7
Bob Dylan
1965
I’m reading Bob Dylan’s Some Other Kinds Songs on the liner notes of his Another
Side album. This is poetry I can understand.
I can’t understand the odes we learn in English class. Beauty is truth, truth
beauty. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know. Our English teacher
can’t see it, but that’s wrong! I can’t understand ‘beauty is truth’ but I can
understand watching some suicide about to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and
concluding, ‘deep in my heart i really wanted t see him jump’.
The Sydney Morning Herald features cover photo of Allan’s art teacher with a
woman on his shoulders as part of the crowd waiting at Sydney Airport for Bob
Dylan. Allan says this is one cool teacher – he drives a scooter, plays banjo in a
band called the Original Battersea Heroes and is always in trouble with the
headmaster, which is a good achievement for a teacher.
I locate Allan’s Angry Young Them LP, which I’ve got to return, lock the house
from the back, pull my bike out from under the house and peddle up Apps
Avenue, up Eastern Road and to Turramurra Central – The Tuz – to the two-
bedroom flat on the corner of Duff Street where Allan now lives with his Mum.
Clayton has already arrived and is sitting on the lounge room carpet, surrounded
by records and biscuits. I join him while Allan fetches drinks from the fridge.
‘Boy, Crosslands Camp was fun!’ I exclaim.
Crosslands is a church camp on the Hawkesbury River and we made a real
nuisance of ourselves over the last four days. We were the ‘Boys of Hut 5’ who
set a new record for misconduct. Between us we covered stealing, sex, swearing,
smoking and drinking alcohol.
It wasn’t just Allan, Clayton and me, there was eight of us in Hut 5. One night Bob
Bath and his mate Rob raided the caretaker’s garden and stole his prizewinning
watermelon. The owner was almost in tears when he made the announcement.
He called it ‘theft’ but how could Bathy be expected to know that watermelons
are prize-winning objects?
That’s where I meet John Bucknall who does whatever he pleases. He doesn’t just
hide from church, like us, he flatly refused to get out of bed. So when the pastors
check the rooms for church-avoiders John simply says, ‘No way, piss off!’ which
certainly impresses me. Plus he has a car, so he drives off with Clayton and
smokes.
Allan and I got in trouble for pinching a rowboat and taking two girls up-river
and we’re trying to keep secret what we did, but everybody knows. They know
because the four of us got called out at Combined Worship and we were made to
stand separately in the four corners of the room where everyone could see us
while the pastor berated everyone about the evils of whatever fornication is.
Clayton got the hots for Annette, Janice got sweet on Allan and I started thinking
about Irene. Then John’s brother Pete showed up on his motorbike, had sex with
an ugly chick (a ‘mole’) in our room and left before we knew it. ‘I saw it,’ John
admitted, ‘It was a horrible sight’
‘That’s really funny,’ I laugh, ‘while we’re singing Nearer My God To Thee there’s
all this terrible sex happening in our hut and Pastor Hankinson couldn’t do
anything about it because Pete is just a visitor who’s got nothing to do with the
church’. And so we talk about personal freedoms and the stolen watermelon.
Between the eight of us we Hut 5 Boys had everything covered. Bath and his
gang, did all the practical pranks. John carried a franger at all times.
The three of us have so much to talk about that it’s difficult to get around to my
important Dylan news. We talk instead about Clayton’s new trousers that drop
straight down from the knee. They’re tailored by Andy Ellis Exclusive Menswear
who - Clayton explains - makes suits for lots of Australian entertainers like Col
Joye, John Laws, Brian Henderson, Johnny O’Keefe and Billy Thorpe and the
Aztecs.
‘How’d you get onto him?’ I ask.
‘Through Kevin.’
‘Did you see the clipping of Kevin in the Sunday paper?’ asks Allan, now that
Kevin’s release of Poison Ivy is a hit record now for Billy Thorpe & the Aztecs. ‘He
goes by the name of Brian Vogue!’
‘Brian Vogue?’ laughs Clayton.
‘Brian Vogue!’
‘He’s gonna be like Brian Epstein.’
*
‘Hey guys, I’ve got real big news…’, I interject.
Allan continues, ‘Kev was in the social pages’.
‘Speaking of relos…’ says Clay – glancing at the chessboard on which I’m setting
up the pieces, ‘How’s Ken?’
‘He leaves for Vietnam in three weeks time.’
‘Really?’
None of us are comfortable with Vietnam. We couldn’t point to it on a map, but
somehow we wonder whether we mightn’t end up there. After all, our
grandparents had a war and our parents had one too.
