On BOB DYLAN steps 1981 Europe.



THIRD PART 1981 Europe
To my sweet Sir Callaghan.




PART 1981 Europe

I

In 81, the surprise!
Bob Dylan is again on Tour.
And like everything related to Bob Dylan, no other information. I buy the magazine called "specialized". The covert informs us   The Priest on Stage.
shit! They already judged.
Three cities and three dates:
Toulouse June 21, Colombes June 25, and July 25 Avignon. Maybe London and Birmingham.
That's it. Some ads on a well known and commercial radio. I wonder what He will do between June 25 and July 25, nothing in Germany?
I pack up my socks, I'm sure to see the three French concerts, the rest we'll see. One of my sisters will come with me in Toulouse.
We arrive at the station on a beautiful sunny Sunday.
No poster. Perhaps we made a mistake? I buy the local paper, a photo and a name: Stade des Minimes. On the way two or three posters and a mesh banner "BOB DYLAN IN CONCERT". It seems that CBS did not want to fund this tour. But it doesn’t matter: we, the public, we do not need their shit. We buy two tickets for 70 F, not too expensive, so good. The lack of advertising does drop the price of admission? We take a look by the stage door, we never know! but nothing moves, just the security playing cat and mouse. We line up at the entrance before rushing to the front. We settle for a sandwich and we wait. The kind of waiting that I will know more than once, sad and empty, sleep weighing heavy on my eyelids! people altogether are young, at least in the first rows. I recognized Capdevieille and he is not allowed backstage. Mr. President himself is behind the scenes. They arrive late and the back vocals singers sing their gospel. I'm not surprised, I remember the U.S.A. 79 Tour. "The great (?) Priest" is on, wearing a jacket - not leather as some have claimed - but black nylon embroidered with dragons, a Japanese kimono kind. It’s a little too big for him, I think, but the aesthetic Mr.Dylan?
Compare to 79, He adds a few songs from the 60’s. We must admit that his Gospel time in the States didn’t work at the best, so in the 80’s He decides to please his old hippies fans who make the most of his audience (in the States) by adding “Mr Tambourine Man” or "Like A Rolling Stone".
What the public wants is the old Dylan.
It rocks not bad. This is not the preacher preaching but the rocker rocking. The concert will be short. Too short and perhaps not the best. The sound is poor. The spots ill-fitting and the musicians seem to search the tune and sometimes the songs they should play?
I realize then that there is no set list!?. The Boss begins two or three chords and the guys behind  follow. Hence a mess to begin with. One of the musicians also will tell me that Dylan is sending the pace, not the drummer, as is done normally. Dylan has even forgotten the lyrics. We leave a little disappointed but it's Toulouse and it's still good Rock and Roll.

I come home and go back almost immediately for Paris. I found the tour schedule on the back of T-shirts. Between Paris and London, I have two days to think. I would hit the road again or not?


Paris. Or at Colombes, a short distance. At 2:00 p.m., there is already the queue. I observe. The guys are young and dressed in the Dylan of the 60’s: dark glasses, white shirt and bolero jacket, top hat, scarf around the neck ... a little of his arrogance.
They are an hour late. There are 4000 people who are not yet seated, we are explained.
40 000 people were packed, the concert is OK, nothing more.
I will sleep at the “Gare du Nord”, one of Paris train stations where there are no cops. But wind drafts to spare. The next day I spot sold fancy hotels ; Maurice, Georges V.. no trace of the group. Paris is uge and Dylan is a ghost. I go back home to prepare the final Grand Trip.

II
I arrived at Victoria Station, dirty and cold. I'm waiting at the door of London Tourist Board.
I'm waiting, still not open. Damn! I forgot the switching of time. I pick a room plus breakfast at the Hotel St Simeon. I tremble a little, I've already checked in  three years ago and I left without paying. The owner does not recognize me.
Breakfast: eggs not cooked, burnt bacon, two toast with butter and jam, it will be my only meal each day for a week.
So I stuff myself with butter and jam and drink the entire pot of tea served for four. I'll steal some peanuts and biscuits in the chic shops, but the milk at the doors of houses I will not touch. I already tried that, I had won cops control.
So tempting when you're hungry! However, I’m glad, the hotel is not far from Earl's Court, I can walk there.

The black market in full swing: fifteen pounds for a ticket that is eight and a half and still not thre front row.
What a scam! I bought mine for seven and a half .. the “Blues” gets hold of me. I hardly slept for two days, I'm cold, I'm hungry, it's raining. And in London when it rains, it's not joy. I read an interview from Bob. Evasive as usual. I already want to drop everything, yet it is only the beginning, I’ve seen worst.
I’m so far away from the stage in this Bowl!
 
I remember the schedule:
London from June 26 to July 1
Birmingham 3 and 4
Stockholm 8
Oslo on 9 and 10
Copenhagen 12
Bad Segeberg 14 and 15
Loreley 17
Mannheim 18,
Munich from 19 to 20
Vienna on 21
Basel on 23
Avignon on 25

I’m sure that Bad Segeberg and Loreley are in East Germany. So I removed the two cities of my program, you need a visa to get to East Germany ,that I do not have. Then to go from Birmingham to Stockholm, what a drag! I am convinced that the boat is the only solution. I have three days to get there, a challenge! For the rest I heard about Inter-Rail, I will think about everything tomorrow.
Back to the Bowl. The guy next to me greets me with an American accent. He’s from New York and has never seen Dylan! The lights go out, the crowd screams. The choir begins smoothly .... LADIES AND GENTLEMEN ..... BOB DYLAN ....
He starts at full speed "Gotta serve somebody", "I believe in you," "Like a Rolling Stone." The first rrows rise, "The animals", "Maggie's Farm" particularly popular here where Maggie is Margaret Thatcher - "Girl Of The North Country", "Dead Man, Dead Man," "Simple twist of fate," "Masters of wars ", speeding up," Ballad of a Thin Man, "" Mr. Tambourine Man, "Slow train".
Regina will cover the  break and "Heart of Mine," "What can I do for you", "Lenny Bruce", "Just Like A Woman", "When you gonna wake up "," Watered down love " , “ Forever young”, "Summertime”, " In the garden”, first encore " Blowin' in the wind " yet the second encore  “Don’t Think Twice " on acoustic guitar.
Tonight he puts everything out, there is something for everyone, from acoustic ballad to  super Rock.
Three hours of magic, super Dylan. It looks like He wants to beat Springsteen.

The crowd quietly moves away, without much comment, however, compared to the French concert that was so great. But the English have seen others. And the sound in Earl's Court, it is something! When such a  concert hall in France?
I do not have the courage to check out on the back stage doors. I rush to the hotel and I sleep, I sleep, satisfied.


III
Saturday: I get up at eight o'clock for breakfast, I'd better not miss. I walk around London in search of the famous Inter-Rail card. It Is closed. I don’t have a ticket for tonight, it’s Sold Out. I hang around Earl's Court and I realize that my ticket from the previous day had not been torn out. I try to get in. There are two turnstiles to pass. With a great stroke of luck, I go in, but I don’t have a seat. Two Scottish with a terrible accent make me some space. Three for two seats: not very comfortable but I’m inside. They disappear in the middle of the concert, I do not see them again.
It is not so well as yesterday, he messes up a bit and only two and a half hour concert. A third encore with "Knocking on Heaven's Door."
I go out and look by the back stage door, no car, no bus, the King is gone.



