It was important to see François Truffaut’s first feature film,
The 400 Blows,
and Alfred Hitchcock’s
Psycho,
which came out the same year and were filmed in black and white. The shower scene in
Psycho
was so over-the-top shocking that the blood pouring down the bathtub drain appeared to be truly red.

When Bob and I saw Truffaut’s
Shoot the Piano Player,
we were both transfixed. We loved it. The film is sad, a tragedy, yet it is not bleak; it is also absurd and very funny. The story moves with the rhythm of life: slow and hesitant followed by bursts of frenzy, without resolution. So true—life just goes on. I have seen it many times over the years and it is still one of my favorite movies. Charles Aznavour, the French singer whose records I later heard in Italy, played the main character with a heartbreaking acceptance of how things are in the world.

Not long after we saw
Shoot the Piano Player
we went to see
Last Year at Marienbad
by another French filmmaker of the New Wave, Alain Resnais. That film was totally incomprehensible, and as we walked out of the movie theater Bob said that in the last scene the camera should have slowly pulled away to reveal a sign over an entrance gate: “Marienbad Insane Asylum.”

That would’ve saved the movie, he suggested.

SUBTEXT

H
ad my father not died when my sister and I were still young girls, he would have expanded on what he’d already taught us—to value ourselves—and possibly equipped us with some practical knowledge on how to manage our lives. At least that is what I thought having a father meant. But it was not to be. So off we went into our adulthoods armed with what we had learned so far.

Carla and I had similar interests and similar talents, but our approaches to living our lives were very different. We looked out for each other, each in our own way, but she couldn’t handle my way unless it was hers. She was smart and tough but also fanciful. I was fanciful and unbound but also centered. We were told as children that I took after my father in looks and temperament while Carla and my mother were two peas in a pod. Carla did receive the gift of a beautiful singing voice from my father, though, whereas I got stuck with my mother’s really good ear but without the ability to reproduce what I heard. I grew taller than my big sister and inherited the blond hair and blue green eyes that came from my father’s Sicilian family, while Carla inherited my mother’s dark hair and big dark eyes. Although many people said we looked exactly alike despite our coloring, there were just as many who saw no resemblance at all.

I did not learn how to walk in the world from my mother but I did learn from her how to revel in my imagination. Having never finished high school, she was entirely self-educated and forever curious, and she passed on her curiosity. She showed her daughters the world of books, music, and art. She read the great poets of the world to us as well as
Winnie the Pooh
and
The Wizard of Oz.
My favorite book, which I carried around like a Bible wherever I went in those nomadic years, was her 1910 edition of
Twelve Centuries of English Poetry and Prose.
When we could read on our own, we did so with gusto because of her enthusiasm. That was an important gift worth treasuring.

Because my mother was also very political, she taught us about equality, that all men are created equal, and instilled in us a sense of justice. Her belief in Communism was based in these beliefs, and neither she nor my father was doctrinaire or an apologist for Stalin. They were far more freewheeling in their following of Communism, but the repressive climate of the forties and fifties meant there was no place for people like them to discuss the theories of Karl Marx and how those theories were put into practice in the Soviet Union. Many who might have made a difference in the direction of the American Communist Party either got fed up and quit or kept quiet and toed the party line. A siege mentality prevailed; a united front was necessary.

As the Cold War raged, the postwar economy was booming. Men went to work and women were happy homemakers who smoked, drank cocktails, raised children, and wore girdles. Working-class families aspired to move to the suburbs and have a two-car garage. Everything was hunky-dory. Meanwhile, the fear of a nuclear war was ever present: children wore dog tags around their necks and every school had “duck and cover” air raid drills. Loyalty oaths had to be signed in workplaces and schools.

Segregation was a way of life. In the South, water fountains were clearly marked For White and For Colored. Black and white musicians on tour in the same band couldn’t stay in the same hotel. Even hugely successful African American performers were subjected to these indignities.

I grew up in that 1950s lockdown on anything that deviated from the pastel norm. Fear of “the other,” that dark cloud looming over the shiny chrome of a sleek new car, ready to sully it, ruled the day. Communists were behind Negroes’ demands for equality. Rhythm and blues and rock and roll were torrid and sweaty the way Pat Boone and his ilk could never be. Beat poets and James Dean were stoking rebellion and delivering angst to an eager audience. For a kid like me, who grew up hiding, knowing I came from “the other,” it was a relief to find some company on the big screen and in the streets. And those who knew in their lonely souls that something else had to be out there finally found what they were looking for and shed their pastels for indigo.

The times would soon be a-changin’:

The line it is drawn

The curse it is cast

The slow one now

Will later be fast

As the present now

Will later be past

The order is

Rapidly fadin’.

And the first one now

Will later be last

For the times, they are a-changin’.

Record Time

The
Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
cover photograph came about rather casually; it certainly wasn’t planned or produced in any way. Columbia Records was sending a photographer to the apartment on West Fourth Street to take pictures of Bob for publicity purposes and possibly for the cover of his new, as-yet-untitled second album. We got up early that morning to make sure the place would be in order when the photographer and Billy James, a publicist at Columbia, showed up.

