In May '97 the following alleged transcript appeared here.  A check of the
original mailer found "user unknown."  Though I cannot verify the veracity of
the transcript, I find it fascinating and entertaining, and after I had posted
a letter here about it recently, I've had a few requests to repost it.  So
here it is.  Furthermore, I'm preparing an article about it for a local
newspaper.  I would like your reaction.  Is it in your minds the real thing?
Could it be?  Post here and/or email me.  Thanks.

Ron G


The Transcript as originally posted:




The following Dylan/Garnier setlist
consultation transcript is unverified:









Bob Dylan sits, picking the fat out out of a
pastrami hero, before a broken mirror in a
rundown holding area away from the bustle of
pre-show chaos.



<Knock on the door> Dylan holds up a dripping
piece of pastrami <another knock>.



Tony (outside the door): Bob?  Are you in
there?



Dylan eats the pastrami and flings a green
tomato slice against the door as it opens.



Tony: You gotta stop hiding on me, man --



Dylan: What is it now?



Tony: Bob, do you want to take a rundown of
the setlist this time -- before they make the
print-outs, or not?



Dylan: I told you, man, I don't give a flying
shit anymore --



Tony: But you said --



Dylan: Can't I eat my fucking dinner in
peace? If you call it dinner <laughs>.



Dylan takes a bite and scrunges it down with
some Tecate Mexican beer dripping down his
chin.  Tony sits patiently, counting the
songs with a pencil to himself.



Dylan: All I want to know is what you have
for number 3 --



Tony: Number 3... Number 3... um --



Dylan: Cut the bullshit, man --



Tony: That one's called Watchtower --
remember?



Dylan: Oh, man!  Not again --



Tony: Bob, it brings in the Hendrix crowd,
you're the one who told me that --



Dylan: I don't care what I fucking told you.
This is now.  That was then.  This is now.



Tony: Everybody goes wild for it --



Dylan: Haven't we played that song about a
thousand fucking times?



Tony pulls a bunch of crumpled notebook pages
from his back pocket and makes a correction
with his pencil.



Tony: One thousand thirty-one, if you include
that Jimmy Carter thing in his living room in
'76 --



Dylan: Can't we at least move it to the
acoustic set --



Tony: Look man, you told me to take charge
of this whole thing so you wouldn't have
to be bothered, right?  If you want to waste
everyone's time being indecisive, let me
know and I'll be on my way to another gig --
<stands up angrily>.



Dylan: All right, man, sit down -- I'm sorry,
I'm a little -- it's this goddamn pastrami --
my dog wouldn't eat this shit <He takes
another big bite>.



Tony: All right, we're opening up with --



Dylan: Copper Kettle --



Tony: Bob --



Dylan: I want to open with Copper Kettle.
What's wrong with it?



Tony: Nothing --



Dylan: Then put it down --



Tony: The band doesn't know it --



Dylan: Well, they have another half hour to
learn it.  It's three fucking chords, man --



Tony: We're not playing it.  We're either
opening with Flood or Drifters --



Dylan: Why the fuck do I pay you extra for!
And you're all off buying leather outfits and
picking up beer babes when you guys
should be learning the rest of my fucking
songs in your spare time --



Tony: Come on, we're running out of time
here --



Dylan: All right, put it in the acoustic
part --



Tony: Maybe next week, okay?



Dylan: No, man.  Tonight.  I want to play
Copper fucking Kettle, tonight --



Tony: All right, then you play it solo
-- on stage, by yourself -- like the old
days before your hands started shaking
so much --



Dylan: Fuck it.  What's the last encore?



Tony: Rainy Day --



Dylan: Look man, they're going to think
I'm senile or something --



Tony: The kids love it.  It makes them think
you take drugs --



Dylan: It's too noisy.  I feel like a
scarecrow up there: "Evrybdy must get cloned,
evrybdy must get boned, evryby must get --



Tony: Do you want to spend the next ten years
playing Peter, Paul, and Mary reunions on PBS,
or what?



Dylan: All right, all right.  What's the
acoustic part?



Tony: I put in Tangled in A, Masters of War,
and Baby Blue --



Dylan: Don't you think there are way too many
people out there who've heard these songs til
it makes them fucking puke already?



Tony: They always seem to cheer --



Dylan: They're cheering because they think
I'm gonna bring out Pearl Jam for a duet --
wait, are those guys still together?



Tony: All right <numbers the list>, we still
got Silvio in at 6 -- no alternates --



Dylan: Don't tell me -- for Jerry's kids --



Tony: You always love Silvio --



Dylan: -- use' ta --



Tony: It's really matured into something
hard-edged and stylish and you love how it
makes you look inscrutable during the
mini-jam --



Dylan: I want you guys to work up Masterpiece,
Little Maggie, and, and -- what's that
one from the Christian years -- uh,



Tony: -- not Covenant Woman --



Dylan: I don't want you to mention those
words in front of me ever again --



Tony: Bob --



Dylan: -- ever!



Tony: -- Man Gave Names to All the Animals?