Sunday I stroll in London.
Painters, musicians, nice atmosphere. The marriage of Prince Charles and Diana is announced everywhere. I do not care. I'm accosted by an Egyptian that I succeed to get read off. No time for “fun”. Bobby is waiting for me, or rather I expect it.
Back to the Bowl ; some funny guys with top hats. Certainly, they are all late. Dylan is wearing a silver cross! They seem “clean cut kids”,  not too rebellious, not too ragged, but where did Rimbaud go?
A guy calls me "you want a ticket?". I check it: BB arena, a very good seat. I check if the ticket is not false and taken aback I ask "why do you give it to me,it is worth at least twenty pounds on the black market "
" I do not need money "
" Oh, thank you! ".
I try to sell mine, not so good, I must sound strange, nobody wants it. Yet it is still" sold out ". Too bad. I go in. I am ten rows from the stage, a miracle. The guy seats next to me, nice!
A new song (?) "Mary from the Wild mirror" with a mandolin and a duo with one of  the singers. Nice this song, it sounds like an old country song.
He has more than one string to his bow. And presto! again the Rock & Roll "All Along The Watchtower". At first encore I run to the front. His face unshaven and swollen, a short trunk planted on cowboy legs - Rock and Roll Lucky Luke -. Fans swing t-shirts on stage. Tim Drummond, bassist, smiles when Dylan himself,  remains perfectly stoic and places them on the rear console. A fantastic "It's Alright Ma" alone on guitar. A "goodbye, we will return next year" and that's it.

Monday: breakfast, I get four toasts, a real treat! After research,  the Inter-Rail card, I can buy it only in France. So I lose hope for Birmingham. I lie down on the grass in a park and think ... if I succeeded in getting in once with an expired ticket, why not two?
But this time no luck, they dissect it and I notice that there are numbers for each day: 1,2,3,4,5,6.
I get ejected nicely. So as there are still tickets for sale, I buy one wisely. I am well seated and observe the crowd during the show. It's almost a church. Not a false move. Not a cry of hysteria. I would not like to sing Rock and Roll in front of such a public. Yet for Bob, this is where he seeks to be the best. Did he get the idea that only the English can fully understand his language? The language may be, but for the "message", it’s another story. How lonely should He feel! And I, for the first time, I'm bored. Him, there on stage, is in a bad mood, I feel it. Tim comes up to him several times, to ask the next song? - Result? Many times the Boss starts alone followed by the band in a hurry. Moody the Boss!
I think the singers appear less and less, certain songs remind me of others ; when he sings "Lenny Bruce", I find myself continuing with "Is your love in vain". The lyrics seem somewhat popular, it’s true that he confessed  having written that song in two minutes? So. There are some who can not even reach this level in two months(or in a life time). But the spirit is there, a profound voice.
This concert is precipitated.
The songs are massacred. Three times, he forgets the lyrics, the verses and even mix them back twice. He walks on stage, pretends to tune his guitar, chats with the musicians. I’m bored too. I stand in front of him for the encore. He sees nothing, he’s burn out, he will never return. These are my impressions of the moment. But who knows? Chameleon man? But tonight he was wearing his black leather jacket.
Tomorrow is the last concert and I'm glad.
I do not like London. Too cold.

The next day he attacks C.B.S. The album is still not released and it's been a while since he had been touring
"if the new album is not released you must see with to CBS" he angered on stage.
I learned later that Columbia didn’t want to release the album, hence the delay.
He also attacks his audience
"you live in the past," he says to someone who calls for an old song
"Here's something I did long ago" and begins "
Barbara Allen. "
Slap! In fact few people jumped in his Slow Train.

It has been said that Dylan was paranoid.
But his “paranoia” has enabled him to keep healthy inside. Getting away from  each day reality has keep his heart pure?
The paranoia was often justified because the field of showbiz is a shark-infested water.
The press has never really liked him and vice versa. He never offered champagne and “petits fours” to these gentlemen. When he spoke he was accused of saying nonsense or else they distorted his thoughts. When he did not speak he was said to be confined in his ivory tower and he manufactured a legend of untouchable.
Replied "Do not follow leaders and let me be myself."
Recently he said
"people ask me where is Bob Dylan because they do not know where they are themselves."

He was accused of being aggressive.
Yes, yes, not so long ago he punched a journalist. But put yourself in his shoes ; you can’t walk quietly in the street without being attacked by a crazy paparazzi, flashing you. Not the kids who want an autograph, no, but journalists who are there to make an exclusive.
Yet he had given his chance to A.J.Weberman, - who didn’t make any good with it -, and also to Larry Sloman, a journalist from Rolling Stone Magazine that followed The Rolling Thunder Review  at the expense of the Boss. He did good, though. His book “on the road with Bob Dylan” is
 not negative.
He was also criticized for being focused on himself. In the States they took this as an excuse to put down "Renaldo & Clara" saying it was a self-centered film.
Imagine you are twenty years old and suddenly you find yourself a millionaire with crowds at your feet.
Each person suspended at each one of your words and each one of your moves. Copying the way you dress, your hair style, even your facial expressions and the intonations of your voice.
With people around you so considerate they don’t let you go to the toilet alone. We laugh at your jokes, there is silence when you silence. Everyone agrees about your comments on anything ... So how can you not think that you are God the Father himself. Elvis was mistaken and also John Lennon and Dylan ... it's also human.
And if he constantly doubted about himself, there would be nothing.
Yet it is one of the few that has constantly questioned himself, changing many of his believes and up to his "religion". "Religion is a word," he said recently.

I think while driving to Birmingham, the next stop.


IV
It starts badly, I have to turn around by train to the concert hall and also it was the wrong days. The dates are 4 and 5, not 3 and 4. I'm here in the countryside, I’m starving. There is nothing to buy, nothing to do. I spot a small wood about  three hundred meters. I jump the barbed wire, pull up my tent and lie down while listening to the birds. Wait and forget the hunger. Here at least I can sleep. I put my notes up to date and finish on a terse "if I die on the road made the world know that I died of love for Bob Dylan"
I find myself day dreaming.

I'm with Bob and we sip coffee quietly and then he shows me around his Xanadu, we become best friends.


The next day I hang around a little behind the stage. They slamm the doo in my face. They’re afraid that I put the piano in my backpack! Fools!
The "freaks" are coming in. The black market is in full swing. 70£ for a ticket. A record. I must say that it is Sold Out. Not a ticket left according to the organizers - not true. I will be told later that they reserve 10% of tickets for the evening of the concert – I got a ticket  I after two hours of queue. I meet a tall, thin guy to share my sandwich and he offers me a drink.
The guy sitting next to me is the most; he sings, he dances, he claps his hands. Finally a fanatic like I like. He says he is Greek, not English. No wonder! On the whole trip, the most enthusiastic people I’ll meet will from Egypt, Greece, Italy, Spain ... A little sunshine in the gloom. They know the songs by heart.
We’ll get “Barbara Allen”. Oh Mom! What a  version? At the end he removes his dark glasses to please us.
Playboy Magazine: "You always wear dark glasses, right?"
BD: Yeah
PB: Is it so people do not see your eyes?
BD: Right now it's just a habit. I still wear dark glasses, there is no underlying reason for this, I guess.
Hmm Hmm Someone very close to him told me that his dark glasses have corrective lenses that and he wears them because he’s terribly shortsighted. I suspected.
One evening, a so-called fan went to see him in Malibu. He walked around the property with insistence. When Dylan, wearing normal glasses, approaches him and asks him what he wants.
"I want to see Dylan"
"But Dylan's me"
"Oh no, Dylan does not wear glasses."

