Bob Dylan (Pt.2): BREAKING–New JFK Files Link Dylan to Richard Nixon’s Watergate Scandal
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Double Elvis. The views and opinions expressed in this podcast are satirical and solely those of the podcast author or individuals participating in the podcast. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about one of the greatest singer-songwriters of all time, a protest singer. A protest singer who paradoxically tried to remain apolitical until the president threatened his friend. A threat that dragged this singer-songwriter into one of the crimes of the century.

And because of recently disclosed secret government files, this singer's involvement in this crime may prove one of the wildest conspiracy theories of all time to be true. This singer and this songwriter is none other than Bob Dylan, a man who made and continues to make great music, undoubtedly some of the greatest music of all time.

Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Mellotron called Not So Tricky Dick MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Feel Like Making Love by Roberta Flack. And why would I play you that specific slice of George Benson did it better? Jeez, could I afford it?

Because that was the number one song in America on August 8th, 1974. And that was the day President Richard Nixon resigned from office. An event that led to one of the craziest stories in rock and roll history that most have yet to hear.

On this episode, an assassination, a presidential threat, a prostitution ring, secret JFK files, the Watergate burglary, and as he's referred to in the FBI documents, Bobby Dylan. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. ♪♪

When I was a young man, I worked for Carl Bernstein at a dot-com boom era internet company called Voter.com. I was one of the first employees hired, number 14. I was 24 years old, and I was going to make a bundle during the early days of the internet. Spoiler, I did not make a bundle, but I did work with Carl Bernstein. And Carl wasn't my direct boss, but he was brought in to be the majordomo, and on some level, everyone worked for Carl.

Carl was a legend. Carl was part of the Woodward and Bernstein journalism duo at the Washington Post that broke the Watergate scandal and was responsible for taking down a sitting president, Richard Nixon. Carl co-wrote All the President's Men with Bob Woodward. Dustin Hoffman portrayed Carl in the movie of the same name. Carl was super famous. He still is. You can turn on CNN on any election night and you're likely to see Carl doing his talking head thing.

Carl Bernstein is a journalism giant, and Carl Bernstein is also an idiot. Or at least he was regarding anything connected to the internet. My job was literally to make sure that Carl never got his way on anything. My direct boss, who was the chief product officer, instructed me to work closely with Carl and not let any of his dumb ideas get implemented into the product.

And when it came to Carl's storied past, it was rumored that he basically sharpened Bob Woodward's pencils while Woodward did all the investigative journalism that sank Nixon. Less known is that Bob Woodward, before winding up as a junior writer at the Post, was a naval intelligence officer. And it was Woodward, not Carl Bernstein, who had the relationship with the infamous Deep Throat source. Who, it was later revealed, was the high-ranking FBI agent Mark Felt.

The rumor around our office, which was staffed with a mix of D.C. operatives and prep school kids, some of whose parents worked in high levels of government, was that Carl was not only an intellectual lightweight, again, a trait I saw up close and personal, but that Woodward wasn't what he said he was. Now, how did an ex-Navy intelligence officer

Just show up at the Washington Post and then basically overnight be given one of the most important stories of the century with his new burnout buddy, Carl Bernstein, who was fresh off covering the band for Rolling Stone magazine. One of my best friend's dad was a senior reporter at the Post during the Watergate era, and I asked him this question, and he had no idea.

But if you follow the whispers into the dark corners of Washington elite cocktail parties, eventually you'll be confronted with a whopper of a conspiracy theory. And it is this. President Richard Nixon did not let his paranoia bungle him into a series of crimes known as the Watergate scandal that led to his resignation. Instead, Richard Nixon was set up by those closest to him.

Permanent Washington types. Intelligence officers, FBI, and ex-CIA handlers whom Nixon had incorporated into his circle to help him fend off the radicals and the hippies. These men, all the president's men, had themselves sabotaged the president. That's one theory anyway.

The idea that Bob Woodward and the dopey Carl Bernstein did not actually bring down a sitting president is further supported by the fact that Vice President Gerald Ford was the man who directly benefited from Richard Nixon's downfall by ascending to the most powerful position in the land after Nixon resigned. Because Gerald Ford served on the Warren Commission, the investigative body responsible for getting to the bottom of John F. Kennedy's assassination.

This was the same investigative body that ruled that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone after Gerald Ford and his Warren Commission declined to interview Jack Ruby, Oswald's assassin. This is highly suspicious, as they say. But no, Woodward and Bernstein disposed of the most powerful man on the planet, largely on their own, using nothing but good old-fashioned gumshoe journalism.

Well, for the past 50 years, there have been a lot of people in Washington who secretly never believed this story. They believed instead that Nixon was the victim of a coup d'etat from inside his own government. Because Nixon knew who killed Kennedy. And as such, Nixon could not be trusted with that information. How did they know Nixon knew?

because of this quote from the president to CIA Director Richard Helms in the Oval Office on October 8th, 1971, at which time the president instructed the CIA director to turn over all the quote-unquote "dirty trick" information that the CIA had regarding all the nasty shit they'd been up to for the past few decades.

