Blood spurts from his ear as it splits open. The butt-end of a pool cue cracks down on his head. One customer reaches out to open the front door. Patrons scream with fear, running for the exits. Wine glasses shatter, Christmas decorations come crashing down. “You’re under arrest!” He pushes the man to the ground. Without warning, one officer seizes a kissing customer by the shoulders. The bartender snips a string and the balloons cascade down onto dozens of kissing couples. “Happy New Year!” The Rhythm Queens take their cue, belting out a jazzy Auld Lang Syne. All eyes are riveted on the clock behind the bar.
Suddenly, the jukebox cuts off, and for a brief moment all that can be heard is the tinkle of champagne glasses. It’s just a few minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve at the Black Cat, and the Rhythm Queens, a trio of black women singers hired for the night, are getting ready for their big number. Many are beer bars with jukeboxes, pool tables, and pinball machines, inhabiting rundown buildings where the rents were cheap. The Black Cat is one of about a dozen gay bars lining Sunset Boulevard in Silverlake, the heart of L.A.’s gay community in the 1960’s. The bartender cranks up the Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love.” At 11:30, a gaggle of glittering drag queens arrives in full-blown bouffants, sequins, and wobbly spiked heels.
Six or seven additional plainclothes officers mill around in the crowd. Boys dance with boys, the jukebox wails, and a couple of undercover cops play pool over in the corner. “I love the colorful clothes she wears/ And the way the sunlight plays upon her hair.” A few miles away, in Silverlake, things are hopping at the Black Cat. In Hollywood, a radio deejay sets down the needle on the number eight song of the year. "Key West (Philosopher's Pilot)" finds the elder statesman chasing immortality along Route 1 for nine-and-a-half fully entertaining minutes, while closer "Murder Most Foul" stretches out for nearly 17, reliving the Kennedy assassination and incanting a phone book's worth of cultural-imprint references without wasting a second.IT’S THE FINAL HOUR of the year 1966. "I hope the gods go easy with me," Dylan croons on that track, and it's hard to shake the feeling that he's taking stock. There are so many highlights: "My Own Version of You" is a laugh-out-loud "Frankenstein" tale set to a shadowy guitar prowl the swooning "I've Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You" borrows from doo-wop balladry. But he immediately springs to spirited life with "False Prophet," a no-frills dirty blues march. Immediately contradicting the album's title, opener "I Contain Multitudes" finds Dylan doing his best Leonard Cohen: the lion in winter, growling with deceptively gentle gravitas over cinematic guitar-paying tribute to William Blake, Anne Frank, Indiana Jones and "them British bad boys the Rolling Stones." If it were to be the 79-year-old's last stand, it's a pretty damn great one. See More Your browser does not support the audio element. "Key West (Philosopher's Pilot)" finds the elder statesman chasing immortality along Route 1 for nine-and-a-half fully entertaining minutes, while closer "Murder Most Foul" stretches out for nearly 17, reliving the Kennedy assassination and incanting a phone book's worth of cultural-imprint references without wasting a second.
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