I leave from a poor concert. I leave by the back stage doors, just in time to see the bus pulling away. The next day I’ll see it arrive and disappear inside the parking lot. I waited four hours.
Tonight he’s really bad. He has a cold or something. An hour and a half of show for 8.50£. It’s a rip off.



V
I hate Lennon's killer, not because I like Lennon, he leaves me indifferent with his billions and his "working class zero". But now there is a kind of hysteria around the pop-stars.
They feel obliged to be surrounded by a crowd of “gorillas”. I'm not even sure it's effective and it prevents some Love to travel, a little humanity. I do not blame Dylan but it's hard not to be able to offer him flowers.



                                                                     
VI
Now I feel that my trip will be from railway stations to concert halls, from concert halls to railway stations, from railway stations to railway stations.

Euston Station, back in London. I'm exhausted but I'm afraid to lie down on the floor, there are cops everywhere.
And damn! I go for it, I have nothing to lose. If they put me in jail I’ll  be warm. They do not hurt me and it's clean here. I sleep a little until the first light of day.



                                                                    
VII
On the boat back to France with a half-price Transalpine ticket, I think of Woody Guthrie who was traveling in a freight train with his broken guitar on his back.
He jumped from his train and was going to sing for workers in the fields.
Now they buy a plane ticket, bring together 40,000 people for a two-hour concert, and that's it. "The Times They are A-Changin".
I wonder if I'm not going to hold on to “punk rock”, though it smells "commercial" too, more and more.
But I'm tired of the static public.





VIII
They speak French on the train that rolls into Lillle. I don’t like it, I lose my English and suddenly all my dreams vanished. I spend the rest of my money to stuff myself of all kinds of junk food. After three days of fasting, I will be sick!. I look in a mirror. Woah! what a look! It no longer surprises me that people don’t speak to me. Too bad, I prefer writing.
I arrive in Lille at 5:30 p.m. and the ticket booth closes at 7:30 p.m.. Chance. I buy my Inter-Rail card. The next train to Stockholm leaves at 8:00 p.m.. I will arrive on July 7 at 11:00 p.m.. Just in time. I buy bread and water for the journey will be long. I have to transfer in Germany and Denmark. I do not speak German or Danish. I still hope not to miss my train.
The crowd and solitude.
Loneliness in the crowd.
Solitude out of the crowd.
They walk in front of me as if they were from another planet, "Nausea" J.P. Sartre, a bad trip for a junky .... oh I would like so much to sleep!

On the train, I dream ; we stop in Hamburg. I see Bob coming down and sits on a bench. I walk up to him.
-
"Bob you're alone, where are your bodyguards?". He looks tired and lost.
"Come have a drink."
-
"What do you drink?"
"
Same"
-
"two coffees".
 
I lay my head on his shoulder and place my hand in his hair
"All is well. You're a nice guy."

In this train taking me to Copenhagen, I’m down and at bottom of the black hole, I want to throw myself out the window with my ticket. Jump in the water that goes down. I have not slept and have not had a bath for a long time, I have to  wait until Oslo. Exchanging money for each country is also a big problem. I take two seats and transform them into a bed . I fall asleep at the sound of the rails.

IX
Stockholm: 11:11 p.m..
The exact schedule. But everything is closed. No change. I heard that poverty does not exist in Sweden. I see two boys who begging, immediately arrested by the cops. There is no poverty because they hide it?. Nobody sleeps on the floor here, but I'm so tired that I lay down.
 "Hello." I open the eyelids. Shit! The cops
"You can not sleep here, we close at 1:1 a.m.."
"Do I have to sleep in the street?"
"As you wish".
I creak "as if I had a choice."
I go out with a shudder.
SHERATON  HOTEL next door. Something for me? They are lucky that I am a pacifist.
I meet an Algerian who speaks French. Nowhere to go either. We will be two to shiver. And God has mercy on us and sends us an angel. And what angel! Completely drunk. We explain the situation.
"I have a cheese shop." he says. "Come."
With the Algerian I feel a little safe. Cheese stinks cheese, of course. I eat two pounds with biscuits all kinds mixed. We chat until four in the morning ; he was born in northern Sweden where eagles and bears still exist. Blonde hair, blue eyes: he is a Viking. He's used to eat raw meat bear and drink the blood of freshly killed goat. Then we lie down all three on the ground. I have nightmares. Cheeses, bear, goat blood all mixed.
Someone shakes me up. Where am I? I breathe fully. Ah yes the cheese ... ... DYLAN Stockholm. It is 6h30 a.m. we must clear out, the store will open. No time to pee, we are out. The guy greets us well. Thank you cheese Man.


I search for posters on the walls. I do not know where the concert will take place, or where to buy tickets .. clueless.
It is a society that seems extremely well organized, very well educated people. Pedestrians never cross at the red light, as if they were programmed. green you pass, red you wait. Not for me. Yet during the night I met people completely drunk and lost. A too well-organized society  is a society of despair and agony. Sweden is the country where they commit the most suicides. There reigns a great emptiness inside. I spot a record company.
It is not sold out. I have a ticket. The seat is far, far away from the scene. Too bad.
I find a trip to do on a boat for few bucks. I recover on the boat that floats gently. The sun warms my body and day’s people seem happy. Then I will sit on the steps of the central square and listen to a violin player that reminds me of " the kid with the Botticelli’s face " alias David Mansfield, Dylan's violin player in 78 and also the little hero of the film "the gates of paradise”. I liked that movie. Not the United States. They turned it  down and removed the posters pretesting it was pro-Communist! (?). If it was red then! Anyway this funny character reminds me of someone else whose name was Alias. And as if by chance you'll find Chris Christofferson in both movies..
There is nothing to do here. I have not seen many movies, not many record stores: Iggy Pop, Emmilou Harris, and Mozart. Ah! Mozart! Hooves on his feet. There we recognize a stranger by his shoes. Boring here, luckily I only pass by.

Strange: I find myself behind the stage. I see the back of Bobby. I hope he has the jacket with the dragon. At least I’ll see an image. .. At 7:15 p.m. the hall is not half full, and here it’s odd, the concert starts 7:30 p.m.. Bob's face on T-shirts has changed and instead of the programs they sell scarfs. It is true that here it is cold and a program around the neck is less convenient than a scarf.