Nixon requested this info under the guise of protecting the CIA. But historians don't dispute that this was a raw power grab meant to insulate the president with information. On this phone call, Nixon tells Helms he wants info on the Bay of Pigs. He wants info on the CIA trying to whack Castro, on Iran, on Guatemala, and on quote-unquote, who shot John. Don't believe me? Here's the tape. ♪

I do not want any information coming in from you on the skeleton and the sensitive surface. You will depend on the documents that have this kind of information. With regard to the whole job, besides the hard work, the job, the heavy flying, the next flying, etc., etc., etc.

What others have believed for some time was that this was Nixon telling the CIA he knew the agency's darkest secret. He knew the CIA killed Kennedy, and he wanted whatever info they had, and he wasn't going to take no for an answer. Of course, the CIA was petrified of Nixon releasing this information. And before these past few weeks, we had no actual proof that this theory was true. But now, we do.

because of what we just learned about Bob Dylan. Bob Dylan sat in the backseat of the limousine on one side, Bill Graham, the legendary concert promoter, and Bob's friend sat on the other. Between them, a dapper aristocrat, much older than the two men, sat with his intertwined hands resting peacefully on his crossed legs.

Dylan was reading the New York Times. Specifically, he was reading an article about former President Richard Nixon's criticism of Dylan's friend, the new president, Jimmy Carter. It was 1979, an election year, and America was tense. Dylan loathed politics, but any news of Nixon intrigued him. Nixon went mad in the pursuit of power, and abuse of power scared Bob Dylan. He saw it up close and in person his whole life.

especially after he made it big and was invited into the company of power. The aristocrat seated next to Dylan nodded at the article Bob was reading and said in his transatlantic accent, "My people don't believe that the peanut farmer will be able to defeat the actor." Dylan ignored him. Peanut farmer? Jimmy Carter was so much more than a peanut farmer. And he was more than a politician as well.

He was, as Dylan would later say, quote, "the kind of man you don't meet every day and you're lucky to meet if you ever do." He was a simple kind of man, like in the Lynyrd Skynyrd song, unquote. Unlike the actor, Reagan, and Ford, and Nixon before him, Jimmy wasn't concerned with power. And that was all right by Dylan, even if the well-heeled friend of Bill Graham sitting next to him couldn't see it. It had been years since Dylan last danced with politics, and he was loath to ever do it again.

despite his friendship with Carter and the pressure being put on him by the Democratic Party to publicly endorse his friend. The limousine pulled to the side of the road, and the driver popped the door open, and the aristocrat said his goodbyes, climbed out, and was gone. Dylan asked Bill Graham why his friend didn't just ride all the way back to the hotel with him. He was, after all, staying in the suite next to Bob's. "My friend," Bill Graham wanted to know. "I thought he was your friend."

Dylan snapped to attention. What do you mean, my friend? He's with you. We've been hanging out with him all week, and you're telling me you don't know this guy? Graham gave Dylan a baffled look. Dylan couldn't believe it. For the past week, during his entire stay in San Francisco, every night he and his friend Bill Graham had been dining out before the gigs with this man, each believing that he was the other's friend, when in reality, neither knew the man prior or knew where he came from.

In truth, this man was part of the "55 Families." Don't Google them. You won't find them anywhere but in the book "The Political World of Bob Dylan" by Jeff Taylor and Chad Israelson, which is where this story comes from. The aristocrat later informed Dylan's assistant that he was a representative of an organization known as the "55 Families," an organization that controlled the country above and beyond the power of the government and the people who were supposedly empowered as a democracy.

This organization is still largely secret. They don't want to be known. And they've been running this country for the better part of a century out of their unofficial power center on Jupiter Island in Florida, near where I live. I heard the local lore about the 55 families when I moved here, but I never believed it until this story came to my attention. And there it was, the 55 families in print in a book about Bob Dylan.

Days after this incident, when Dylan's assistant informed him of the aristocrat's identity and why he had infiltrated Dylan's inner circle to gather information on the rock star and report back to his employers on Dylan's activities and on Dylan's intentions, especially those that were political, when Dylan heard this, he had one thought. Oh no, not again. ♪

So every day I'm trying to squeeze in as much work as possible. I'm doing everything I can to keep motoring through that mid-afternoon crash. I've talked about this with you guys before. I work out, I swim, I get a boost, but then a couple hours later, I'm dragging. These are the moments as a former smoker when I just, you know, take a minute, light up,

chill, collect myself, get some energy, go back to work. But I don't smoke anymore. So I pop in a Lucy nicotine pouch and bam, I'm alert. I'm focused on what I got to do. And if it's late afternoon, that usually means recording ads like this one. Lucy breakers are pure nicotine and tobacco free and the capsules break into these flavor bursts. And my new go-to flavor is mint.

