Chapter 4
The Music: Folk Revival and Dylan's Rise
The folk music scene of early 1960s Greenwich Village existed in the shadow of McCarthyism. Folk musicians had been marginalized as radical, with groups like the Weavers blacklisted because of Pete Seeger's Communist Party membership. Yet a revival was underway, driven by young people seeking authentic expression beyond the bland pop music of the era.
Rotolo's memoir provides an insider's view of this scene and its characters. Dave Van Ronk, whom she describes as "the Mayor of MacDougal Street," was already respected at twenty-five. After evenings at clubs, they'd often end up at Dave and Terri Thal's apartment on Waverly Place for all-night poker games under clouds of smoke. Their apartment became "the living room for a new generation of bohemians."
The folk scene had its tensions and rivalries. When Dylan recorded "House of the Rising Sun" for his first Columbia album-a song Van Ronk considered his own-it broke the code of honor among musicians. Though they eventually reconciled, Van Ronk never recorded the song, which Rotolo considers a loss: "Bob's version wasn't bad, but it was merely a copy of Dave's powerful original."
Dylan's signing to Columbia Records in fall 1961-personally selected by legendary producer John Hammond-marked a turning point. Hammond had previously discovered Billie Holiday, Count Basie, and Aretha Franklin, among others. That Columbia wanted Bob represented true recognition of his talent.
"This is the beginning of what I have always known. I am going to be big," Dylan quietly stated. He said it calmly and knowingly, without bragging. Though many believed he would be successful, no one anticipated how enormous his impact would become.
The September 29, 1961 New York Times review of Dylan's performance at Gerde's was tremendously exciting. Despite an unflattering photo, the review was glorious: "Resembling a cross between a choir boy and a beatnik" and "bursting at the seams with talent." Critic Robert Shelton wrote, "Mr. Dylan is vague about his antecedents and birthplace, but it matters less where he has been than where he is going, and that would seem to be straight up."
Chapter 5
The Freewheelin' Album: An Accidental Icon
The iconic Freewheelin' Bob Dylan cover photo happened completely by chance. Columbia Records sent photographer Don Hunstein to their West Fourth Street apartment for publicity shots. After taking indoor shots, Hunstein suggested they go outside. It was a freezing New York winter day. Dylan wore his suede jacket-stylish but impractical for the cold. Rotolo wore her beloved loden green coat from Italy over bulky sweaters, feeling "like an Italian sausage."
They walked along Jones Street, huddling together against the cold, horsing around to keep warm while Hunstein clicked away. The selection of that particular casual, spontaneous image for the album cover marked a departure from the carefully staged album covers of the era. It became a cultural marker that influenced album design precisely because of its down-home authenticity. The album spoke the language of youth rebellion, and the cover embodied that spirit-folk music with rock and roll attitude.
As Freewheelin' was about to release, Dylan was scheduled to appear on The Ed Sullivan Show. He planned to perform his satirical "Talkin' John Birch Paranoid Blues," which mocked the right-wing group's Communist paranoia. After singing it at rehearsal, CBS pressured Sullivan to have Dylan sing something else. Furious about this censorship, Dylan refused to appear on the show. His manager Albert Grossman negotiated a compromise, removing the controversial song from the album and substituting newer compositions like "Masters of War" and "Bob Dylan's Dream."
The album's release in May 1963 accelerated Dylan's rise to fame. By October, he was performing at Carnegie Hall to standing ovations. Backstage, everyone sensed the sea change happening. After the concert, fans mobbed the limousine, pounding on windows-Bobby had truly become Dylan.
Chapter 6
Italian Interlude: Separation and Growth
In June 1962, Rotolo faced a difficult choice: accompany her mother and new stepfather to Italy or remain in New York with Dylan. The decision tormented her. Going meant leaving Bob and her life in New York, but staying meant missing an opportunity she'd already lost once before due to a car accident.
She sought advice from friends. Terri Thal and Sylvia Tyson both said: "It's a good opportunity to go to Europe, and if you don't take it you might regret it. If this relationship is meant to last, it will." Dylan tried not to pressure her, though he clearly preferred she stay. He was angry at Terri for not supporting his view.
