Read Online On the Road with Bob Dylan by Larry Sloman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Larry Sloman
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explanation of the sound leakage and tape hiss using sixteen-track tape but Dylan was in a playful mood.
“How about cutting it in mono, man, or 78? When was Dolby invented anyway?”
“We worked on it all last week,” DeVito explained, straight-faced.
“Let’s do it un-Dolbied,” Bob decided.
Take seven was called and Blakley kicked it off with some exotic, almost Middle Eastern chanting, but Dylan came in sloppily, like a drunken chorus. DeVito and Levy weren’t pleased.
“We ain’t gonna do it anymore,” Dylan said. “We’re gonna go.”
“C’mon, just do it once more with just Bob singing,” Levy suggested. “You’re getting too far away from it.”
Stoner came in in defense of Levy, reminding everyone that in Chicago at the PBS-TV taping Dylan sang it solo.
Dylan, pressured back into the studio, slowly pulled his guitar on. “How about doing ‘Who Killed Davey Moore,’” he quipped. “I need Albert Grossman. Send for Albert immediately, he’ll straighten this out. He’s a bulldozer. I want Ronee to sing again. Everybody wants Bob Dylan alone.” He frowned. He started up take eight, but midway, he blew the lines, singing the old version.
“Shit,” Dylan cursed, “I’m used to singing it that way. I like ‘bodies’ much better than ‘registers.’”
“Yeah,” DeVito cautioned, “but bodies are libelous, registers aren’t.”
The ninth take is called for and Blakley, dancing like a dervish, was in front of Bob as he worked into the cut, but there was no magic, and Dylan even forgot to do a harp break. Everyone looked wasted as they trudged into the control room for the playbacks. “In my humble opinion, this is nowhere, man,” Stoner groaned andsank onto the couch. Levy and DeVito were conferring over the tapes. “Don’t play back the one where she goes crazy,” Levy whispered to DeVito, and DeVito went right to take six, the most dynamic version. “We got to mix this song and press it tomorrow,” Dylan said. Levy asked Stoner for an opinion. “I don’t know, it’s too late,” Stoner moaned again. “I can’t tell. But I can’t hear the famous magic of the August take.” Dylan, meanwhile, was small-talking about his diet. “I always eat hot peppers the first thing when I wake up,” he smiled at Ronee, “it sets my day off, it’s fantastic.”
“Yeah,” DeVito chuckled, “Ol’ Red Eyes is back.”
It was 4 A.M. and DeVito cued up the sixth take again. “I like this one,” Bob said, “but I like the intro to seven better. Where’s John Hammond? He’d know.” Levy meanwhile was still pressing for one more take. Dylan demurred. “But we promised the record would go right out. What’s with these guys,” he moaned to Louie, “one more, one more. I feel like Robert Johnson. But if it’s a test to see who can outlast who, we’ll stay till the end.”
The talk turned to food, a favorite topic in the encapsulated world of recording studios. “Hey, did ya hear about the time T-Bone went down to Umberto’s?” Dylan asked. “He was just sitting there when he felt something strange about his seat, and it turned out to be a bullet hole. They sat him at the chair where Joey got shot.”
“Did you know his bodyguard, Pete the Greek, got shot in the ass?” Levy added. “They found twelve hundred dollars in cash in the Greek’s pocket, too.” Kemp jumped in then and told a story about a cop who shot someone up the rectum. “C’mon,” Levy nudged Bob, “go to work before you pass out.”
So, for the last time, Dylan walked back into the studio. Luther had already left, everyone else looked wiped. It was 4:20 when the tenth take started, and everything was fine until Dylan hit the line about robbing the “bodies.” The music came to an abrupt halt.
“Let ’Em sue,” Bob cursed. “CBS’ll drown him. Hey, my vision is going, I’m seeing double.”
But they prodded him into one last take, not a bad one at that, only one slight mistake in
“How about cutting it in mono, man, or 78? When was Dolby invented anyway?”
“We worked on it all last week,” DeVito explained, straight-faced.
“Let’s do it un-Dolbied,” Bob decided.
Take seven was called and Blakley kicked it off with some exotic, almost Middle Eastern chanting, but Dylan came in sloppily, like a drunken chorus. DeVito and Levy weren’t pleased.
“We ain’t gonna do it anymore,” Dylan said. “We’re gonna go.”
“C’mon, just do it once more with just Bob singing,” Levy suggested. “You’re getting too far away from it.”
Stoner came in in defense of Levy, reminding everyone that in Chicago at the PBS-TV taping Dylan sang it solo.
Dylan, pressured back into the studio, slowly pulled his guitar on. “How about doing ‘Who Killed Davey Moore,’” he quipped. “I need Albert Grossman. Send for Albert immediately, he’ll straighten this out. He’s a bulldozer. I want Ronee to sing again. Everybody wants Bob Dylan alone.” He frowned. He started up take eight, but midway, he blew the lines, singing the old version.
“Shit,” Dylan cursed, “I’m used to singing it that way. I like ‘bodies’ much better than ‘registers.’”
“Yeah,” DeVito cautioned, “but bodies are libelous, registers aren’t.”
The ninth take is called for and Blakley, dancing like a dervish, was in front of Bob as he worked into the cut, but there was no magic, and Dylan even forgot to do a harp break. Everyone looked wasted as they trudged into the control room for the playbacks. “In my humble opinion, this is nowhere, man,” Stoner groaned andsank onto the couch. Levy and DeVito were conferring over the tapes. “Don’t play back the one where she goes crazy,” Levy whispered to DeVito, and DeVito went right to take six, the most dynamic version. “We got to mix this song and press it tomorrow,” Dylan said. Levy asked Stoner for an opinion. “I don’t know, it’s too late,” Stoner moaned again. “I can’t tell. But I can’t hear the famous magic of the August take.” Dylan, meanwhile, was small-talking about his diet. “I always eat hot peppers the first thing when I wake up,” he smiled at Ronee, “it sets my day off, it’s fantastic.”
“Yeah,” DeVito chuckled, “Ol’ Red Eyes is back.”
It was 4 A.M. and DeVito cued up the sixth take again. “I like this one,” Bob said, “but I like the intro to seven better. Where’s John Hammond? He’d know.” Levy meanwhile was still pressing for one more take. Dylan demurred. “But we promised the record would go right out. What’s with these guys,” he moaned to Louie, “one more, one more. I feel like Robert Johnson. But if it’s a test to see who can outlast who, we’ll stay till the end.”
The talk turned to food, a favorite topic in the encapsulated world of recording studios. “Hey, did ya hear about the time T-Bone went down to Umberto’s?” Dylan asked. “He was just sitting there when he felt something strange about his seat, and it turned out to be a bullet hole. They sat him at the chair where Joey got shot.”
“Did you know his bodyguard, Pete the Greek, got shot in the ass?” Levy added. “They found twelve hundred dollars in cash in the Greek’s pocket, too.” Kemp jumped in then and told a story about a cop who shot someone up the rectum. “C’mon,” Levy nudged Bob, “go to work before you pass out.”
So, for the last time, Dylan walked back into the studio. Luther had already left, everyone else looked wiped. It was 4:20 when the tenth take started, and everything was fine until Dylan hit the line about robbing the “bodies.” The music came to an abrupt halt.
“Let ’Em sue,” Bob cursed. “CBS’ll drown him. Hey, my vision is going, I’m seeing double.”
But they prodded him into one last take, not a bad one at that, only one slight mistake in
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