Bobquest: In Search of Zimmerman

Jill Furmanovsky, excerpt for Rock's Backpages, 2000

"He turned his head away to avoid eye-contact and I flashed once." Dave Stewart & Bob Dylan 18.11.85

Introduction

‘Quest’: a search, especially an arduous one, for something that is greatly desired. Example: quest for life's meaning.

I DIDN'T OWN A SINGLE RECORD BY Bob Dylan in the '60s, '70s, or '80s. The blind worship he inspired in others put me off. Of course I wanted to photograph him – he was a legend – but I was never commissioned by any of the publications I worked for to do so, and his awesome mythology made him too grand to approach directly when I was starting out.

In 1985 I was taking flash pictures of invited guests at a club gig to launch the solo career of ex-Undertones singer Feargal Sharkey when I spotted Dave Stewart, whom I knew quite well, sitting at a table next to Bob Dylan.

Dave kindly introduced me to the great man and I remember a limp handshake.

"Can I take a picture?" I asked both of them. Dylan answered, "Just one." He turned his head away to avoid eye-contact and I flashed once. So much for that.

There was no question that Bob Dylan was a great songwriter, but in the early days I found his music more palatable when it was performed by other artists. I didn’t see him play until 1987 when a family friend, a Dylan fanatic, gave my husband and me tickets for one of his many shows. Dressed in black and sporting shades, Bob frequently turned his back on the audience, mumbled the words or forgot them, and had zero communication with his faceless band. We left before the end hugely unimpressed, and I forgot about Bob Dylan for another ten years.

Then in 1997, marriage on the rocks, and feeling pretty blue, I heard a track on GLR radio played by ace DJ Robert Elms that really summed up my mood.

"I’m sick of love… I’m lovesick…"

I didn’t know who the artist was – a growling, bitter lament from a splintered male voice with a killer guitar hook. Tom Waits? John Lee Hooker, perhaps? I waited anxiously for Robert to tell me so I could rush out and buy it. Wow, that is a great but rare feeling!

‘"That was ‘Lovesick’ from the excellent new album Time Out of Mind by Bob Dylan," said Elms. That shocked me; but I did rush out and buy it and it has become one of my favourite albums of all time.

In June 1998 Dylan played concerts in the UK, including the Glastonbury Festival. Now that I was an established photographer, I felt confident enough to put in a written request for permission to photograph him to his manager in New York. I heard nothing, but then I had left things rather late, so I arranged press accreditation for Sunday at Glastonbury. I knew that Dylan was unlikely to allow a portrait session but I hoped that I could photograph him performing.

Torrential rain accompanied that weekend. I lay in bed on Saturday night listening to the howling gale and contemplated the absurdity of even considering a trip to Somerset. But I knew that I had to go: a "quest" had been born in my soul when I heard Time Out Of Mind.

Glastonbury Festival 28/6/98

GLASTONBURY 1998 was a washout. The taxi from Castlecary station had to drop me on the outskirts of Pilton because roads were blocked by vehicles stuck deep in the mud. One of the dance tents was rumoured to be flooded with a mixture of mud and sewage and people were leaving in droves. It did not bode well.

Dryer weather conditions had turned the mid-calf mud-paths into wet cement that threatened to suck the wellies off my feet. Carrying heavy cameras progress was slow on a two-mile hike to the site. A group of travellers sitting cheerfully under a collapsing canopy insisted I join them for a cup of tea. I felt like a pilgrim receiving alms. Hoards of ghoulish fans trudged past in the opposite direction. It was a biblical experience.

Once on site, I headed for the BBC area and met up with John Peel and Jools Holland. There was an atmosphere of disaster camaraderie. In the late afternoon farmer/site owner Michael Eavis went out in a Land Rover to rescue Bob Dylan’s entourage. Their tour-bus was stuck in a back lane. I photographed the entourage arriving backstage. Dylan looked like he was heading for the gallows.

After that I had to put my cameras away because all photography around Dylan was banned. However, I'd had the foresight to keep in my shoulder bag, a copy of my book The Moment – 25 years of Rock Photography, which turned out to be very fortuitous. The BBC compound bordered the artist dressing-room area – now a sea of mud dotted with Portacabins. A voice greeted me through the fence. It was Colin, the security man for Pulp, who were playing on the main stage that night. He also worked with Oasis and we knew each other well. Because I did not have the correct pass, he walked me into the dressing-room area so we could have tea and chat.

Unexpectedly, Bob Dylan suddenly emerged from his Portacabin dressing room and headed exactly in our direction. As he walked past I spontaneously reached into my bag and handed him the book.

"Hello, I’d like to give you a copy of my book…" – or something like that – was what I said. Bob took it graciously and on his way back paused to remark over his shoulder, "A photography book, thank you". I noticed Nick Cave trying to be nonchalant as Dylan passed his dressing room.

I was standing alone rooted to the spot mulling over my daring when Bob re-emerged about 10 minutes later. This time he approached me directly. He was holding an unlit cigarette. Perhaps he was looking for a light.

"Did you write me a letter, I recognise the name?" he asked.

("Well, she wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind, she put down in writing what was on her mind…" – 'Not Dark Yet')

I said that I had. He mentioned that he'd seen it or heard about it in some way, which renewed my faith that sometimes you can get through to these people. I did not feel in the least nervous once we were talking. I told him that I had felt impelled to come and find him at Glastonbury despite these awful weather conditions.

"Can you take me for a walk around the festival?" he asked.

"Bob," I said to those intense blue eyes, "I cannot advise you to do that, look at the state of me! (Mud-splattered to the waist) Perhaps another time".

We talked about photography in general and he seemed interested in what I had to say. Then he said, "I could use a good photographer".

Thinking of the blurred photograph on the cover of Time Out of Mind, I agreed, but I didn’t say so out loud. I said that I was available if he was willing to try me out.

"Here?" he asked.

I said I’d like to have a go, but he would have to inform the many security people or I would be a human missile within moments of bringing out a camera.

"Can I see the shots first?" he asked.

I assured him that I would send all my work to his office in New York.

He was satisfied with that, and went over to have words with his security people. They looked amazed.

It suddenly dawned on me how extraordinarily rare this opportunity was. I felt privileged to be chosen and determined to be worthy of his choice. Bob returned and said that I could come onstage and take photographs. Then he went into the Portacabin to get changed while I went off breathlessly to collect my cameras.

When I returned, Dylan was standing comically in the doorway of the Portacabin wearing a smart suit and Wellington boots. I resisted shooting that, but I did start taking pictures once we set off for the stage. I walked behind Bob and his tour manager, who carried his cowboy boots. Miraculously after all the rain, the sun came out and in keeping with this day of biblical happenings, a member of the local crew fell to his knees in front of Bob. With hand over heart he stuttered an ode of praise to the maestro and presented him with a sunflower.

I could hardly believe it myself, but as Bob Dylan walked on to the main stage I was right behind him.

A taste of what was to come... Glastonbury Festival, 28.06.98

text and pictures © Jill Furmanovsky 2001

Jill Furmanovsky's Bobquest is an ongoing project from which we hope to run further excerpts.