Rotolo ultimately went, departing on the Rotterdam on June 9, 1962. As she watched Dylan walk away from the dock, turn, smile and wave, sadness enveloped her. The ship's foghorn sounded repeatedly as they pulled away, the people onshore growing smaller until they vanished.
In Italy, Rotolo enrolled at L'Universita per Stranieri in Perugia. Suddenly alone in a strange town, she fell into a deep depression. For three days she barely left her room, sitting frozen on the edge of the bed. Gradually, she began to reconnect with reality and explore her surroundings.
Dylan wrote beautiful, raw letters during their eight-month separation. He told her about movies he'd seen, cleaning their apartment, and songs he was writing. Some words from his letters became lyrics, and he mentioned songs he'd written about her-"Bob Dylan's Blues," "Down The Highway," and "I'm in the Mood for You."
While in Italy, Rotolo read Francoise Gilot's "Life with Picasso," which became a book of revelations about her relationship with Dylan. The similarities between Picasso and Dylan were astounding-both did as they pleased without worrying about consequences for others, both made no decisions that would allow their partners to move on, both were magnetic forces difficult to pull away from, and both put their art above everything else.
She struggled with what it meant to be around "genius" and the expectation that she should nurture it. She didn't want to be just a "chick" or a gatekeeper to Dylan's growing fame. She tried to sort out her feelings as a female in a man's world without having the vocabulary to do so.
Chapter 7
Fame's Crucible: The Relationship Unravels
When Rotolo returned to New York in early 1963, she found herself cast as the villain in a drama she hadn't known was playing out. The Village folk scene had witnessed Dylan's public heartache and turned against her-she was "Barbara Allen to his Sweet William." Only true friends understood not to judge.
When Dylan returned from England in January, they reconnected immediately. Whatever held them together hadn't dissipated during their separation. But as his fame grew, their relationship became increasingly strained.
Rotolo couldn't tolerate the attitude toward musicians' girlfriends-called "chicks" or "old lady" if married. Without a feminist vocabulary yet, she still felt strongly that these terms diminished her to a possession of Dylan, who was the center of attention. Her value seemed derived solely from her association with him.
"Many women's relationship problems in the 1960s stemmed from confusion about their identity and place," she writes. "We were expected to make coffee, serve drinks, sit down and listen. This relegation to the background created insecurity and doubt that snowballed into inarticulate dissatisfaction and unhappiness."
The pressure of Dylan's growing fame created a suffocating environment. Rotolo describes it as being in a cattle herd, constantly pushed and prodded with no escape. Fame brought adoration but also complications-people wanting to devour Dylan or offering themselves to be consumed, approaching him for wisdom and solutions to their problems. Those close to Dylan experienced "trickle-down fame," with people either wanting to befriend Rotolo or be rid of her to get closer to Dylan. She became increasingly isolated and paranoid, unable to trust even close friends who might just want access to Dylan.
Rotolo moved out of their West Fourth Street apartment in August 1963, unable to cope with the pressure, gossip, and instability of living with Dylan. She got an apartment with her sister Carla on Avenue B. Though she and Dylan actually got along better when not living together, the relationship continued to deteriorate.
The final break came after Rotolo discovered she was pregnant and had an abortion. Though the procedure went smoothly, she fell into depression. Eventually, their relationship reached a breaking point, with all her suppressed emotions bursting forth, making it clear there was no path forward together.
Chapter 8
Art and Politics: The Village Beyond Folk Music
While folk music dominated Greenwich Village's cultural scene, Rotolo's interests extended to visual art, theater, and politics. She worked on various theater crews making sets and props, learning techniques that later served her own artwork. At venues like the Theatre de Lys and Cherry Lane, she worked on productions including LeRoi Jones' "Dutchman" and Edward Albee's "American Dream."