Bob chose his rumpled clothes carefully. I put on a sweater and on top of that a sweater that was a bulky knit belonging to Bob. As usual, the apartment was cold. It had snowed a few days earlier and it was one of those damp New York City winter days that chill to the bone.

Billy James arrived with the photographer, Don Hunstein, who was on staff at Columbia Records. Billy always wore suits even when he was hanging out downtown, or at least that is how I remember him. Despite the formality of his clothing, he fit in wherever he went. He was a genial and honest guy. Bob liked him, and so did I.

The apartment was tiny and there really wasn’t anyplace to go to get out of the way. While Don Hunstein was setting up his equipment, Billy showed me one of his cameras, a Hasselblad, which was beautiful to look at, and into. I loved peering down into the big square viewfinder that showed the crisply framed scene in front of me.

Don took some shots of Bob with and without his guitar, sitting on the big, faded gold-colored stuffed armchair that was a street find. It could have been Billy or Don, or possibly Bob, who suggested I get in the picture while Bob played and sang. I felt self-conscious and a bit silly, but Billy knew how to make an awkward situation feel natural, and I relaxed some. In any case, Bob and I related to each other intensely; that was hard not to pick up on.

We were all having a good time, and after a bit Don suggested we go outside. Bob put on his suede jacket. It was an “image” choice because that jacket was not remotely suited for the weather. I don’t care that he was from the cold North Country—he was bound to freeze going out in that—but maybe we wouldn’t be outside for very long. When I was in Italy I had bought a loden green coat that I loved dearly, even though I knew it wasn’t suitable for a New York winter. I put it on over the big bulky sweater and tightly tied the belt of the coat around me for warmth. I felt like an Italian sausage. Out we all went.

I huddled next to Bob as we walked up and down Jones Street per instructions from Don and encouraging smiles from Billy. Bob stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and leaned into me. We walked the length of Jones Street facing West Fourth with Bleecker Street at our backs. The snow on the streets was slushy and filthy from the traffic. The sidewalks were icy and slippery, but at least there wasn’t much of a wind blowing. To keep warm we started horsing around. Don kept clicking away. A delivery van pulled up and parked, so we turned onto West Fourth Street. In some of the outtakes it is obvious that by then we were freezing; certainly Bob was, in that thin jacket. But image was all.

Taking a break to warm up some, I ran up the front steps of the apartment building and watched from behind the front door with Billy James while Don took some shots of Bob on West Fourth Street by himself.

My guess is the day ended with a warm meal on Columbia Record’s tab. It was much later that decisions were made about the cover. I don’t recall that Bob had any control over the photo they chose, but I know he was happy with it. I was surprised they didn’t use one of Bob by himself.

I remember discussions about the title but I don’t remember who suggested it. The choice of the word
freewheeling
sounds like something either John Hammond or Albert Grossman might have come up with. But the spelling, with the dropped
g
at the end, is all Bob. During his early years, he was adamant about writing down words as spoken by everyday people. He chopped off the ends of words like a hiker hacking a path through the woods, machete in hand.

Early in his career, Bob didn’t have much control over how his work was presented and marketed. The people at Columbia certainly listened to his opinions and Albert could fight for a change or a compromise; but Bob didn’t have the kind of power he would have in years to come. As for me, I was never given a release to sign or paid anything. It never dawned on me to ask. No one gave it a thought back in 1963. Don Hunstein was on the payroll of Columbia Records so I believe he just got paid for a good day’s work.

Looking back from the present, the age of über-marketing, the story of how the cover came about seems genuinely innocent, bordering on sweet. But it is one of those cultural markers that influenced the look of album covers precisely because of its casual, down-home spontaneity and sensibility. Most album covers were carefully staged and controlled, to terrific effect on the Blue Note jazz album covers, with their snappy graphics and beautiful black-and-white photographs, and to not-so-great effect on the perfectly posed and clean-cut pop and folk albums. Whoever was ultimately responsible for choosing that particular photograph for
The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
really had an eye for a new look.

The album spoke the time-honored language of youth and rebellion against the status quo, and the cover embodied the image. The songs had something to say. It was folk music, but it was really rock and roll.

COLUMBIA CONVENTIONS

As
The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
was about to be released, Bob was scheduled to appear on
The Ed Sullivan Show.
He was very excited about the album and gave away a few copies of the first pressing to close friends.

Freewheelin’
included a satirical song Bob had written about the John Birch Society, a right-wing group that believed insidious Communists had infiltrated every facet of American life. At Columbia Records, the inclusion of the song, “Talkin’ John Birch Paranoid Blues,” was a controversial one, considering the wintry politics of the Cold War.

Bob decided to sing the song for the
Ed Sullivan Show
appearance. He sang it at the afternoon rehearsal for the evening show. It was a humorous Woody Guthrie–style talking-blues song in the voice of a John Birch Society member who is searching for Communists—investigating everything and everyone—and ends up investigating himself, hoping he won’t find anything. CBS exerted pressure and Ed Sullivan apologetically but firmly suggested that Bob sing something else.

