Just Gimme the Fax

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Just Gimme the Fax

Post  Lee Van Queef on Tue May 31, 2011 9:53 pm

The myths thread got me thinking about the Just Gimme the Fax story.

Basically, Q Magazine did a long feature on Dylan. Dylan's representative, (the) Elliot Mintz, replied blasting the piece in a somewhat bizarre fashion. But who actually penned the fax?

There's no point me writing it all out, check it out here: http://www.sendspace.com/file/ub2wyx

Lee Van Queef

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Re: Just Gimme the Fax

Post  pinhedz on Fri Mar 27, 2015 10:08 am

It says "The file you requested is not available"

"Possible reasons include:

- File date limit has expired.
- File was not successfully uploaded.

It is not possible to restore the file. Please contact the uploader and ask them to upload the file again."

There might be some advantage to writing things out after all. Neutral

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Re: Just Gimme the Fax

Post  pinhedz on Sun Apr 05, 2015 1:57 pm

OK, it looks like this is it:

The Fax


In your essay on Bob Dylan there were some serious inaccuracies, fabrications of truth that need to be stand corrected. The inconsistencies in your report on Bob Dylan are myriad and extraordinary.

The Rosie Dylan incident did in fact happen, however it occurred in Amsterdam 1984, not when the writer says. She did book 18 rooms in a hotel but paid for most of them out of her pocket.

About the spitting incident at the Beacon Theater, the reporter was wedged in behind loud speakers and a battery of electrical wires, squatting among three waiters from a nearby restaurant, a Hollywood producer and some wrestlers from Madison Square Garden. From his position, he couldn't have seen anybody spit at anybody. Spitting is not allowed on Mr. Dylan's stage and the journalist should have taken this up with the singer's guitar player as there are penalties for this sort of act.

The backstage dressing room scene that the writer constructs with such devilish ingenuity did not occur. Bob Dylan's dressing room for these shows was at a hotel up the street. The journalist gawked into an empty dressing room and conjured up his own vision as to what was in it.

Considering the song "Mr. Tambourine Man," Mick did talk to Bob about it once but it was not about who could write it the quickest but how it would sound if Carly Simon were to sing it.

On the Rolling Stone Magazine affair, the reporter is correct. Having his image on the cover of the publication does not impress the singer. Faces are businesses. A puss when rightly used in automobile advertisements, beer commercials or a perfume endorsement amounts to heaps of treasure. There are no blue chips in being on a magazine cover.

About the Dylan and The Dead record, it unequivocally is in Bob's catalog. The informant lacked comprehension declaring that it was not to be considered so. Bob Dylan's connection to the Grateful Dead goes back years to when they were practicing on the West Coast musical themes not dissimilar to his on the East Coast. The reporter sought to cause trouble for the singer with friends and placed fraudulent words in his mouth.

On that matter of the baby chair to Mr. Kramer, the gift was not a chair but a tiny banana tree and it was sent with no card. Mr. Kramer was unaware as to who sent it. Speaking of Mr. Kramer, the man was hurled into an unfortunate situation. Being a road manager can present some awkward difficulties. Recently, executives at the artist's record company requested Mr. Kramer to convince the musician of the necessity to do some scholarly interview to abide with the release of a current record. "Billy Joel is doing a hundred of them," they insisted.

After a bit of deliberation, Mr. Kramer was given the authority to hook up the interview. The marketing director at the record company informed Mr. Kramer that the report would be done by an old fan from the '60s who had all of the artist's records, played the bagpipes and who quoted the singer's lyrics at social gatherings but who was now on an assignment at an Infatnada Camp in the Gaza and was scheduled to cover some activity at the Berlin wall in the near future. He could come to New York and squeeze in a meeting but it need be done quickly, therefore the artist's cooperation was of supreme importance. No one spoke to him about it again and being on the road so much of the time you understand these matters get pushed aside and promptly forgotten.

Sometime later a telephone rang in Bob Dylan's hotel room in Rhode Island, a small chamber with a window facing a court yard, a hair's breath from the angry sea. It was one of the chiefs from his record company informing him that an inkslinger from Great Britain had arrived in America two weeks earlier to do a story about him for an overseas periodical and all promises to the writer were being broken. The man claimed that the journalist was waiting nervously in New York City, getting edgy and unable to sleep, that he was keeping himself busy going to peep shows, that his frame of mind was deteriorating and it would be best to see him before his point of view became completely corrupted.

The songwriter's incredulous response was that the gent in question was assumed to be in the Middle East and that nobody told him anything about any makeshift meeting. The reply on the wire was soft as silk yet authoritative. "Talk to the x and let him go home." The musician's performances were heading further north and hereafter if the journalist wished to see him he would have to come by horse or muleback. "It's out of the question," said the man on the phone. "It would be impossible."

Mr. Kramer arrived with the journalist later about sundown. That was the one and only time he would speak with Bob Dylan. Mr. Kramer said that the reviewer was in a foul mood as he claimed somebody from the publicity department had told him he'd be flying up on a private jet and discovering this not so he said he'd been manipulated. Mr. Kramer had left the reporter in a parking area over-looking the sea cliff in view of an obscure cottage.

The tour manager was expressing some road related news to the singer privately when there was a screeching of brakes and a loud convulsion of sound. Mr. Kramer scurried out in the direction of the uproar, then returned holding the journalist by the arm and guided him into the room. The reporter appeared to be shaken.

Later the musician's bus driver reported that he'd been driving back from a neighboring city and saw what he thought was a drunk man sleepwalking in the middle of the road. The man was heading right straight into the headlights of the oncoming bus wearing a wide grin. The driver swerved and nearly jackknifed the vehicle into a ditch to narrowly avoid bloodshed.