The bus arrived at 6:15 p.m. in the parking lot.
There is no rehearsal time! I do not even fall asleep. I float in an atmosphere and a language I do not know. Clean T-shirts, clean jeans, clean ideas ... Too clean for me here. There's even no security. No danger that they go beyond the barriers. They are their own cop.
I'm not very happy with my position. Bob, I have seen from above, from below, near, far, from the front, back ... It remains for me to be sitting on his lap. Where I am it's interesting to see him turn to blow his nose or at intermission remove his shirt and bolero and be dried by his three boys. A poor little guy shaking like a plum.
The singers appear less and less, only three songs tonight. And Dylan starts with acoustic "She belongs to me" and "The Times They're a-changin '." All boring here sir! And the sound that doesn’t reach the back. What wound! No charisma tonight. I rush to the exit at the end. Just enough time to catch the metro and hop on the next train to Oslo at 23h00 p.m.. Will Dylan be in it?
I think so, I recognize one of his guards, of course first class and sleeping wagon. I have a seat in the second class and sitting. I sleep more or less until Oslo. Once again everything is closed. I’m starving. I find a fruit stand and swallow two bananas. I go down the walkway and miracle! I see the tour bus parked right in front of a hotel. I turn around and I see Klydie King coming out. No doubt this is the place of the Boss. I go and ask the price of a room: about 500 F. The guy does not hesitate and says that there is no room available. Is this true or do I look in a really bad shape? In any case even with the money I would not stay. To stood in front of the entrance is not a good solution for bringing out the tiger from his lair. I had already tried in 79. I stayed three nights in the same hotel without ever crossing him(by chance?) down the stairs. But I recovered a bible from one of his “converters” who had said there would be three Christian albums ". A contract with the Heaven?
As I am not a groupie, I leave the place and gently sends him some flowers anyway. I try above all to find myself a ticket. It would be so easy to knock on his door saying
"Excuse me Mr. Dylan I am alone and a little lost and somewhat broke, could you pass me a ticket?"
I thought about Klydie, but I do not know her well enough. I walk into a record store? "Dylan? I don’t know." Oh, well thank you.

I found the hotel when I was looking for it any more.
I found a loaf of bread when hunger had faded
I found some comfort when I finally got used to solitude
I hope to see Bob so I certainly will not see him before 5 or 10 years, when I will  do not seek for him any more. Things do not happen as I want or maybe I ask too much.
Again I say to myself: Damn! What am I doing here following this fool around?
To geat rid of these evil thoughts I send him red roses - the flower of the poet -

Did he received them?
In Oslo, a little distraction: the musicians who play (well) on the street. But they are all Americans. It's easier here than in the United States. There is less competition.
Écouter
Lire phonétiquement


X
The concert hall is completely outside of Oslo.
Crazy Bobby! or mad organization. To sleep tonight the grass - not the grass that you smoke although one can have sweet dreams too - no shower, no water to drink, and I'm afraid of cops.
People come slowly.
They are in no hurry there. Many do not speak English. But the two concerts are sold out, even if the kind of garage that serves as the concert hall is not full. They are hard, very hard. "When you gonna wake up?" "Do you have to share Any Love?".
Bitterness in my heart and tears in his eyes. Please God I do not change me, they can not be right.
I should believe in miracles and keep Faith. I meet a nice guy and we start talking in English.
Suddenly we realize that we are both French - oh la France! its camembert and red wine!
Even if I’m not patriotic, it's good. He sells me a ticket for the 10th and I buy one for tonight at the box Office. He tells me that Bad Segeberg and Loreley are in West Germany and not East. Of course it was stupid, it does not preach Christ in a socialist country. Karl Marx is the Antichrist.
I look at the back stage door, there is no security but many people. I see a white bus, which is progressing slowly, I recognize the musicians and wave them hello. Young people around me to take me for a “nut”. Do they expect a procession of limousines? This is Bob Dylan, fools! Not the Rolling Stones. The bus made a detour and back. The driver obviously does not know where the entrance is. Fortunately he did not mistake the train station for the concert hall! They pass again, I salute again. Meyers is in front, behind Tim smiled. I do not see Bob. Finally they come.
The concert begins half an hour late. Four gospels and the band begins "Gotta serve somebody." The lights are on. Shit! Dylan is not there. The musicians play the intro again and again. Bobby runs from nowhere, rushes to take his guitar on stage, crashes against the microphone -he could not see- and in a breath begins "You May Be an ambassador .."
wearing a short sleeve shirt, the same as it was in San Francisco in 80. You see I know everything about the man. Soon I will tell you how many sugar spoons he puts in his tea. I can tell you that he did not quit smoking a very American brand.
Ah Satan is strong! And I did not (yet) search through his garbage. I'm sorry for the newspapers (bad) but I do not know how he pays his musicians. According to their face, they do not seem happy to play with Zim.
He, tonight, is a good mood. Good show. The audience applauds in rhythm and Dylan feeling “the spirit blowing on the clay” begins to clap and to hop from one side to the other of the stage, chats with the singer and sings a new song "Jesus is the one ", collecting sticks and giving the rhythm " that's not Rockefeller ".... that's not Rooooosevelt .... Jesus is the one ".... then set up on his keyboard for a beautiful " Heart of Mine ". You know, Bob, how angelic and fun you can be when you want. How many songs did they rehearse? The creation of this man knows no bounds: and unlimited patience from the musicians ready to hang behind the strange Boss mood.

I make my way out, just in time to greet the bus and the company already receding.
And enthusiasm falls a little when I see myself forced to find a place to sleep. The grass is wet. It's dark. Oh my God! “ Am I here all alone? "I am glad that the nights are short. Have you heard of the Midnight sun? It is July 24th at the top North of Scandinavia.
The rain that falls wake me up at four in the morning. I fold my tent in a hurry. The next day half asleep I take the train to Oslo and I plant myself in front of the hotel. I meet another "crazy nut" that has been there since three in the morning. We stay there all day. Musicians and roadies come and go, but no Bobby no where to be seen. At 18:00 p.m. we cross the street and we await the release of the matador. The bus is here and one by one the musicians are engulfed in it. Meyers is also there, more crazy than ever. This guy is a machine! everyone is waiting patiently. Bob's best friend is also waiting with a guitar. 18.30 p.m. Meyers suddenly rushes out, grabs the guitar and the man in the process. He disappears into the bus pulling away, shouting to our attention
"he's going to take a helicopter" (??).
We do not believe our eyes or our ears and we think, naive, that they will turn around. This ‘circus’ for three poor fans who were there, and not dangerous, even without cameras. I will be told later that Bob was on the bus arriving at the hall.
What a trick! And what a great paranoia if it was to avoid us.  But why so much inhumanity? Why not ask us politely to move away? Safety they say. Security my a ....
 
They push just the people to do crazy stuff like this ‘crackpot’ who started drumming on the bus as it pulled away, at the risk of being crushed. Take a helicopter? How about a rocket? Meyers! you take us for idiots? constipated Businessman!
We run to the station. The next train is at 7:37 p.m., it's too late. We run to the next station. Just enough time to jump into a wagon. My friend hides in the luggage holder to avoid paying. We arrive 5 minutes late. The guards are diligent and make me open my backpack
"no bottle? No cameras? No magneto?.”
”No, just my color T.V. and my fridge!”
 I leave with regret two cans of Coke. But they let me get in with my tent pegs. Because metal tubes thrown on the stage it is not dangerous, perhaps?
”When you're stupid, you're stupid” to paraphrase Brassens.

