Hibbing.
My boots traced a path toward the brighter lights of Howard Street. The parking lot outside Heaven’s Door was jammed. I could hear the throb of live music from inside. The volume was louder tonight. Tuesday had been Bobby Dylan and an acoustic guitar. Tonight I heard electric guitars and a drummer. I took off my gloves, grabbed the doorknob, and entered another world.
The interior of Heaven’s Door was a dank, sweltering cave. The room smelled of overripe armpits and spilled beer. The noise from the stage was deafening—amplified rock music filled my head. I covered my ears in protection. Rangers were elbow-to-elbow as they jumped to a Bo Diddly beat. Bobby Dylan stood center stage. He was hunched over a red Stratocaster, driving the music on with a look of manic intensity. He wore the same all-black shirt, hat, and necktie outfit he’d worn Tuesday night, but the contrast in the two performances was striking. Tuesday was an acoustic music sing-a-long. Tonight was a rock and roll rave.
Dylan’s right arm swung in three wide arcs as he fired off a trio of windmill chords to finish off the song. The dance floor erupted in catcalls and clapping. A woman on my left rammed into me as she raised her arms over her head in a whooping celebration.
It had been an eternity since I’d had witnessed a scene like this. There wasn’t a dance club with live music within ten miles of my house in Palo Alto, and I never ventured out to a San Francisco or San Jose nightclub. I angled my body through the crowd to get to the bar. I bought a beer, and the bartender handed me a 16-ounce plastic cup with suds dripping over the brim. The woman who’d bumped into me minutes earlier leaned her head against my shoulder and said, “Drink that fast, handsome, and let’s do some dancing.”
She was a chubby girl in her thirties. Beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. What the heck , I thought. “I’ll take you up on that,” I said, and tipped back my glass. With a skill unused since my college days, I chugged the entire beer in ten seconds, and placed the empty cup on the top of my head.
“That’s talent, handsome.” She grabbed the back of my head and pulled my face against hers. “I’m Ruthie,” she said. “This your first time here?”
“Second,” I said. I wiped her wetness off my forehead with the back of my hand. The odor of liquor on her breath overwhelmed me. At close range, the pores on her nose were so wide I could count them. She grappled onto my biceps like I was her lifeline. Ruthie was going to be hard to shake.
Liberty came in the person of Bobby Dylan, who pushed his way through the crowd toward us. I yelled out, “Can I make a request, sir? Can your band play the ‘Beer Barrel Polka?’ ”
Dylan wrapped me in a bear hug, snaring Ruthie in the package. “I didn’t think you’d make it, Doctor,” he said.
“Best offer I had.”
“You’re gonna love it. Saturday night we rock. Your bass is right there.” He pointed toward the stage, where a blue Fender four-string was propped on a stand next to the drum set.
“How will I know the songs?”
“We’ll keep it simple for you. Everything we play will be in the key of G or B flat. You’ll get it.” He looked down at my companion and said, “You latched onto the good doctor tonight, eh Ruthie?”
“A doctor?” she said. “I was happy just looking at him. I didn’t know he was a smart one, too.”
Dylan peeled Ruthie’s hands off me and said, “If you’re lucky, the doctor will make a house call later on. Right now, he’s with the band.” His face blossomed into an evil grin. “Ready to hit it, Doc?”
“Let’s do this.” I followed him to the stage, and picked up the bass. I wrapped the strap around my neck, turned on the amplifier, and pounded out an 8-note riff from a time gone by. Ruthie moved to the front row and howled, “You go, Doctor!”
Dylan nodded in approval and said, “Is there anything you’re not good
My boots traced a path toward the brighter lights of Howard Street. The parking lot outside Heaven’s Door was jammed. I could hear the throb of live music from inside. The volume was louder tonight. Tuesday had been Bobby Dylan and an acoustic guitar. Tonight I heard electric guitars and a drummer. I took off my gloves, grabbed the doorknob, and entered another world.
The interior of Heaven’s Door was a dank, sweltering cave. The room smelled of overripe armpits and spilled beer. The noise from the stage was deafening—amplified rock music filled my head. I covered my ears in protection. Rangers were elbow-to-elbow as they jumped to a Bo Diddly beat. Bobby Dylan stood center stage. He was hunched over a red Stratocaster, driving the music on with a look of manic intensity. He wore the same all-black shirt, hat, and necktie outfit he’d worn Tuesday night, but the contrast in the two performances was striking. Tuesday was an acoustic music sing-a-long. Tonight was a rock and roll rave.
Dylan’s right arm swung in three wide arcs as he fired off a trio of windmill chords to finish off the song. The dance floor erupted in catcalls and clapping. A woman on my left rammed into me as she raised her arms over her head in a whooping celebration.
It had been an eternity since I’d had witnessed a scene like this. There wasn’t a dance club with live music within ten miles of my house in Palo Alto, and I never ventured out to a San Francisco or San Jose nightclub. I angled my body through the crowd to get to the bar. I bought a beer, and the bartender handed me a 16-ounce plastic cup with suds dripping over the brim. The woman who’d bumped into me minutes earlier leaned her head against my shoulder and said, “Drink that fast, handsome, and let’s do some dancing.”
She was a chubby girl in her thirties. Beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. What the heck , I thought. “I’ll take you up on that,” I said, and tipped back my glass. With a skill unused since my college days, I chugged the entire beer in ten seconds, and placed the empty cup on the top of my head.
“That’s talent, handsome.” She grabbed the back of my head and pulled my face against hers. “I’m Ruthie,” she said. “This your first time here?”
“Second,” I said. I wiped her wetness off my forehead with the back of my hand. The odor of liquor on her breath overwhelmed me. At close range, the pores on her nose were so wide I could count them. She grappled onto my biceps like I was her lifeline. Ruthie was going to be hard to shake.
Liberty came in the person of Bobby Dylan, who pushed his way through the crowd toward us. I yelled out, “Can I make a request, sir? Can your band play the ‘Beer Barrel Polka?’ ”
Dylan wrapped me in a bear hug, snaring Ruthie in the package. “I didn’t think you’d make it, Doctor,” he said.
“Best offer I had.”
“You’re gonna love it. Saturday night we rock. Your bass is right there.” He pointed toward the stage, where a blue Fender four-string was propped on a stand next to the drum set.
“How will I know the songs?”
“We’ll keep it simple for you. Everything we play will be in the key of G or B flat. You’ll get it.” He looked down at my companion and said, “You latched onto the good doctor tonight, eh Ruthie?”
“A doctor?” she said. “I was happy just looking at him. I didn’t know he was a smart one, too.”
Dylan peeled Ruthie’s hands off me and said, “If you’re lucky, the doctor will make a house call later on. Right now, he’s with the band.” His face blossomed into an evil grin. “Ready to hit it, Doc?”
“Let’s do this.” I followed him to the stage, and picked up the bass. I wrapped the strap around my neck, turned on the amplifier, and pounded out an 8-note riff from a time gone by. Ruthie moved to the front row and howled, “You go, Doctor!”
Dylan nodded in approval and said, “Is there anything you’re not good
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