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they’ll march in Selma, but they’ll boo and walk out on a song by a black man named Chuck Berry. Yet if you play the same chord progression and damn near the same melody and say it’s by Howlin’ Wolf or Muddy Waters or Sonny Boy Williamson, they’ll stay. So, although my band’s electric, I’ve been showing my bona fides by limiting the sets to blues and an occasional protest song.
    Slowly but surely, we’ve been building an audience of locals. That’s what I want, figuring that the more people hear us, the sooner word will get around to Dylan that somebody’s doing rocked-up versions of his songs. It has to. Greenwich Village is a tight, gossipy little community, and except maybe for the gays, the folkies are just about the tightest and most gossipy of the Village’s various subcultures. I figured when he heard about us, he’d have to come and listen for himself. I’ve been luring him. It’s all part of the plan.
    And tonight he’s taken the bait.
    So here I am in the middle of Them’s version of “Baby, Please Don’t Go” and my voice goes hoarse and I fumble the riff when I see him, but I manage to get through the song without making a fool out of myself.
    When I finish, I look up and panic for an instant because I can’t find him. I search the dimness. The Eighth Wonder is your typical West Village dive, little more than a long, rectangular room with the band platform at one end, the bar right rear, and cocktail tables spread across the open floor. Then I catch his profile silhouetted against the bar lights. He’s standing there talking to some gal with long, straight, dark hair who’s even skinnier than he is—which isn’t much of a description, because in 1964 it seems all the women in Greenwich Village are skinny with long, straight hair.
    The band’s ready to begin the next number on the set list, our Yardbirds-style “I’m a Man,” but I turn and tell them we’re doing “All I Really Want to Do.” They nod and shrug. As long as they get paid, they don’t give a damn what they play. They’re not in on the plan.
    I strap on the Rickenbacker twelve-string and start pickng out Jim McGuinn’s opening. I’ve got this choice figured to be a pretty safe one since my wire tells me that the Byrds aren’t even a group yet.
    Dylan’s taken a table at the rear with the skinny brunette. He’s slouched down. He’s got no idea this is his song. Then we start to sing and I see him straighten up in his chair. When we hit the chorus with the three-part harmony, I see him put down his drink. It’s not a big move. He’s trying to be cool. But I’m watching for it and I catch it.
    Contact.
    Research told me that he liked the Byrds’ version when he first heard it, so I know he’s got to like our version because ours is a carbon copy of the Byrds’. And naturally, he hasn’t heard theirs yet because they haven’t recorded it. I’d love to play their version of “Mr. Tambourine Man,” but he hasn’t written it yet.
    There’s some decent applause from the crowd when we finish the number and I run right into a Byrds version of “The Times They Are A-changin’.” I remind myself not to use anything later than Another Side of Bob Dylan. We finish the set strong in full harmony on “Chimes of Freedom,” and I look straight at Dylan’s dim form and give him a smile and a nod. I don’t see him smile or nod back, but he does join in the applause.
    Got him.
    We play our break number and then I head for the back of the room. But by the time I get there, his table’s empty. I look around but Dylan’s gone.
    “Shit!” I say to myself. Missed him. I wanted a chance to talk to him.
    I step over to the bar for a beer, and the girl who was sitting with Dylan sidles over. She’s wearing jeans and three shirts. Hardly anybody in the Village wears a coat unless it’s the dead of winter. If it’s cool out, you put on another shirt over the one you’re already wearing. And if it’s even