Bob is already on stage. I feel like crying when he coos "And you break just like a little girl" From where I am, He does not look very fit. Not very "full health". Klydie seems to encourage him with sweet looks. No smile, no bitter word. A Dylan not aggressive, he’s not a Dylan “well in his shoes”. And I wonder: "Why this tour? To pay his taxes?".
After a night half outside and in half in the tent, I find myself at this famous hotel. I do not know what to expect. I heard rumors that he would make a sightseeing tour of the city.
I will take the only ship to Copenhagen at 17:00 p.m. tonight. The hotel told us that the Band left at 11:00 a.m.. I see Meyers that activates. At 15.30 p.m. the bags are ready for go somewhere. The 5:00 p.m.boat? I wait until 16:00 p.m.h. The singers are out. Meyers looks at his watch every minute. Dylan is never on time.
I remember a day in 79 when someone had left a note on the door of his studio,
"Bob your plane leaves at 11:00 a.m., there will be a lot of traffic, go early."
Without knowing if Bob in question is Dylan, a friend and I are driving full speed to the airport. Locating the plane taking off at 11:00 a.m. we settle in the waiting room. The plane leaves without Dylan. We think that the message was not for him. When walking down the hall, who we meet? Mr Dylan in question, dressed in the Lucky Luke outfit. We follow him. He is surprised that the plane did not wait for him and turns around. He inquires at the counter for the next flight, and within a second disappears from my sight. We find him back in the studio before following again to the airport where this time he flew to Phoenix where was the next show.


Back to Oslo: Meyers is still pacing. I say goodbye to my friend who gives me some ‘stolen’ food. It is 4:45 p.m. when I got into the boat and I saw the bus nowhere. Shortly after departure, I'm starting the inspection. I see who? Not Bob, it would be too good, but his inseparable friend and photographer who talks to the man with gray hair. They found a third stooge and plots here. Have they seen me? I feel that there is nothing to be learned from these crooks. They will do anything to push me away from the Boss.
 Howard Alk - photographer - told me later that he took pictures of me on the boat and invited me to go see Bob in his studio. Is this a joke? In any case I will not. I feel a little better anyway. Bob is on board for sure. To see him or not doesn’t matter. His spirit floats on the waves. I put my notes up to date and that night I cry a lot. Of course I'm just crazy, of course he does not care about me, but I wish it was HE who made the decision to reject me and not parasites.

I remember that guy Larry Loman, a reporter for Rolling Stone magazine, who was tired of being throw out from anywhere and be treated like a dog. Finally he spoke directly to Bob, who kindly took him under his wing. He added him in his Band by paying him day by day, and he even gave interviews. So who is paranoid? Bob or  his henchmen? What do they think I can do? Jump on him? I could have done it much earlier. I did not look like a groupie either: it has been two weeks since I’ve taken a shower. So why all this circus? What are their relationships with him anyway? They are just employees. It's too bad that the servants themselves think more important than the King.
Walking around the boat, I see sitting on the floor and waiting in the dark Klydie, and a minus guy wrapped in a hooded jogging and wearing clear glasses. I walk away quietly. The henchmen are not far, but I did nothing, so they do not care about me

XI
Copenhagen: Meyers is looking for something.
A bus? I wait and identifies a group of people who advance. Bob is in the middle: white pants, black nylon jacket, dark glasses, a large woolen cap covering all hair. Useless! young people have found him. But with great respect, --considering their age- they will not budge from their positions. It is true that with the “gorillas” around, it is not discrete, the descent of the King. They show that they protect, but do they really protect? He looks so small, so fragile in the midst of these giants! Here is Dylan? The super-star? He slips into the car that waits with Klydie and important staff. I tell myself that Klydie must be someone special in the Bob’s eyes. I tremble a bit and my heart is pounding. All those sleepless nights to see a little guy gets into a car. I'm really crazy!

the search for ticket starts again. I forgot it was Sunday, everything is closed, the change too. I walk for miles to reach Central Station and get Denmark money. ‘The dust of rumors’ is floating in the air ; there will be three concerts, they’re sold out, you can not have a ticket. I have heard this song before and I do not care.
I meet with Fred Tackett, guitarist and pianist Willy Smith, sitting at a bar.
I give them something for Bob. I do not think He’ll get it but I would like to be friendly. I thought the musicians were clever people: Fred is as cold as an iceberg!
Of course I spotted the hotel, I just followed Meyers from the pier.
But that does not do any good.

At the entrance to the hall, for the first time, I see people with  Christian crosses. A typical Jewish guy with an American accent is wearing a badge ; "Jesus saves". I ask if he is a Jew for Jesus
"yes, like Dylan".
Does he have the power to convert?

"Do not follow leaders" he said in the 60's.
Does He still believe it, or would he like to see his power coming back?
Young people here seem so selfish. They do not even share a joint. Me, what I want is a piece of bread. I'm sick. Drinking this infamous water in the train stations! My eyelids feel like lead. But who cares about me? That's my fault. Voila! Well done with your stupid ideas!
It was sold out but still I get a seat ten rows from the stage and and the encore run to the front. The dark glasses make a screen, no way to know who he looks at!

I pull up my tent in the middle of a soaked field. It will rain the whole night and seven in the morning, freezing , I hitchhike.
I turn around the hotel before I walk away, disappointed. Nothing is moving.
I unfold my tent on the lawn of a park and read a book "Steve Mac Qeen, featuring the legend of a rebel." One more!
I buy a program with photos from 78 and a newspaper. I do not understand what they say, but journalists have confused Steve Ripley and Fred Tacket. If they do not even know the names of musicians, I wonder about the value of their comments!

Je meeting two Britons. They tell me that the economic situation has deteriorated terribly for some time and that people are increasingly hard. They want to leave France. Good luck!
I took the train to Bad Segeberg with two changes. I missed the train in Hamburg. Shit! the drag again.

XII
Bad Segeberg: for the first time I feel among my kind. The guys with sleeping bags, guitars and harmonicas sing Dylan.
None of the "upper class" I met so far. For the first time I eat my fill for next to nothing. For the first time people smile at me. They do not seem to speak much English, but at least that of Dylan. It's amazing how many people have learned English with BOB. English teacher?
I buy two tickets for two outdoor concerts. It's raining. Always something wrong. Up, down, up, down, I'm sick of these feelings. What am I doing here? The others sing, laugh, drink, I feel the urge to cry.
I run forward, as in Toulouse as in Paris. By listening well, I do not like the songs of these freaks, old story of the 60’s.
No new ones, no one of their own creation. A tribute to Mr. Dylan, something new? They just looked a little flustered. I have spoken to anyone all day and they trample my bag and they walk on my feet without excuses
I look dead but I'm wide awake. I do not like their language, it sounds hard. And they speak, they speak, can not they think? I hate the crowd. Any crowd ... as I need my solitude.
Almost an hour late. No choir, but He starts dry "Saved" and again the dragons jacket. I do not miss anything, singing and dancing. I request songs "Lenny Bruce", "watered Down Love". Photographers near - but what they do at the forefront these cons? - Look at me a dirty look, I disturb. They take pictures that no one ever sees anyway. Then scam! Go hunt rabbits and partridge. Bob is so pleased with the public that he throws his harmonica at the end. So long Bob ...