Bob was furious. He had spent some time with a blacklisted performer, John Henry Faulk, who had recently won a case against CBS and written a book about his ordeal called
Fear on Trial.
Bob was very interested in the subject of the blacklist and censorship, whose repercussions and absurdities were still apparent in the popularity of groups like the John Birch Society. He called me from the rehearsal studio in a fit. With remnants of McCarthy-era political censorship still in place in 1963, Bob Dylan refused to appear on the
Ed Sullivan Show.
That was that.

The fiasco over Bob’s actions created problems for Columbia, but Albert Grossman, a wise and thorough manager, handled the situation deftly. He huddled with Bob and Columbia and worked out a compromise that removed the “controversial” John Birch song from a new version of
Freewheelin’
that would be released instead. Bob was content to substitute “Rambling Gambling Willie” and “Let Me Die in My Footsteps” for songs he had written and recorded more recently: “Masters of War,” “Talkin’ World War III Blues,” and “Bob Dylan’s Dream.” And so he agreed to cut the John Birch song from the final version of the album, which was officially released in May.

I
n July, when the incident was pretty much over and done with, Bob was to attend a one-week Columbia Records convention in Puerto Rico. Bob and I were booked at the Americana Hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Dylan because that was the only way we could have a room together. It became a running gag; we called each other “wife” and “husband” and had a hard time keeping a straight face when the hotel staff addressed us as “Mr.” or “Mrs.” We felt like naughty kids who had gotten away with something.

We were under the impression that we’d spend most of our time hanging out at the hotel pool in bathing suits, drinking things with tiny paper umbrellas in them, until it was time for Bob to perform for the movers and shakers who had come to see the new talent Columbia had signed. The point of the convention was to introduce the new talent to the sales force. There was a huge blowup of the cover of the
Freewheelin’
album in the lobby of the Americana Hotel.

Village bohemian that I was, I didn’t bring the right clothes or shoes for the convention and the various functions with Columbia Record executives and sales people that it turned out we were expected to attend. The early 1960s were still under the auspices of the 1950s dress code. People were expected to dress properly for the occasion. Women and girls did not wear pants—let alone blue jeans—to restaurants, offices, theaters, schools, or the dentist’s office. It was unheard of. Men wore suits and ties pretty much everywhere. If you lived in the outer boroughs, you dressed up to go into Manhattan. If you lived downtown, you dressed up to go uptown. The whole point of living in Greenwich Village was that you didn’t have to cater to conventions of this sort. And we didn’t.

The only dress I’d packed was a short and simple summer shift I had made, and the only shoes I had with me were a pair of Allan Block sandals. The sandals were beautifully handmade, but they were not delicate or elegant in any way. They had thick leather soles molded to the contour of the foot, with dark leather straps the width of fettuccine that laced up the ankle. Goddard Lieberson, the head of Columbia Records, had invited us to dinner at a fancy restaurant and I didn’t have anything but those sandals to wear with my dress. I hadn’t given any thought to the social requirements before leaving the city, but suddenly at the convention I became uncomfortably aware of them.

My sister, who had lobbied hard to come with us to Puerto Rico, had packed the right kind of clothes and shoes and therefore was prepared to go anywhere. She told me: If you wear a pair of high heels, pretty much any dress will pass muster.

That was a lesson given too late—here we were, after all—and there wasn’t much I could do about it. It was advice I never would have heeded, anyway. I was capable of following convention when necessary, but I was—and am—one of those women who could never manage to walk in high heels.

Goddard Lieberson was a very worldly, genteel man yet quite down to earth. If he minded the way Bobby and I looked, and no doubt acted, he never let on. In fact, I think he enjoyed it on some level. My sister made a good impression on him that evening; he was charmed by her vast knowledge of music, and when she went back to New York he sent her a collection of classical music albums. Carla—Bobby called her Carla-in-law—had nothing but disdain for the way Bob comported himself. He didn’t schmooze with the suits—didn’t make small talk with the executives or salesmen. In her eyes, he made no effort of any kind to be polite to anyone. As for me, her baby sister, well, what could she expect from someone who chose to be with a boy who behaved as Bob did?

Tony Bennett, walking by with a Columbia bigwig in the hotel lobby, both of them wearing suits and ties, pointed to Bob, in scruffy jeans and shirt and most likely Allan Block sandals, and asked who he was.

The Columbia executive said something like: Oh, he is the new young singer that John Hammond signed.

No doubt puzzled, Bennett nodded as they continued on their way.

Who knows what went through Bennett’s mind that evening when Bob got up with his acoustic guitar and performed a few songs from his new album? “Hammond’s folly” was what many in the record industry thought for a time. Bob’s first album, which Hammond had also produced, had sold poorly and Bob was totally out of sync with the suave and classy artists recording on the Columbia label. The
Freewheelin’
album, however, was catching on in a way that none of them could have predicted.