Monday
copyright Eduardo Chavez
This isn't family in the photo, but it is from the family archive. My father took this photo of Bob Dylan (one of several) in his early 20s. I don't know who the other guy is, but I love this picture. Look at those hipster boots! And the tricycle!
What I remember: Nothing, except for what I have been told. I was a very new infant at the time. My mother is forced to trot out the story at parties and events to this day, much to her chagrin.
What she remembers is that her best friend invited her to New York City one week for a visit, and it just so happened that her BFF's roommate was Joan Baez. Joan came home during her visit and asked them to stop by her gig that night at one of the city's open mic nights. (I'm giving you the Cliff Notes version here). They did, and my mum thought Joan was pretty good (what she remembers is that Joan sang them a piece of classical music in the livingroom of the apartment, and my mother thought she sounded like an angel). Later that night, my mother told Joan to stop by Woodstock one of these days. She could, my mother was sure, get a gig at a local coffee house. Joan took her up on it, but asked if her boyfriend, also a singer, could come too.
Joan Baez did indeed bring her then-boyfriend to Woodstock, and my late father, who was at the time quite a celebrated artist, and dabbled in folksinging and flamenco guitar, was able to get them a gig. They went on to play several times in Woodstock, and the rest, as they say, is history.
My mother remembers that Bob would frequently come by at late hours of the night to jam with my father in the livingroom. Much to her annoyance, as it happens, since her baby was sleeping in the next room. Her baby remembers nothing.
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2 comments:
What an absolutely awesome story! (and pic). I grew up on Bobby D and Joan B music as my folks were (are) big fans.
This has got to be the most far out story of the sixties I ever heard. What an honor to be within one degree of separation from such rich history. I'd love to hear more.
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