‘Yeah, Ken leaves on the 6th May. But guys…’, changing the subject, ‘…I’ve got real
big news’.
‘What is it?’
‘Bob Dylan’s playing the Sydney Stadium!’
‘Is that good?’
‘C’mon guys, I think we should chuck Subterranean Homesick Blues on the
turntable to celebrate!’
‘Aw, I dunno,’ drawls Allan, making tea, ‘I think we should play Them, seeing as
you’ve returned it. Whaddya reckon Clayton?’
‘I think we should play the Righteous Brothers.’
‘Great idea!’
‘Cut it out guys,’ I beg.
‘And you want us to go with you Saturday night at the Stadium? Is that it?’
‘How bout it?’ I shrug. There is no sense in tryin’…
‘Sorry Lowell,’ says Clayton, ‘I haven’t got any money, remember?’
‘Why not?’ Allan is surprised.
‘He gave it to Tom Borody,’ I explain, ‘to teach him a lesson’.
‘To teach him that money doesn’t matter,’ explains Clayton.
‘I’m sure he was very grateful!’ says Allan, clearly annoyed, ‘I’ll go with you
Lowell’.
‘What about Rae?’
‘We’re arguing.’
‘What about Little Byrd?’
‘She found out about Rae.’
‘Dylan is actually in Sydney now!’ I exclaim, ‘It’s the most important event in the
history of Australia! I’m going to check out the afternoon papers.’
‘We’ll come too.’
Allan pulls on his Manfred Mann skivvy, Clayton grabs his Andy Ellis coat and we
head for the Turramurra Newsagency.
While Clayton wonders whether he’ll see Annette again, I talk incessantly about
what I’ll wear on Saturday night and whether Dylan will perform It’s All Right
Ma, I’m Only Bleeding.
We cross the railway bridge, the zebra crossing and I grab a paper and – yes! -
there he is, on page 3! It’s a photograph of Dylan sneering at the reporters at a
press conference and it reads. ‘Dylan says, “Australia is not a very nice place for a
lot of people – like Orientals or Negroes, I mean you don’t even have any baseball
here!”’ Is he worried about racism or sport?
The photo is Dylan in a polka-dot shirt with tousled hair, which is a big break for
me. I can’t have Brian Jones hair like Allan nor Pretty Things hair like Clayton,
but I can do Dylan.
*
I get home in time for supper with Mum and Dad, who have no interest in Bob
Dylan because of his voice. It’s all right ma, it’s life and life only…Mum is relieved
though, that he doesn’t do ‘zat terrible nyah nyah nyah’ which is, of course, Rock
an Roll’.
I call on Michael Braun and tell him all about the church camp, Bob Dylan,
everything. Slightly younger sister Katie and their Mum listen in until I find
myself talking more to Mrs Braun that to Michael. She wants to know all about
Dylan’s press conference. Even though I’m certain she must have already seen it
on the news, Mrs Braun wants to hear it from me.
‘They asked him whether protest music was fake…’
‘And what did he reply?’ she says.
‘He said huh,’ I answer. And Michael and Katie laugh. ‘They asked if he was a
professional beatnik, he said huh. They asked about his parents, he said huh. He
did that four times. He’s so great!’
‘We saw him interview himself on the news,’ she adds.
‘He says every word has its big letter and little letter and I can understand that:
love is not the same as Love. And he says he doesn’t play folk-rock, just
“instruments”. That’s so true isn’t it? Wow!’ I gasp.
Mrs Braun says folk-rock is interesting and that Katie should keep practicing
guitar.
We sit around the kitchen table and she says, ‘I’ve got a younger brother…his
name is Richard – Richard Neville.’
‘Why do I know that name?’
‘OZ magazine perhaps?’
‘The uni thing?’
‘Yes, kinda.’
Mrs Braun explains that Richard will miss the Dylan concert because he’s leaving
for London tomorrow. His travel-mate is the OZ magazine artist, Martin Sharp’.
‘That’s a good name!’ I exclaim.
*
Next day it’s school where we get a new poetry book called Nine Poets, which I
hope is more interesting than the last one. Everyone’s seen Dylan on the news so
when the English class is getting boring I stick my up and tell Mr Vetter that
Dylan is a greater poet than Wordsworth and to prove it, I ask to read Gates of
Eden to the class.
‘Oh no’, he says, ‘that would be silly’.