The reporter now had entered the room. He moved towards the musician in semi-darkness breathing short gasping little breaths and finally inching his way over to the bed. "At long last," he said, "we finally meet." The writer's eyeglasses were caked with mud. There were pizza stains on his jacket and his hair was tied back in a bun. An all-access backstage pass hung from his cuff and he carried a reinforced canvas purse with the contents fully exposed: prescription drugs, a tube of lipstick, a bible, clothes pins and picture postcards, bottles of airplane whiskey, a hairbrush, prophylactics, cassettes and a small puppet with a mustache.

The reporter fished among the contents of the bag for a pencil and some notes. He surveyed the room blinking and grinning. An eight-foot fireplace was blazing and as the writer stated, the TV was on but it showed highlights of the Zsa Zsa Gabor trial, not what the newshawk reported. The Scandinavian girl the reporter described was not a girl but a young man who'd come down from Boston with some rare bootleg records. The big brown bear animal mentioned by the journalist was a white pointer dog named Comanche that belonged to the owner of the hotel. The yellow stain noticed on the singer's thumbnail was oil paint that would not wash off from earlier in the day.

It was obvious from the initial questions that the journalist had not been told what he could or could not ask. Bob Dylan's understanding of the magazine piece was that the questions would concern themselves with topics relating to similarities in Jewish and Muslim food, Hebrew as a number system, the Seven Noadic Laws, the hereafter and why it exists. plundering another man's soul, shadows as angels, the Roman Empire or what's left of it, diabolical materialism, why the death penalty works, reincarnation in the recording industry and if there was time, the future of the Traveling Wilburys. None of these subjects were even remotely suggested.

Every query was nonessential and obtuse. "Is it easy to memorize lyrics?", "What's 'Tangled Up in Blue' about?", "Do you write songs before or after you record them?" , "Is this tour the same as last time?" - all inquiries designed to salute narcissism and commemorate egomania. The correspondent sat unusually close to the songwriter on the bed and in the lurid light delivered vibrations of an aging actress, sighing and blinking always with the perpetual grin. He appeared to be expecting every single answer given, nodding "yes" occasionally an grinning from ear to ear.

Contrary to what the informer claimed, it was his own nostrils that were running and not the singer's. It was the journalist, not the artist, who made continuous trips into the rest room for toilet tissue to stoke his nose. It was the journalist who was coming down with the shivers. Champaign the writer speaks of was taken out of his own purse and he drank it alone. He stared at the poet's hair a lot and snapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth when trying to emphasize a significant part of the question. Eventually, Mr. Kramer reminded everyone that the hour was late and that the interview must conclude.

The reviewer shut off his tape recorder and leaned back on the bed, his bulbous face chiseled in concealment, still grinning. Another tape recorder continued to operate. The room fell silent except for the blaring TV and more highlights of the Zsa Zsa trial. The journalist then transported himself closer and asked, half whispering, if converts to Judaism had the same rights as natural born Jews, and he appeared to be genuinely relieved to hear that, yes, they do and that Abraham, the father of all Jews, was himself a convert.

The journalist then shifted around and glanced at Mr. Kramer as if to inquire if he could ask one more question. The road manager turned his face away and the reporter asked the artist what the third ingredient of love was, two of them he knew being truth and strength. When told it was kindness, the writer leaped up off the bed. "Yes, yes," he cried, "that's it." Mr. Kramer suggested then that the writer gather up his belongings and make plans to leave. The road manager then exited the room to see about something at the front desk.

The writer fiddled about, his face void of color. "Do you mind a few more questions all off the record?"

"Not at all."

"Who was Tennessee Williams?"

"He was a playwright."

"Do you know anything about werewolves?"


"Is exploitation an attribute of God?"


"Is any attribute that God doesn't have worth acquiring?"


"In today's world, why is it that men are women and the women are men?"

"You got me."

"Do you know the song "Pop Goes the Weasel'?"


Mr. Kramer's footsteps could be heard coming back across on the arched veranda.

"You must spend so much time alone, don't you ever feel lonely?"

"Not at all, look at Elvis. He had people surrounding him all the time. It didn't do him any good."

"Didn't you say that you wanted to be bigger than Elvis?"

Mr. Kramer appeared in the doorway, raised his voice and demanded that the questioning come to an end. The journalist nodded, thanked the songwriter, brought out of his satchel a floppy hat and put his items away. The correspondent then accompanied Mr. Kramer and the artist to an eating house at the end of the pier, asking along the way more details on the performer's personal life. The reporter asked if peep shows in New York interested him and suggested something about getting together in the future.

Beneath the florescent moon the journalist's eyes bulged and his head appeared twice as long as it was earlier. He pulled the floppy hat down over his ears, the eyeglasses falling off his face. He crunched them under his shoe, said goodbye and wandered off.

Mr. Kramer asked later how the interview went and when hearing that it went well, that the journalist had some thoughtful questions, Mr. Kramer grumbled that it was impossible to know the mechanism behind the mind of any man with an eternal grin on his mug.

That's the true story, gentlemen. As you see, predetermination leads to incompetence.

By the way, the lone native figure the writer exemplified at one of Bob Dylan's upstate New York concerts was in fact a vivacious young woman from the special projects division of the musician's record company. She was expressing deep sorrow at not getting more of his records played on the radio and needed to be consoled. That the writer would portray the drying of her tears in such a reactionary manner is electrifying considering the nature of your magazine.

All the best,
Elliott Mintz
Press Representative to Bob Dylan

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Re: Just Gimme the Fax

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