In late spring 1963, she began working on "Brecht on Brecht," a play featuring excerpts from Bertolt Brecht's writings and songs. She particularly wanted Dylan to hear Micki Grant sing "Pirate Jenny," a powerful revenge song that took on new dimensions during the civil rights era when performed by a Black woman. Dylan sat completely still during the performance, not even jiggling his leg. "I knew Brecht would become part of him now," Rotolo writes.
Her artistic journey had been challenging. Growing up on Renaissance masters and Impressionists, she initially struggled with modern art. At MoMA, she'd been baffled by paintings with embedded Coke bottles and sloppy house paint. Rauschenberg's goat with a tire around its middle seemed ugly-she couldn't comprehend the deliberate absence of beauty.
Kandinsky became her transitional link with his vibrant colors and woozy shapes. Though she initially found his work cartoonish, she forced herself to study his paintings, determined to develop her ability to see. New York's galleries and museums became her university.
Politically, Rotolo was deeply involved in civil rights activism. In summer 1958, she volunteered at the Harlem headquarters of the Youth March for Integrated Schools, collecting signatures and donations under Bayard Rustin's direction. The experience inspired her to continue civil rights work through Freedom Rides, sit-ins, and picketing Woolworth's segregated lunch counters.
In 1964, she joined a group of students traveling to Cuba to challenge the State Department's travel ban. During their two-month stay, they toured factories, schools, and farms across the island and met revolutionary leaders including Raul Castro and Che Guevara. Upon returning to the United States, they were met by federal agents who invalidated their passports as expected.
Chapter 9
Legacy and Reflection: A Freewheelin' Time
Looking back on her relationship with Dylan, Rotolo gained perspective with time and distance. She acknowledges his complexity-driven and focused, yet sensitive beneath his ambition. While recognizing his dishonesty with women and occasional cruelty, she understood he was struggling to find balance amid overwhelming changes. Their breakup was "mutual heartbreak" with both making mistakes-he avoided responsibility while she became increasingly mistrustful and difficult. Ultimately, Rotolo realized she couldn't live in his shadow or be his caretaker, knowing she "could not be a string on his guitar" despite their profound bond.
She reflects on Dylan's songwriting, noting how his albums chronicled their relationship. Listening to his music was like "reading a diary," bringing private smiles, laughs, or tears as she recognized their shared experiences transformed into art. When people asked how he wrote, she'd simply answer "with a pencil or pen" or "on a typewriter," knowing these weren't the answers they wanted.
Over time, she avoided claiming specific songs were about her, believing that would "violate the art." Instead, she acknowledges serving as his muse, influencing work that ultimately belonged to listeners to interpret through their own experiences. She admires how Dylan survived fame's pressures by continuing to do what he loved-making music that delivers.
The 1960s, Rotolo concludes, were far deeper than the "sex, drugs, and rock and roll" sound bite suggests. "We genuinely believed we could change the world-and did. The era brought meaningful cultural shifts, new laws, the abolition of the draft, and the Twenty-sixth Amendment lowering the voting age."
Greenwich Village became a destination because of its bohemian history-a community of outsiders creating revolutionary art, music, poetry, and prose. As the Village gained popularity, an influx of tourists helped venues thrive but made it harder for young artists to develop. Record companies scouted for "the next Bob Dylan," resulting in pale imitators that slowly suffocated folk music.
"Greenwich Village bohemia exists no more-it was the twentieth century's public square for outsiders and misfits," Rotolo writes. "Though priced out of its physical space, as a state of mind, it remains boundless. A compelling idea will always find a place to plant itself."
In her final reflection, Rotolo contrasts the idealism of her generation with what followed: "How different from Kennedy's 1961 inaugural challenge-'Ask not what your country can do for you'-to today's prevalent 'What's in it for me?' attitude. The sixties spoke a language of inquiry, curiosity and rebelliousness against the stifling culture that preceded it. Unlike today's market-driven generation, we had something to say, not something to sell."