Heather thinks I should, John and Adrian want to hear it too, Janice and Andrew
agree, in fact everyone thinks it’s a good idea except the teacher. He can’t cope
with a young generation of poets, so he shuts us down.
‘Moving on,’ he says, waving the slim brown-coloured edition of Sohrab and
Rustum around, ‘Who’s read this all the way through?’
Most haven’t, because this Matthew Arnold poem is 21 pages long. I am among
the few who have.
‘After what you’ve been saying, I’m surprised you read it, Lowell,’ says Vetter.
‘It moved me to tears,’ I reply, which I don’t think anybody believes, ‘but Bob
Dylan’s still a real poet too’.
‘Shut up about Bob Dylan!’ says Greg.
‘He’s playing the Stadium tomorrow night!’
‘I don’t care, I’m taking Carmen to the speedway!’
*
Allan and I make plans for tomorrow night – checking what to wear, whether
we’ve got enough money for a train to Central, bus to Rushcutters Bay plus
entrance fee. We figure we’ll meet at church, leave immediately, eat at my place,
play music all afternoon and head off before tea-time.
‘Do you know what Dylan said when the press asked him how many folk singers
were in New York?’
‘No,’ Allan replies.
‘137!’
‘That’s a good one!’
‘Do you know what he told the press when they asked, “who is Queen Jane”?’
‘What?’
‘Queen Jane is a man!’
‘Groovy,’ says Allan tuning his guitar, ‘Let’s run through a few songs.’
First, a Them song, Don’t Start Crying Now which I sing. Next another Them song,
Call My Name, which Allan sings. Then another Them song, Gloria which Allan
sings, but feels good with my style of playing. Thrash thrash thrash. Then we sing
the Stones’ Tell Me together, and then we’re into Pretty Flamingo, Do Wah Diddy
Diddy, Heart of Stone…that’s how we spend the afternoon before the Dylan
concert, playing guitar with my father every now and then sticking his head in
the bedroom door and saying things like, ‘It’s sabbath, they don’t sound like
hymns to me!’ No, I guess they don’t.
Anyway, it’s time to go. Allan is dressed in an In-Shoppe shirt and jacket, cord
pants and Beatle boots. I go to the bathroom and smear my hair with a non-
greasy hair product that makes it look longer. Allan doesn’t have to worry about
that, his hair is long enough to get him into trouble at school.
‘Did Clayton get a date with Annette?’
‘He didn’t try,’ says Allan, ‘He’s going out with the Bucknall boys instead. Let’s
go’.
‘Bye Mum, bye Dad!’ I call out.
‘Agh, eets cold. Av you got a vest on?’ says Mum, rushing from the kitchen, pulling
me up at the door and peeking between the buttonholes of my shirt.
‘Yes Mum, I’m wearing a singlet.’
‘Don’t be too late home,’ my father calls out from the chess room.
Then, just as Allan and I about to open the door there’s a knock.
‘Expecting someone?’ I enquire.
‘Oui,’ says Mum, ‘Eets Miss Burgess bringing me a lickle bit of sewing’.
But it isn’t Miss Burgess, it’s Stewart and his friend Bill, carrying a brand new
electric guitar and amp.
‘We’ve thought about it,’ says Stewart humping the gear into my room, ‘And
we’ve decided to join you and Allan in a band. Bill’s going to buy a drum kit. Hey,
you’re all dressed up - what are you guys up to?’
‘Nothing…’
‘Anyway,’ Stewart continues nodding to Bill, ‘We thought Allan’s suggestion was
a great name’.
‘One Too Many?’
‘No, Three’s Company.’
‘Cos there’s four of us!’ laughs Bill. ‘What’s going on? Were you guys rehearsing?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well, we’ll join you,’ says Stewart proudly opening the case and showing off his
brand new electric guitar, which is as flash an instrument as money can buy.
Stewart left school last year. He’s got a job.
‘How much?’ asks Allan, caressing the body and fingering the frets.
‘With the amp, three hundred pounds.’
‘Let’s play!’ says Bill.
‘Aw, let’s kick back and get in the mood first,’ says Allan, ‘maybe play a few
records first’.
‘Sure,’ says Stewart, ‘What have you got in mind?’
‘Subterranean Homesick Blues,’ says Allan, putting a record on the turntable.
Then we jam for a couple of hours. I check the clock and suppose that while
Dylan is crossing the stage at the Stadium, and Mrs Braun’s brother and his artist
friend with the cool name are on a place heading for London, Allan, Bill, Stewart
and me are in my bedroom in North Turramurra, strumming.