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The Hit We Almost Missed

Published: December 3, 2004

IT'S official, I guess. Forty years after he recorded it, Bob Dylan's
''Like a Rolling Stone'' was just named the greatest rock 'n' roll song
of all time by Rolling Stone magazine, a tribute it had previously
been given by New Musical Express, Britain's leading pop-music
weekly. Quite an honor, considering that the single was almost
never released.

''Like a Rolling Stone'' was recorded on June 15, 1965, in Studio A at

799 Seventh Avenue, then the New York headquarters of Columbia
Records, where I worked as the coordinator of new releases,
scheduling every step of a record's production. (On the top floor of
the building, the modest studio had been used by Frank Sinatra,
Tony Bennett and Barbra Streisand.) When the edited tape was
played a few days later for Mr. Dylan and his manager, the reaction
was unanimous: it would be a hit and should be released
immediately.

But before that could happen, the song had to be presented at

Columbia's weekly singles meeting, and that's where the trouble
began. Though just about everyone from the A&R (artists and
repertoire) and promotion departments loved it, the sales and
marketing people had a different opinion. And their opinion
mattered, for sales and marketing was the engine behind the label's
success.

Their objection to the song came on two levels. The unstated reason
was that they just didn't like raucous rock 'n' roll. The sales and

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marketing people had made Columbia a winner by selling

mainstream American music -- pop, jazz, country, gospel, the best
of Broadway and Hollywood. But rock? No way. It was this
thinking that had led the label to turn down Elvis Presley in 1955
and the first American album by the Beatles in 1963.

Of course, none of this was raised at the meeting about ''Like a

Rolling Stone.'' What did come up was the length of the song. In
1965, three minutes was the average time for singles played on
national radio. ''Like a Rolling Stone'' clocked in at one second
under six minutes. The solution? Cut the baby in half, the wise
Solomon of Sales decreed.

When presented with this edict, Bob Dylan refused, fully prepared
to engage in yet another fight with the giant, wholesome label. (In
1963, Mr. Dylan had failed to persuade Columbia to release ''Talkin'
John Birch Society Blues.'') Except there was no one to fight with.
The big guys were engaged in a more important drama.

Columbia Records, which had always remained autonomous from

its parent, CBS, was moving into the corporation's new building on
Sixth Avenue (soon to be known as Black Rock), where our vice
president of sales and marketing was taking over the A&R
department, and soon, it was rumored, the second-in-command
position, under our much beloved president, Goddard Lieberson.
That vice president and his staff had never expressed any great
fondness or attached any future importance to Mr. Dylan -- who
performed at one of their mammoth sales conventions but never
''mingled.'' With all the distraction over the move to CBS
headquarters and the intrigue of the executive power play, the

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matter of Mr. Dylan's epic rock song was quickly taken care of. A
memo was sent out saying that the single was to be moved from an
''immediate special'' to an ''unassigned release.'' Translated, it was
in limbo, soon to be dropped, no doubt, into the dark graveyard of
canceled releases.

After that, the tumult of the move to Black Rock filled our days.
Decades of memorabilia from 799 had to be discarded because the
welcoming notice from CBS clearly stated that clutter would not be
allowed in the new building, a temple to spare modernism.

During my last trek through what remained of the A&R

department, I was invited to sort through a stack of records and
demos that were to be junked. Among them I discovered a gem: a
studio-cut acetate of ''Like a Rolling Stone.'' Carefully packing it
into an empty LP jacket, I carried it home and that weekend played
it more than once in my apartment. The effect was the same as it
had been the first time I had experienced it. Exhilaration. Heart
pounding. Body rolling -- followed by neighbors banging on the
walls in protest. Then, on Sunday evening, it came to me. I knew
exactly where the song could be fully appreciated.

At the time, the hottest new disco in Manhattan was a place called
Arthur, on East 54th Street. Sybil Burton, whose husband had run
off with Elizabeth Taylor a few years before, was the creator of the
uniquely egalitarian club, which was on the site of the old El
Morocco. Some of Arthur's owners were famous -- Mike Nichols,
Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Bernstein -- and some weren't (me).
When it opened in May, no one except the fabulous Sybil expected
that Arthur would cause such a sensation, and that everyone would

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want to go there -- including Bob Dylan. Late in June, dressed in

wine-stained, beer-splattered Army-Navy store couture, he and his
rowdy male friends had tried to get in. They were turned away.

His rejected single had better luck. Perhaps because I was a ''club
member,'' the D.J. was very polite when asked if he would kindly
play the acetate during a free moment. Deliberately neglecting to
mention the name of the singer, I did say that the song was rather
long and that he should feel free to stop it if the dancers got bored
or tired.

At around 11 p.m., after a break, he played the acetate. The effect

was seismic. People jumped to their feet and took to the floor,
dancing the entire six minutes. Those who were seated stopped
talking and began to listen. ''Who is it?'' the D.J. yelled at one point,
running toward me. ''Bob Dylan!'' I shouted back. The name spread
through the room, which only encouraged the skeptics to insist that
it be played again, straight through. Sometime past midnight, as
the grooves on the temporary dub wore out, the needle began to
skip.

But not before the song had been heard by two important guests.
One was a D.J. at WABC, then the leading Top 40 radio station in
Manhattan. The other was a music programmer at the equally
powerful WMCA. The next morning both called Columbia Records
and demanded to know where their copy of the new Bob Dylan
record was. Staff meetings were hastily called. Goddard Lieberson,
who had recently met with Mr. Dylan during his concert tour in
England (only to be chastised backstage by Mr. Dylan's protective
former girlfriend, Joan Baez, for allowing Columbia to ''exploit and

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commercialize Bobby''), was brought into the dispute over the

length of the song. Standards and rules were dandy, said ''God,''
but they should never interfere with the evolution of an artist.

The release memo came shortly thereafter. On July 15, a month

after it had been recorded, ''Like a Rolling Stone'' shipped to stores
and D.J.'s. The latter were put on alert that this was a hot Columbia
single, because it was pressed on red vinyl. On side one of the red
promotional disc, the label read: ''Like a Rolling Stone (Part 1).
Timing 3:02.'' Side two said: ''Part 2. Timing 3:02.'' The song had
been cut down the middle. Sales and marketing had struck again.

But they didn't win. Some D.J.'s simply recorded both sides of the
disc on tape and spliced the whole thing together and -- voila! --
came up with the complete song (with five seconds added).

The following week ''Like a Rolling Stone,'' full version, entered the
Billboard charts. By August it was in the Top Ten, rising to No. 2.
Bob Dylan performed it live at the Newport Folk Festival (they
booed the rock 'n' roll half of the show) and at a concert in Forest
Hills, Queens (loud cheers).

The electronic folk-rock revolution spread quickly after that, and

Bob Dylan began to dress accordingly -- he was no longer the
prince of folk, but a rock 'n' roll star. Arriving at Arthur with the
model Sara Lownds (whom he would marry that November), the
stylishly mod and extremely polite Bob Dylan was promptly
admitted.

''Like a Rolling Stone'' remained on the charts for three months,

carrying Columbia into what was then called ''the New Rock.'' (The

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music, not the building.) Our omnipotent vice president of sales,

however, did not lead that transition. Instead, a lawyer with no
A&R training and no claim to having ''ears'' was given the job of
administrative vice president under Goddard. His first task was to
renew Bob Dylan's contract with Columbia. The artist's demands
exceeded those of the top Columbia stars, Andy Williams and
Barbra Streisand. His requests were met.

Shaun Considine is writing a book about New York and the

creative revolutions of the mid-1960's.

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