I pull up my tent in a field of wheat, it rains. I'm soaked and dirty. I do not expect help, I’m even ashamed of what I do. I made myself a burlap bag in which I had written proudly BOB DYLAN 1981 TOUR and in red "journalist". Poor me, poor wretch, I now return the bag upside down. This is not the public I expected. Is it the right star?
Good people in a good consumer society. But this is not my audience, then! Perhaps that is what you want, man! After all they buy your tickets, they know your old tunes, they know that you've crashed on a motorcycle at 66 ... blah blah blah, the beautiful history. No one has seen Renaldo and Clara!

I stuff myself with food all day and again Bad Segeberg. I'm just in front of the microphone with, next to me, an enthusiastic Italian. He’s got “badges” everywhere. The show is one of the best, two hours and a half, the audience sings and dances. Dylan is in a good mood. Someone from the staff greets me. Sympathy? Challenge?
I heard that yesterday the King was surprised at the good reception of the public. After the reserved British and cold Scandinavian, such a welcome was unexpected.
At the end, I wait, stunned, for the crowd to scatter. I had put my backpack at the station and it is closed until tomorrow morning. A blonde chick from New York is led by a guy on back stage. What about me? I find myself thinking. But who are you to think so? Back stage? And then what? You, you're a fan, you stay behind the barricade ....
My head reasons but my heart bleeds and I burst into tears. No one should let his emotions override his head. “Love is a four-letter word”!

I try to sleep on the floor, without sleeping bags. But it is cold! So I walk until 5:00 a.m.. I meet a guy quite ordinary: short hair, well-dressed, going to Hamburg, like me. I told him my story, without conviction. He is so surprised that he decides to take a day without pay, gives me a breakfast and invites me to take a shower at his home. I go there. Tonight there is no show.
This is a great community house with about eight people, cats, dogs. Home! Sweet home! I take a bath, wash my socks, finally! I eat well and warm myself. I rest, we are talking about ... Dylan. How He looks frail and without health, what the public expects of him and what he wants to give. The public expects the 'old' Dylan and he tries to stay young in the game, “in””, to question himself all the time, He and his Art. Now he needs to believe in something other than tequila and "chicks". Of the eight guys here, only one went to see Dylan. Another worked as a roadie for Santana and saw so many concerts he’s fade up ; Showbiz, so many people focused on one person is too much for him. After all, he is honest, he did not go see just because Dylan is Dylan. He didn’t turn him down because of his conversion. No. He found something else, that's all.
 
I feel too well here, I want to leave. If I stay longer, I will never have the courage to go back on the road. I jump quickly into the next train. Thank you guys for that little heat, it warmed my heart.
XIII
Manheim? Shit!
I missed my station. I had to stop in Frankfurt. I slept too well. I'm coming anyway by hitch-hiking. I am surprised to see the hundreds of “Bedouins” who already pulled up their tents. Lots from sausage stalls to T-shirt. What a business! They swallow beer as milk. They look at me when I ask for a Coke. Beer makes me sleep, it's really not the time.

Loreley open-air concert. I'm in front. The gray hair-man opened the guitar boxes in the front row. He’s looking for a bomb?
Not need for a bomb to kill a man, lock him in his solitude, and he destroys himself.
The guy asks me if I am not tired of seeing Dylan. I do not like Bruce Springsteen? Who does he think am I? A groupie of rock and roll stars?
Do they understand him these parasites? Not even. This guy has the nerve to pass me a badge out dated, "a souvenir". Motherfu… go! He asked me my address
"we'll send you an autographed picture."
I see Rory Gallagher on back stage door. Some young people ask him for an autograph. I do not flinch. I like him though, Rory. I saw him twice. Super, super. But the King is gone. I'm sorry for Gallagher.

I am furious, the audience was ugly tonight, I enjoyed myself singing. They looked at me like I was a wild beast.
I pull up my tent. It's like Woodstock, less the spirit of brotherhood. A masquerade. I still have that damn badge stuck on my pants and suddenly I got a few considerations, they understand me when I speak English, I am gently served a coke. Fools!
I hitch hike to go down the hill. Thirty cars pass, do not stop, "Do you have Any Love to share?"
I still believe in things like purity, innocence and tenderness, but where are they hiding? I think of my darling. How alone should he feel! What inner strength he must have! I hate the popularity that makes him out of reach. But without it I would have never known him. Vicious circle.
We are anonymous and we fight to be someone,
We become someone.We get “fans”
The greater the "fans" the more we are hiding from them
More people around us, less friends to rely on.
Who to believe when we are rich and influential? Easily influenced too.
Écouter
Lire phonétiquement




XIV
Munich: I take a great breakfast after a good night sleep on the train.
Last night in Manheim,
I was in the front row, standing here for three hours and pushed and pushed back here! my legs were like cotton, but I stuck it out. There was a lot of GI's in civilian clothes.
I borrow the binoculars from my neighbor and see close-up Dylan. He sees me too and take two steps back, the eyes into space, without greening. He looks often at the singers and especially Klydie as if searching for comfort. The public is good, warmed by the bottles of beer, rum, Shnap. Some moody spirit as well; we’re crashed into the barriers in the front. All the same, the atmosphere is good, except that they whistle the gospel. It ends without incident and I go out just in time to see the bus pulling away. Furnished as a hotel room with the even a T.V.
I head for the station and meet four French from Stasbourg who hitch hiked to come and see Dylan. They tell me that one of them was stopped at the entrance by the police and searched. They can not leave us alone! At one o'clock in the morning re-cops at the station where we’re asked for our train tickets. The guys don’t have any.
"This is not a hotel, out!"
We know that this was not a hotel, it's cold. Outside it's worse, it rains. I believe they will never return. Too bad for Bob.

Munich is a big city. I hate big cities. There are “pests” everywhere, the streets full of despair and criminals on the watch, not one idealistic Anarchist, no, just poor bums that would kill me, me who have almost nothing, to still my backpack. The shame of a supposedly civilized society.
its falls “cats and dogs”. Heavy rain that penetrates you to the bones the first time. The show is at Olympia Hallen, the great modern stuff they had built for the Olympic Games. There’s not a cat. With such a weather! I'll get my ticket to the Box Office, located completely opposite. I am drenched when I go to a cafe to take something warm, it's almost that the server does put me out.
At 8:30 p.m. I advanced to the stage door, and miracle! The guy responsible for the safety of Boss recognizes me and brings me through the back stage. He leads me directly in front of the stage and recommends me not to buy tickets anymore, he’ll let me get in for free. I am so happy that I want to kiss this colossus. His name is Jim Callaghan, and I never thought that a bodyguard could be so nice. An angel. People around looks at me with contempt. Fuck!
The public is reserved. Maybe because it's a big city and they have seen another. The concert is more truncated ; no more gospel at the beginning, no more words between songs, it’s a rush. But Bob is in good spirits, he smiles and even hops on stage. At the end suddenly, Meyers recognizes me - he was also the road manager in '79, he was he who would give me the twenty dollars that I had refused - anyway there is nothing to expect, he’s a paranoid manager.
On leaving I salute the bus and the company in pouring rain.
I know what to expect ; it's a night under the stars. Nothing for my tent. At four, along with other lost souls, we make a makeshift bed on the floor. At four o'clock in the morning we wake up, soaked, not by rain but by a turnstile of water that a fool has connected to clear us out. Sprinkle in such a weather! What a joke! My sleeping bag is soaked. Shit, shit, shit! At six o'clock we all meet for breakfast in the station café.