Chapter 10
Dylan's Artistic Evolution: From Folksinger to Voice of a Generation
When Dylan started performing, he was playful-a mix of Harpo Marx and Woody Guthrie, with his own unique binding ingredient. Onstage, he moved constantly, arranging harmonicas on a nearby stool, adjusting his guitar capo and corduroy cap, changing harmonicas in the holder around his neck, retuning his guitar, and reorganizing the harmonicas again.
He rarely spoke between songs. He might offer a quick grin or grimace and make small noises of someone working hard. By the time he finally began playing, he had captured the audience's complete attention-and he knew it. All that preliminary fumbling was just the warm-up for a set that could be either down-home or hypnotically distant. From the very beginning, he was a charismatic performer.
Accusations of plagiarism would dog Dylan throughout his career, especially in his early years as his fame grew. His open search for interesting music on albums, radio, and in clubs made him an easy target. Yet his passionate intensity made people want to help him. Friends eagerly shared musical discoveries, and he reciprocated when finding something that intrigued him.
Artists typically follow a path of imitation, assimilation, and innovation. When struck by something in their chosen medium, they absorb everything about it, initially producing imitations before developing their unique voice. Dave Van Ronk explained his distinctive guitar style came from failing to perfectly copy the old masters, forcing him to develop something new.
Dylan was clearly an innovator who worked hard to make his art his own, even when it echoed earlier influences. He sometimes acknowledged potential crossovers, once bursting into the Kettle of Fish waving a paper and telling Sylvia Tyson: "Hey, you gotta listen to this song I just wrote! I just wrote it, or at least I think I wrote it, but maybe I heard it somewhere."
Though he absorbed many influences while developing his persona, he always remained himself. Some people tried to guide and mold him, and he accepted their input, information, and help-but he knew his own path. He sorted through what he learned, taking only what he needed. Much of the bitterness people felt as he moved onward and upward stemmed from their desire for acknowledgment of what they'd given him. "He wouldn't be who he is if it weren't for me," they'd say.
But he wasn't the person they thought he was. He kept moving forward, never looking back-"remember what happened to Lot's wife when she looked back."
Chapter 11
After Dylan: Finding Her Own Path
After her relationship with Dylan ended, Rotolo continued to forge her own path. She moved to Cambridge briefly, then returned to New York where she found an apartment on East Houston near Clinton Street. She transformed the dingy walk-up into a vibrant space, painting decorative borders and patterns, using wooden milk crates as colorful furniture, and making burlap curtains in rich Indian spice colors.
Her creativity flourished-she made clay female sculptures placed in box "altars," worked on theater sets, and even performed in a play. Though encouraged to pursue acting professionally, she couldn't follow through on auditions.
Tragedy struck when her apartment was destroyed by fire, consuming her artwork and possessions, including the green coat from the "Freewheelin'" album cover. After this trauma, her friend Janet took her in, and they created a sanctuary they called "Melody Lounge" on West Twelfth Street.
In December 1965, she became a "Slum Goddess" for the East Village Other newspaper, a hipper alternative to the Village Voice. The feature challenged mainstream beauty standards, showcasing women with natural looks instead of beehive hairdos and heavy makeup.
By her twenty-second birthday in November 1965, she'd found stability again with a sunny fifth-floor studio on West Tenth Street. She transformed this space with homemade "stained glass" windows using theatrical gels, a handcrafted tin can chandelier that projected patterns on the walls, and furniture donated by friends.
Peter Harvey offered her work on The Mad Show, a musical revue based on Mad magazine. Her downtown theater experience qualified her to run the sound board, operating reel-to-reel tape recorders and sound effects for the production.
Eventually, Rotolo would leave America again, traveling to Italy on a Norwegian freighter. She left behind an America torn apart by Vietnam, sensing the counterculture's implosion and seeking new beginnings elsewhere.
In the decades that followed, Rotolo would establish herself as an artist in her own right, creating book art and teaching at the Parsons School of Design. She married Italian film editor Enzo Bartoccioli and had a son, Luca. Though she largely avoided the spotlight that came with her Dylan connection, her memoir finally allowed her to tell her own story-not just as Dylan's muse, but as a woman who helped shape one of the most transformative periods in American cultural history.
