MR TAMBOURINE MAN by BOB DYLAN. Story by Doug Jacquier.

The Cleansing of The Temple

Melbourne, 1966

It was 1966 and for me and a small group of teenage male friends, everything exotic and wild and dangerous was American or European. We were all fans of Chicago blues, the writings of Kurt Vonnegut, and foreign movies with subtitles. It was generally thought we were weird but that suited what we imagined was our level of cultural sophistication and a destiny that was ineffable.

Only one of us had a licence and on Saturday nights he would cajole his Mum’s clapped-out Morris Minor from her protective hands. We imagined it was a low-slung convertible and it served our suburban version of teen rebellion well enough, ferrying us to rock dances and aimless cruises of allegedly cool locales. (Every Sunday morning, his Mum would return from church yelling that he was never having the car again, as she once again discovered that there is no odour stronger than that generated by four sweaty, flatulent young male smokers in a confined space.)

One night it was decided it was time for that rite of initiation into the epitome of cool in Melbourne, Frank Traynor’s Folk and Jazz Club in the inner city.  We did our best to look nonchalant and indifferent as we entered its depths and dark took on a new meaning. A single spotlight defined the barrel that served as a perch for the singers and the décor comprised of little more than candle-lit barrels and camp chairs.

In an adjacent room, basic refreshments were available during breaks between the singers’ sets, listened to in silence by solemn cognoscenti. You could get Coke or coffee bulk-brewed in a kitchen pot. It was a toss-up between the coffee and the folk singers for the level of gritty bitterness.

The musical fare was either traditional British folk or Australian colonial laments, with the latter sung in a nasal drone which was allegedly the way they’d originally been sung. This was a temple and, to us, somewhere in the dark was a high priest, swinging an incense burner from which wafted the acrid incense of guttering candles and hand-rolled cigarettes, and the singers were chanting the words of the gods.

On this night, almost imperceptibly at first, through the nicotine miasma shuffled a small man with wild curly hair, accompanied by an entourage of guardian angels. They settled in the darkest corner and were served what smelled like communion wine by that denim-clad eminence, the owner.

A susurration from trembling acolytes reached our table, conveying the revelation that the mysterious presence was in fact His Bobness of Dylan, relaxing after the concert he’d just given at Festival Hall. All eyes pretended not to be on him and the owner nodded to the poor folkie who happened to be sitting on the performers’ barrel.

In what can only be described as a brain fade of Biblical proportions, the singer began to strum and launched into ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’, presumably in what he imagined would be seen as a paean to the Higher Being in their presence. This emboldened those assembled to sit at the Messiah’s feet, seeking autographs for on-selling to the highest bidder.

Immediately, Mr. Robert Zimmerman leapt off Mt. Olympus and departed, with his band of angels, into the cold, wet streets of Carlton. We followed but couldn’t catch them before their car sped off.

In silence, we journeyed home, knowing there was little point in sharing with unbelievers that we had crossed the line into the presence of a Divinity and had watched him cleanse the Temple.

Stereo Story #887