I stroll in Munich and bought a souvenir for dear Bobby - that he will probably not receive -. Anyway he received so many gifts that he would need a whole plane to bring back everything to the country. Oh well, I please myself!
Tonight I see the concert for free. To my disappointment, I'm not the only one. Since they spotted me a while ago why they didn’t help me before? What does it  cost them to open the doors? It’s also true that I did not ask. I didn’t want to be pushy. But I did not want to be like that girl in the "Rolling Thunder Review" saying, "Damn! How many guys I have to ‘fu…’ to get to Dylan?". Probably all, and reaching Bob, she was not even sure. I knew it.
Bob has a sixteen young singer on stage. After the song he asks if there's a producer who would be interested. Me, the song, I didn’t find it too great.
He seems terribly concerned about his safety ; from the stage, between two songs, he waved to a security guy to watch a girl in front. Does he think she’s got a revolver?
Well! The search of the guitar cases in Loreley, the search in Manheim and now Munich. Would he have been threatened? It is true that Lennon's assassination is not that far.

In the afternoon, in order to avoid the rain, I was in the Olympic pool and I
I met a U.S. citizen on vacation, he was a Bruce Springsteen fan. He even made the trip New York-Munich to see him oversee. I thought at this time "they are crazy these Americans! "He told me that Bruce is super nice, he talks to his fans after the concerts, we can meet in movie theaters and he has even been invited by a fan’s mother. What an anti-Dylan
I'll never be happy? I go in free today, this saves me a lot of money. Yet I do not care, until now I made it good. Sleeping out every night and eating on the run, I had money to buy tickets until the end of the Tour. It became such a habit looking for a ticket. I would have preferred to be invited by  the boss himself, as in San Francisco where Meyers had said:
"It’s a ticket from Bob in person"
or in Santa Monica where he told me
"sure, I'll get you one."
Here it’s to Jim that I owe everything, no matter what, because he said
"you know I let you in for free, it costs me nothing",
of course, but the (good ) thought counts. A opening door is more fun than a door slammed in your face.
Bob is in a foul mood tonight.
His arrogance is such that he looks horrible. The devil in person. I would not want to be around.

The station is closed. Shit! even in Munich. I try in vain to sleep in the front seat of a van. It's cold. I’ve had enough ; "you look so fine first, and then just like a ghost."
The train starts at 6:45 a.m. after a breakfast on the run. Here we go again. I have a wagon all to myself and took the opportunity to extend my clothes to dry them until an ass… comes. “We share?”.

XV
Vienna 12.00 a.m. I do a quick toilet before a ride into town. Sightseeing commentary ; they explain that there are 360 ​​churches, one for each day. We visit the Schönbrunn Palace with all the history. I do not remember anything except that the castle was beautiful. I feel something about so much wealth for the Kings and Queens when the farmers .. And this is not just history. Not much changed.
PLAYBOY: "What do you think of the relationship of the artist with the money?"
Bob Dylan: "The myth of the starving artist is a myth. The big bankers and big ladies who buy the art began. They want to just keep artists under their thumb. Who said that an artist must not have money? Look Picasso. The artist who is starving, starving for those around him want to. You do not have to starve to be a good artist. All you need is Love, inside view, and a strong point of view. And you have to fight the corruption. Not compromise. Look at Matisse, he was a banker. In any case there are other things that enrich than money or poverty. "

A new stadium? Bob has never been so athletic, or the location is cheaper? It is small, perhaps 10,000 people. Jim, my friend, let me go first. I do such a fuss that Bob finally recognizes me and greets me. That is, he points at me, a way to say
"you, I've seen you somewhere."
Pulling away, the bus driver avoided a catastrophe ; a fan is almost under the bus. So many ‘feaks’ I met! People ask me if I take photos. Oh no! I’m not a fan of the click click, it’s the music I love, the memories are in my head that I put on paper in my moments of solitude. They should find me "not normal" as much as I find them "outsiders"!
I realize that what I want is to be on the other side of the barricade, on stage, to scream to them that their are robots just stuck in their daily routine.


I walk in Vienna, my train is not due until 8:10 p.m. I go into the church of St. Stephan. Why this one rather than another? I burn a candle for Bobby. Suddenly, the 'spirit' falls on me, and I pray someone, whoever he is, to protect this man who so badly needs it. To give him health and energy and a bit of happiness he deserves. It would have been a synagogue or a Buddhist temple, I would have done the same prayer, I did it so many times just by looking at the stars.
"May God bless and keep you Always and May you stay forever young ".
I lie down in a park some time before I find a place on a crowded train.

XVI
9:45 a.m. Basel, Switzerland.
It rains, it rains. My god! the deluge!-already?-I have no rain coat. I walk into a store, and choose one and go out. I buy chocolate in Switzerland, and it's expensive. I seat on the terrace of a cafe and perceive between the drops Steve Ripley the guitarist. I follow him up to the entrance of a big hotel ; it’s the den of the tiger. I bought him red roses - flower of the poet, the female sex symbol - and give them to one of the guys for Bob. The guy is very happy to see me going out, he was so scared that I bump in the Boss himself.
I walk away from the hotel and cross a bridge big bridge. I stop there and watch the river flow; empty. When I turn around I see the gray-hair man, the photographer,  and Bob smiling at me in the middle; wool hat, black nylon jacket and frayed old jeans, a wooden umbrella at his arm. He asks me if I'm happy with my trip and if I understand English. (?). I choke by answering
"yes, of course"
What a question? Did he ever receive my notes, my mail to the studio, didn’t he remember th that I talked to him in Paris, San Francisco, in Santa Monica? Or is it just a way of saying something, like in San Francisco, when looking at my sneakers, he had strangely made the remark "I had  the same for five years."
In any case it does not seem bothered at all by me, and I'm happy. Do my patience pay a little?
Of course I try to follow him. The fool guy in dark glasses threatens me
"stop or you'll make him uncover."
Nobody pays attention to us, I could stir up the whole street, but wisely - for Bob - I retire and return to the hotel door. He will eventually return. I swallow my anger. This guy, I want to crash on him. What crap! I had the chance to do a bit of road with Dylan by far, yes, but for me what ecstasy! Stop where he stops, look at what he looks, etc.. I seat there, lost in my thoughts when I see what C. tracking back the King. Bob touches me with his umbrella and whistles softly to make me look up. He smiles again. I melt, I feel like a little girl in fairy tale with a Prince Charming who had given me a candy. He gets in, I stay sited. Maybe I missed my chance. If I had told him
"Bob, can I talk to you a moment?".
Would he have asked me at the ball? He probably would have shown his businessman face and would have said
"I have much to do."
I found Jim in the evening and Willy who laughs to think that I am at every concert, and Steve asks me my badge, Patrick the tour manager greets me. I found, they suddenly became human. Touch the King and the court is at your feet.
I am in front and I dance and sing. The public, I forget! I feel in the other side. It feels good.
Bob puts on his glasses at the end and recognizes me. Jim confidently gives me the name and telephone number of the hotel in Avignon. I have to contact him there. He recommends, however, to say nothing, both to the public and to the security. It's just between us, it might cause him some problem. I leave with a light heart and mind and I'm happy to see the bus that pulls out. I wave good bye. This gesture I do from the beginning, without a second thought. The crowd is so dense that I pass the bus while walking. Suddenly someone calls me by name, the front bus door is open and someone invites me to climb. I don’t believe it but I get in. Bob is sitting three rows back on the right side wing. Dark glasses, stoic, he says:
"We will drive you where you want, your hotel?" 
I say
"oh no! Only the train station."
I sit on the left, two rows in front of him. I turned my back to him. The guy(Bob Myers), that may have been worried that I turn to discuss, starts to babble nonsense. I tell them that Jim is an angel, I am Gypsy ...
And Bob is so close and yet so far. They'll eventually go down to the hotel 'Les 3 Rois' ("three kings"). I say goodbye to Bob.
"Goodbye"
he replies dryly. He had already forgotten?
I reach by foot the train station that is closed ....
At six o'clock I get my sleeping bag and lie down on the floor. The cops shake me. Oh yes! I know. How come so many cops at the stations to shake the pour souls in the morning?

