YET ANOTHER SIDE OF BOB DYLAN

You remember Bob Dylan, don’t you? Folk; hero of the sixties? Nobody could write with a political twist like he could, right? Solidarity with the downtrodden, oppressed and all that. Well if it made sense then, it makes more sense now. It makes sense to Dylan now too, so he joined an all-star cast of folkies and others raising money for survivors and refugees from the fascist military coup in Chile. Organizing the affair was Phil Ochs, who managed to convince Arlo Guthrie, Melanie, Pete Seeger, The Living Theater, Melvin Van Peebles, and Dennis Hopper,, along with Dylan, to play the Madison Square Garden Felt Forum show. The benefit was called “An Evening with Salvador Allende,” and it raised upwards of $35,000.

For Dylan, the confining pressures of a major high-power road tour were off, and in the hours following the concert he became your typical all-American folkie: drunk, a show-off, obnoxious and arrogant. The target of this “affection” was. one Larry Estridge, your basic Lower East Side would-be Dylan. Estridge writes songs in the Dylan vein, sounds a little like him, and finally got his chance to link up with his idol the day of the show. Dylan seemed amused by Estridge’s pushy manner ^allowing him to hang out and come on as his side-man later. By this time Estridge had alienated Ochs and many others.

After the show the starry dressing room — Dylan, Ochs, Guthrie, Van Peebles, Hopper, Van Ronk — is packed with hangers-on. Rapidly Dylan and Estridge square off against each other, with the rest of us casually standing around pretending we aren’t watching.

Dylan: “You can’t write, why don’t you give up? You can’t create. It just isn’t the same environment. / created, you can’t do it any more. No one can. The conditions aren’t there now. You’re shit, admit it*” Dylan starts to shove Estridge who puts up his arms to protect himself. “Hey,” Dylan shoots out in mock anger. “Don’t hit my arm, what are ya doin’?”

The conversation goes on, Dylan keeps calling Estridge shit. Finally Estridge gets up the nerve to call Dylan shit. “Yeah, I may be shit, but at least my shit is richer than your shit.” Laughs all around. “No, you’re not shit Bob,” Estridge says, “you’re an artist.”

“I’m an artist?” Dylan, repeats, recoiling. ,

“Listen,” Dave Van Ronk throws in, “he writes good songs and he’s very rich, but he’s no artist.”

“Yeah,” follows Dylan, motioning to Van Ronk, “and he’s a Trotskyite.” Pause. “7’m a Trotskyite.” He laughs at his new-found label.

The conversation drifts to significance. “How do you feel when you come?” Dylan asks Estridge. “You feel lousy, don’t you?” Estridge mumbles his reply that he enjoys coming, but there are different levels of significance. “Oh,” replies Dylan, “do you sometimes come eight and sometimes come two? Huh?” /'

‘‘Bob, this is ridiculous,” says ' Estridge.

“No, tell me,” Dylan insists, “really, how do your orgasms feel? Do you hold back on coming? Ah, revolution is bullshit, Larry.”

“No, Bob, it’s really important.”

•: “Listen, I’ll show you something significant,” Dylan replies grinning, his hands grasping an imaginary penis from This groin area, motioning it forward in masturbatory fashion. “This is significance.” _

Finally Van Peebles coaxes everyone out of the dressing room — things had gone too far — and the entourage follows, with Dylan and Estridge arguing. Estridge is put down at every turn, the perfect foil for the evening; Dylan is obnoxious and pushy, humoring himself and the crowd. Van Ronk starts to hail a cab, Dylan insists , on taking the subway to the big hoo-hah party afterwards. “Damn it Dave,” he says trying to convince Van Ronk, “I want to take the subway.” It becomes a verbal tugof-war with Dennis Hopper willing to take the subway with Bob, and Van Ronk insisting on a cab. The argument fades when Dylan realizes he left his guitar in the dressing room. One of "the entourage tries to retrieve it, and Dylan moans outside: “My guitar, what if I lost my guitar? What am I gonna do?” The kid returns. “Bob, they won’t let me in.v “I’ll get it,” Hopper says, and persuades the Garden security man to let him in. Meanwhile the two A.M. crowd on west 34th street is growing, word spreads, in the vicinity that Dylan is roaming around the streets. By the time Hopper returns with the guitar, there are forty to fifty people all pretending they just happen to be in the same spot Dylan is. Dylan and buddies take a cab to the “Friends of Chile” party.

At the party it is'more of the same, Dylan using Estridge mercilessly, knocking his every word. “What is spiritualism? Spiritualism is real, that’s what it is. Have you ever read Camus? Sartre? Dosteyevsky? Come back when you’ve read them, then we’ll talk.”

Elsewhere in the mammoth Central Park West apartment, wealthy liberals mix with middlin’ writers who mix with political celebrities. Lucian Truscott. IV is oyer in the corner with the Cuban Ambassador to the U.N., Paul Krassner is headed for the bathroom: “I want to wash up before shaking hands with Dan Ellsberg. But in all fairness, I think I’d wash before shaking hands with anyone.” Ochs is accosted by matronly New Yorkers, drinks and sandwiches CONTINUED FROM PAGE 34.

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come nonstop from the kitchen. Overheard: “Oh Dylan, is he here? He’s in my art class ...” The doorman enters the main hallway: “Francoise — your chauffer wants you!” “Tell him I’ll be right there,” a voice from one of the living rooms shouts. If the cry at the concert earlier was Chile si! Junta no! the cry here was Chile chic! Junta no!

Finally, close to four o’clock, the host and hostess shoo everyone out of the apartment. Dylan stumbles out onto the front step of the building, a crowd around him, a guitar in one hand. A fifteen year old girl politely approaches him, and in a very sincere voice with her hand outstretched for a handshake, says, “I’d like to thank you for your music. Can I shake your hand?” Dylan staggers forward squinting at her, sees her outstretched hand, pauses and says, “What? And lose my balance?” s From around the corner a ten-seat chauffer-driven black Mercedes pulls up. Dylan, Hopper, Estridge, Ochs, Anita Hoffman and four others pile in and take off for a smaller party of their was at an elegant east side mansion. As the car pulls off, someone yells after it, “Won’t anybody drive me to the revolution in a Mercedes-Benz?” %