Dylan: Yeah, that's the one!  How long will
it take to get that ready as a full-assed
reggae thing -- with the slave choir --



Tony <ignoring him>: I put big Maggie
back at 13, for commercial balance and
name-recognition --



Dylan <spits out meat>: I ain't gonna eat
this shit no more, no more -- <taps the long
sandwich on Tony's forehead> no more --



Tony: -- very funny.  For number 2, do you
want Senor, or Tonight I'll Be Staying --



Dylan: Wait a minute, haven't we been doing
I'll Be your Baby, Tonight -- in G, at 4 --



Tony <scans list>: Yeah, so what?



Dylan: Well, that's 2 songs with 'Tonight'
in the title, man!



Tony: -- so what?  It makes sense --



Dylan: They're gonna think I don't give a
shit about anything anymore --



Tony: If you don't start paying attention
again, I'm gonna let everyone know who
actually wrote the lyrics to your last
three -- um -- 'original' albums --



Dylan: -- and it shows.



Tony: Come on, man.  I never even graduated
high school.  I'm trying --



Dylan: -- and if your handwriting doesn't
improve, I'll make you play a whole show
from a folding chair.



Tony: Fuck you, man.  I can get any gig in
the world --



Dylan: -- riding on my goddamn coattails
for a thousand shows, who couldn't?



Tony: Do you want to finish this, or do you
want to just wing it like the Dead do --



Dylan: Get out of my fucking sight, man --
period.



Tony: I put Man of Peace in at 12 --



Dylan: -- permanently!



Tony: -- with John Birch Blues as the
alternate --



Dylan <slaps forehead and grabs the paper>:
Why don't just let me figure the fucking
thing out --



Tony <grabs it back>: Shut up and listen for
a change.  For the second acoustic encore
you can either have One Too Many Mornings
or North Country --



Dylan <slumps back, depressed, finishing the
beer>: Fine, just give me some peace and
quiet --



<Knock on the door.  It's Bucky.> Bucky:
You guys still in there?



Dylan: What the fuck does he want, man?



Bucky: Bob, I --



Dylan: Hey man, we're decomposing in here,
can't you see --



Bucky: I found out why the strings keep
breaking on the lap steel --



Dylan: Fuck the lap steel.  I told you, just
use the mandolin --



Bucky: You told me you wanted --



Dylan: I told you to get rid of that ugly
red coat and that ridiculous Colonel Sanders
goatee --



Bucky: Fuck you, Bob --



Dylan: Thanks, man.  You're beautiful.  Don't
ever change your octave.



The door SLAMS.



Dylan: Are we done?



Tony: Oh, yeah -- there was one more thing
-- a lot of people are complaining about
Real You at Last --



Dylan: Good.  Let 'em suffer --



Tony: -- and they want more harmonica.



Dylan: Who wants more harmonica?  Who?



Tony: Those babes that --



Dylan: Those babes that kept me up all night
from your room down the hall of that shitty
hotel in Marsailles!



Tony: They came out of your room first --



Dylan: Well, fuck 'em!  No harmonica.  Ever
again -- throw 'em all into the crowd.



Tony: Okay --



Dylan: Write that down.



Tony: Write what down?



Dylan: Whatever I tell you, from now on.



Tony <stands>: Have a good show, Bob.  The
pleasure's been yours.



Dylan: Thanks for everything, uh -- <laughs
to himself> -- bro --



Tony: Forget it --



Dylan <puts hand on Tony's shoulder>: Hey
man, you know I appreciate you.  I'm sorry
if I get a little -- uh, impatient or
something --



Tony: You gotta learn to trust your audience
and the people who serve you, man.  We're
building up a big head of steam.  We're doing
the college thing like we're 20 years old
again!  We got the <studies crumpled notebook
pages> balding hippie crowd, single mothers in
their 40's, recovering addicts turned
Republican, moshers -- the only group not on
board full-tilt yet are blacks and the
handicapped.



Dylan: I noticed that.  I been doing this
fucking gig for 35 years, and since the
protest thing dried up I've only noticed
about 55 black people at my shows, and 46
of them were at that jail in New Jersey
with Hurricane Carter --



Tony: Bob --



Dylan: Are they mad at me or something?



Tony: Look, you're respected by just about
every ethnic and social group.  Christians
loved you since 81, no matter what you sing
now.  Isn't that enough? <checks his watch>



<Banging on door>: Fellas -- now!



Dylan: Let's get out of this hell hole <They
walk down the hall>.



Tony: Oh yeah, let me know when you're ready
to approve my lyrics for your next album.



Dylan: Fuck my next album.  Let's just stay
in tune for once, okay?



Onstage a voice bellows into the darkness,
"Ladies and Gentlemen, would you please
welcome, Columbia recording artist, Bob
Dylan..."



Tony: One more thing: would you mind not
spitting in my ear when you sing T-Man next
time --



Dylan <glaring>: What was that?



Tony: -- or use some dental floss, man --



The crowd erupts.



Dylan: Why do I need this?



They reach the darkened stage, everyone plugged
in and waiting.



Dylan: Why?



The lights go up in a blaze.



Dylan: Crash on The Levee!  Water Gonna
Overflow!  Swamp Gonna Rise, No Wind Gonna
Blow....