XVII
Eight hours train to Avignon. A big crowd. Thousands of people.
I called Jim. He will be there to at 11:00 a.m. he answers we spontaneously. The roadies bus is parked right in front of the hotel. What discretion! The freaks who pass by comment :
 "this is the Dylan place."
I found a campsite. I return to the hotel around 10:30 p.m. The photographer (Howard Alk) is there. He first tries to get read of me and tells me not to hang out because the concert does not happen here. And then he changes his mind and just talks to me nicely. He tells me that Bob is stuck at the station and with this circus, musicians, suitcases, he is afraid of detection. I think if he wears a wool hat, it is rather sure, because the temperature here is around 100°F. He continues
"Bob likes what you do, you follow the tour and see every concert without trying to contact the man himself, without asking for tickets, no rides on the bus. In 19 years, it’s the first time we see that. And you know, before we allow you to approach, we studied you well."
Oh yea! Because they let me approach?
Bob enjoys.
"He likes when on the boat deck you did not bother, he needed some privacy ".
If I had done anything anyway they were ready to jump on me. But I'm not stupid. I understood for privacy. I did nothing out of respect for the man. He repeats four times
 "Bob appreciates."
A cup of tea, Honey, I would not have refused.
“One day maybe
Who knows, Baby
I’ll be crying and coming to you.”
But I firmly believe that the best is when Dylan is on stage “stark naked” and so badly pure!

He finally arrives, greets me with his umbrella and a smile that I can not forget : frank and friendly, capsizing the heart.
I found my Prince Callaghan asking me to go shopping for his two daughters. He gives me  a handful of 100F bills  to buy T-shirts. Is he naive or he completely trusts me? An Angel that guy! "What a sweet heart like you doin 'in a dump like this?".
It is the Avignon festival. Thousands of tourists, not all for Bob. I go through the stands, meet Fred Tacket, Steve Ripley, Jim Keltner – drummer - but Bob, no! Is he super-disguised or is he afraid of being seen by all these "hippies". I've never seen so many backpackers, beggars, tramps, smugglers, smoking ... Dylanics Avignon is a beautiful city. Too bad he has to be sequestered. The weather is great but an "idiot wind" is blowing.

We are three Fans walking toward the stadium, we share a snack. Jim is looking for me everywhere (riding a bike) and brings me in the front row. The public looks at me with dirty looks. The stadium is already full. I lie saying I’ve been given a pass.

Two chords from the Band and bam! No more electricity.
Without panicking the musicians pick up some percussion sticks and begin to make the crowd wait. Dylan does not seem angry. Yet he left the stage after some time. Mr President declares that there was a short circuit (someone has been electrocuted). I will learn by the press that a crazy fan climbed along the fence to enter without paying and has touched the high voltage cable. That night a young girl will be killed in a fatal fall! Who is responsible?
don't we need, here, the cops that bother us in the stations?
Not that I'm against the free entrances, but not at the risk of one’s life anyway.
An hour later, they start again.
They push behind me, people faint, and the sound is awful. I rush out with a farewell gift for Bob. They have already left. Shit! I'm afraid they have gone directly to the airport and I missed the farewell.
I call Jim. He's not here but tomorrow he wants to be woken up at 7:00 a.m. I did not ask but the accuracy is great.
I wake up. Did  I even slept? It is 6:00 a.m..
I go to the hotel and find Jim in the lobby.
"May I say goodbye to Bob?"
"I don’t think so since he leaves in five minutes."
When Bob appears, he offers a leather jacket to Jim, who gives me his "stage pass" as souvenir. I ask Bob if he agrees to take my gift,
"Yes, thank you."
He turns his head shyly, he looks like he does not know where to hide, he faces me again: "What you gonna do now?"
He says softly,
"I don't know" .
The atmosphere is strange. He looks like a ghost ready to faint, a vaporous man, unreal, inaccessible, unpredictable, incomprehensible.

"I follow you in your dreams,Mr Tambourine Man, to find myself hazy in a world of clouds. Nothing is real.
You make me hit the road in search of values ​​that don't exist, those feelings with which I must fight.
You show me one path and then you make me doubt, you lead me through the labyrinth of your mind. Are they right, them, who think you're an imposter? I do not think so. But it gives them an excuse to keep one foot in reality, their reality, the reality of every day life with which we must live because we're not YOU.
To understand someone you must put yourself in his shoes. Either one dies because it is impossible to be someone other than oneself, it is impossible to be YOU, it is even impossible to define you. When one comes back, from the road trip, each and every one, one is definitely changed and damaged : one has not reached one's goal and one can not go back to his starting point. One will float between genius and mediocrity, between a world that belongs only to the "great" and a world of daily reality. Those who end up in asylums are those who never realized their dream and still deny reality.

The ones who will  never reach the 'unknown'. Rimbaud's 'inconnu'. "

Bob (or his ghost) hops from the hotel lobby to a bus that was waiting at the door ; silhouette fragile and nervous. Klydie enters the bus, waving to me. Thank you, it's a very friendly gesture. Bob is standing by and seems to discuss with Klydie. When the bus pulls away Bob turns to me and waves goodbye. Farewell Bobby! or goodbye.

I LOVE YOU AND I HAD REASON TO BELIEVE IN YOU.
AGAINST THE LEGEND, AGAINST THE MYTH, AGAINST SARCASM AND LAUGHTER, AGAINST VIOLENCE PHYSICAL AND MORAL, COLD, HUNGER, AGAINST FEAR, AGAINST FATIGUE, AGAINST TEARS, AGAINST INCOMPREHENSION AND INDIFFERENCE .
DYLAN YOU ARE AND DYLAN YOU WILL STAY.
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