2001: A Scottish Odyssey (Dylanology 22)

A Tragedy in Five Acts

After a number of rather heavy posts diving very deeply into the history and constant development of Bob Dylan’s best and perhaps also most consistently productive song, Tangled up in Blue (1. What’s the Deal with “Tangled Up In Blue”? – 2: The First Versions – 3: On The Road (1975–2006) and 4: On the Road – Again (2007–2018)), I feel it is time – both for me and for you – for a more relaxed interlude, not without its theoretical side-points, but mainly as a humorous account of the tragedy of life on the road with Bob in the early days of the millennium, and also of why, how, and when I lost interest in Dylan.

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Act I: A Night of Horrors

Some years ago, I was a serious Dylan fan.

This was back in 2001, at a time when I also happened to be a serious mediaeval scholar (which among other things resulted in a thorough analysis of the ritual of a Dylan show).

The designer of the cover took it upon him-/herself to “correct” “adiutorium” (assistance) to “auditorium”, thus adding an extra, unintended layer of mediaeval reception to the book.

On this occasion, I had decided to take a day or two off from the annual mediæval conference in Leeds, in order to roam the docks of Liverpool in the hopes of finding a reasonably priced ticket for the evening’s Dylan show.

While hanging around at the concert venue – a ridiculous circus tent next to the Mersey River – I remember meeting a couple of Dylan-world celebrities, most illustrious of whom was John Hume, the legendary photographer who passed away in 2012. (As usual, I must have completely overlooked the greatness that is Clinton Heylin.)

I also met a nice fellow from London or thereabouts, who told me that he was going to the concert in Stirling Castle in Scotland the next day. He had a vacant spot in his car, an extra ticket for the show, and if needed an available corner in his hotel room for my sleeping bag and myself. So: musical bliss was coming my way, regardless of my success at securing a ticket tonight.

I did not succeed.

As it happens, and as a subsidiary plot in this drama, this was also one of the few occasions on which Frederica (or was it Francesca?) – the “Girl in the Long Green Coat”, who used to travel the world with a sign that read: “I need a free ticket, please!” – also didn’t get in.

I met her again at a show later that year, when she not only got a ticket for herself, but also offered me a spare one. On that occasion, I wrote her the following ode:

Tickets are sold out, the prices are high
There’s a green-coated girl at the line standing by
With a note in her hand, as she patiently freez-
es, Bent over backwards from a cold, northern breeze.
“I want a free ticket, please,” says the note,
And so says the girl in the long green coat.

Somebody seen her hangin’ around
By the merchandise shop where the scalpers abound.
She looked into his eyes when he stopped her to ask
If she needed a ticket – he had a face like a mask.
Somebody said from her note she’d quote:
“If it’s free,” said the girl in the long green coat.

Scalper was talking, “the prize you have to pay
Is 200 pounds” – he was vile and depraved.
“You cannot depend on him,” she told a poor guy,
“But I’ve got something for you, if you’re satisfied
with seats on the sides.” The guy cleared his throat
as she pulled out a ticket from her long green coat.

There is no free lunch in life, some people say
It is true: sometimes you can see it that way;
some people just live or die, others just float,
But she follows the man in the long black coat.

There’s a tour going on, it’s been running since May,
Families uprooted, and pools*) in decay.
Feel the tense anticipation and the rumors in spin
Everybody waiting for the setlists to get in.
But she never posted, there was nothing she wrote,
She’s out there with the man in the long black coat.

*) In case you’re too young to remember: this was in the last days of the Dylanpool.

I hung out with Frederica outside the huge tent that was the venue, where we were freezing to our bones and listening carefully for whatever divine sounds the muses would let through the tent canvas, until eventually the lucky ones started flooding out – every one of them courteously and decently excited about the concert, to demonstrate to themselves and to the rest of us that it had indeed been money well spent (on a show that, according to the reviews, had been just another sub-par day at the office, quality-wise).

The one person I did not spot coming out of the venue, was my new-found friend with the car, the extra ticket and – a little detail that grew in importance as the night drew closer: – my chance to spend the night with a roof over my head.

This was still not the time for desperation, however, since I had the address of the hotel. But alas: when I went there, it turned out to be one of those hyper-modern, fully automatic hotels without a reception, just a parking lot, a locked door, and a keycard slot. I hung around for a while, but eventually I gave up.

Now was the time for desperation.

I couldn’t figure out a way to get back to Leeds that night, so my only real option was to prepare myself for walking the streets of Liverpool all night and then either miraculously catch Car-N-Ticket-Man before he left, or depart disgracefully from Liverpool.

I quickly realised that the first step of this plan involved finding a pub that was still open – and would be open for as long as possible. That would bring the cold hours that I would have to spend walking, down to five or six.

After a while I came across a football pub that looked promising.