I remember Bob

We were knocking on Dylan's door, my friend Dick and I, when I got cold feet.

"Let's not bother him," I said. But it was too late. The door was opening.

It was November 1978. We were in the bowels of Hec Edmundson Pavilion at the University of Washington, where Bob Dylan had just played a great show for an enthusiastic audience. Afterward, I hooked up with Dick Curtis, the tour manager, who was my boss at KOL-FM in the '60s and '70s, when I was a disc jockey and program director there. He asked me if I would like to meet "Bob," and of course I said yes.

But now, as Dylan was standing before us, scowling, I felt like a jerk.

His face was still wet from washing off his makeup, and he had a small white towel in one hand. Curtis introduced us and Dylan gave me a limp, soggy handshake, without making eye contact.

I wanted to flee. Then I noticed a book sitting on a table, with a bookmark in it. It was "Brother Ray," the autobiography of Ray Charles. I pointed to it and asked, "Is he in Seattle yet?" I could hear my voice shaking.

Dylan looked at the book, and looked back at me with a smile.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact," he said. "I just got to that part. I had no idea." He said the book made it sound like Seattle was a wild town in the '40s. "Are any of those places still going?" he asked, referring to the Jackson Street clubs where Charles got his start. I said some of the buildings were still there, but not the clubs.

He invited me into the small, drab dressing room. There were two visitors sitting on a couch, a middle-age man and a woman in her 20s. Dylan introduced them to me as old friends from Seattle.

We talked more about Charles, as fans. Dylan was interested in hearing about the times I interviewed him and enjoyed the stories Quincy Jones had told me about his and Charles' times together in Seattle, when the sophisticated Charles introduced naive teenager Jones to various vices. I got Dylan to laugh when I told him that Jones said he got drunk and lost his virginity in Charles' Seattle apartment.

Getting "Stoned"

We talked about the show, at which hordes had rushed the stage, overwhelming security.

"They were great, weren't they?" Dylan said of the fans. "We did a couple of new things tonight. They worked pretty good."

One of them was "Rainy Day Woman Nos. 12 and 35 (Everybody Must Get Stoned)," which he said he had worked up that afternoon with his 11-piece band. He said he hadn't played it in a while. "I thought they might like that on a college campus," he said, grinning. "The girls [his three background singers] had to learn the lyrics in one day. They did a great job."

I told him I was glad he had played such other '60s classics as "Mr. Tambourine Man," "Blowin' in the Wind," "All Along the Watchtower" and "Like a Rolling Stone."

"They're still relevant," he said. "They still mean something. At least to me."

Curtis looked at his watch and said it was time to leave for the airport. Dylan asked if I would like to go along for the ride, that the limousine would take me home from the airport. I said no, because I had to write a review of the show for the next day's Seattle Times.

As soon as they left, I kicked myself. I could have stayed up all night to write the damn review, but how often do you get to ride in a limo with Bob Dylan?

Tangled up in Bob

The next time I heard from Dylan, indirectly, it was not so pleasant.

It was two years later, in January 1980. The newly "born again" Dylan did three shows at the Paramount, at which he played only the new religious songs from his Christian conversion album, "Slow Train Coming."

Reviewing the first show, I wrote that some of the songs, those that were traditional gospel, were moving, but that most of them were sub-par. I also wrote that some people booed, and that "hundreds" had walked out.

I had counted. I had even changed my seat so I could have a view of the main-floor exits. The show was sold out, but people started leaving after about the third song, when Dylan declared "Jesus is king of kings and lord of lords!" They trickled out all through the show. A good third of the audience was gone when he came out for the encore.

The next afternoon, sitting at my desk at the Times, I got a call from Dylan's tour manager, a different one this time. He wanted me to print a retraction, saying no one had walked out of the show.

"I've got Bob Dylan right here with me, and he's very upset," he said. Dylan could see the exits from the stage, the tour manager explained, and hadn't seen anyone leave early.

"Put him on the phone," I said. "I'll talk to him. I counted. I was right."

I could hear muffled voices over the phone. I think I heard Born Again Bob swearing. The tour manager came on the line and said he would be contacting my editor and that I hadn't heard the last of it.

At the show the next night, people still walked out, but not as many. The third night the show was packed with fellow born-agains, many bused in from Northwest churches. They were wildly enthusiastic, stopping the show in the middle for a five-minute standing ovation. I reported on all three. And never heard from Dylan again.

Memorable moments

He returned that December, singing the old songs he said he would never sing again, doing only a few of the Christian songs, and not saying a word about religion.

Among other memorable Bob Dylan moments for me were the first time I saw him, in 1965 at the Arena, when he had that corona of curly hair and energized us hippies with his protest songs; in 1974, when he did two great rock shows here, backed by The Band; in 1998, when he opened the season at the Gorge Amphitheatre with Joni Mitchell and Van Morrison, at which all three legends were in top form; that same year, when he played, of all places, the Puyallup Fair and had a great time, mostly because young fans crowded around the stage and cheered him on enthusiastically; a June 1999 show at the Gorge at which he was joined by fellow great Paul Simon; and, most recently, his show here two years ago at KeyArena where he rocked out like a youngster.

But nothing will ever take the place of the night he played a great concert for a great crowd and we talked afterward about one of our mutual heroes, Ray Charles.

Patrick MacDonald: 206-464-2312 or pmacdonald@seattletimes.com