CENTERSTAGE
A scant two weeks before, I was walking up Seventh Avenue in NYC with my wife. We were in town for the New Music Seminar, and we passed by the PolyGram building where I used to work, between 51st and 52nd, just as a group of people were emerging from a nondescript Irish restaruant.
CENTERSTAGE
DEAD ON DEAD
BOB DYLAN & THE GRATEFUL DEAD Anaheim Stadium (July 26, 1987)
Roy Trakin
A scant two weeks before, I was walking up Seventh Avenue in NYC with my wife. We were in town for the New Music Seminar, and we passed by the PolyGram building where I used to work, between 51st and 52nd, just as a group of people were emerging from a nondescript Irish restaruant. It was about two in the morning—and oppressively humid. A guy wearing a grey sweatshirt with the hood pulled up tight around his head passed right in front of us and I jabbed an elbow into my wife’s side so as to check him out, a gesture that didn’t elude the object of my excitement. “Yeahh,” the familiar nasal, sing-song voice mocked. “Tell her who it is, maaan...” Well, if he didn’t wanna be noticed, why’s he dressed for winter in 95 degree temperatures? Without missing a beat, I kept walking and tossed over my shoulder, “Sorry, but, I couldn’t help myself,” as I segued to the Carnegie Deli for pastrami on rye. Of course, it was Bob Dylan.