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and use code DISGRACELAND to get 20% off. And here comes the fine print. Lucy products are only for adults of legal age, and every order is age verified. Warning, this product contains nicotine. Nicotine is an addictive chemical.

Hey, discos, if you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly after-party bonus episode, where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these after-party bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails, and DMs,

and discuss your thoughts on the wild lives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638, disgracelandpod at gmail.com or at disgracelandpod on the socials and join the conversation every Thursday in our after party bonus episode. Was Bob Dylan drunk? It was hard to say. He'd been seen back in the kitchen earlier in the evening with his friend. And what they were up to was anybody's guess.

Dylan's friend, a broad-shouldered, clean-cut, indoor sunglasses type, was the kind of guy who never seemed drunk, even when he was. Whatever Dylan was, he wasn't serious. These other people, rich people, rich people with opinions, opinions about the world that seemed to be so far removed from the world Dylan traveled in, they all made Dylan nervous. And so did this kind of event. And what the hell was this, anyway? Were they giving each other awards?

Awards for what? For being good people? That seemed odd. Who awards themselves for being virtuous? These people had all the money in the world. Why not just give some of that money away to help solve the problems these people were protesting against? Poverty, racism, it was all a power game. And these people were part of the problem, no matter how they tried to dress themselves up as the answer.

Their black ties and fancy gowns, their cufflinks and their brand new leopard skin pillbox hats. None of it mattered. All of this was for show. To remind people like him where he came from. Which is not something Bob Dylan wanted to be reminded of. He came from nowhere. He was an outlaw. He wasn't like them. The powerful. How the fuck did he wind up here?

back near the kitchen with the waitstaff. Among the pre-dinner bustle in the hallway off of the ballroom where this Tony event was being held, Bob Dylan leaned against the wall, making himself even skinnier than he already was as the busboys and servers squeezed by. He turned to his friend, the one with the sunglasses, the one they called The Answer, the one he called Andy. Grossman got me into this. I'd just as soon split.

Andy looked down into his rocks glass and replied, "Can't split. They've given you an award. James Baldwin is sitting next to you up on the dais, for Christ's sakes." Dylan ignored him. From out in the ballroom, they heard the sound of cutlery on crystal, signaling some sort of blue blood cattle call. Dylan shrugged, nodded to Andy, and headed past them through the kitchen and into the ballroom to the Emergency Civil Liberties Committee, the ECLC's annual Bill of Rights dinner.

It was a who's who of bold-faced names from 1963 progressive politics that filled this room on December 13th, 1963. Just three weeks after President Kennedy had been shot and killed, supposedly by Lee Harvey Oswald, and they were about to give Bob Dylan their prestigious Thomas Paine Award. Bob Dylan had burst onto the scene just two years prior, after murdering Robert Zimmerman and skipping out of his hometown of Hibbing, Minnesota.

Like any good outlaw, Bob Dylan knew that you don't look back. And also, like any self-respecting outlaw, all Dylan wanted was to be free. Andy the Answer knew that, and Dylan knew Andy knew as soon as he met him. Once Dylan arrived in New Yorktown, he made a pilgrimage to Woody Guthrie's deathbed over in Jersey, and then strapped on his boots and waded into the ankle-deep commie bullshit flooding Greenwich Village.

Dylan did his best to navigate the warring Leninists and Trotskyites, co-opted the best of the beats, and laid waste to his coffee shop contemporaries with a modern folk style that was unlike anything anybody, not Joan Baez, not Peter, Paul, and fucking Mary, not the Irish crooners, not the sons of Brendan Behan, not even Woody Guthrie or his keeper Pete Seeger had heard before.

Dylan's musical style was completely his own. Somehow, it was folk and blues and hillbilly and sophisticated, spiritual and heretical, traditional and modern and simple and anthemic all at the same time.

After his self-titled full-length debut in 1962, an album that consisted mostly of covers and reworked traditionals, had introduced Dylan as a man who knew a thing or two about the music that infatuated the likes of Alan Lomax and the Newport Folk Seensters. Dylan's second album in 1963, The Freewheeling Bob Dylan, grabbed those Seensters by their prep school collars and shook them into a catatonic state of fanaticism with the modern-day anthems blowing in the wind and a hard rain's gonna fall.

Songs that not only explain the rapidly shifting social sands America was slipping on at the time, but also define that moment in real time as it was happening.

Bob Dylan wrote what he saw, and what he saw in the early 60s was political strife. Dylan wrote about it in the most emotionally compelling way possible, with a familiarity that is impossible to contrive. That type of relatability comes from a deep well of influence and practice, from a fearless point of view, and because it was amalgamated properly, it organically created the one thing that Dylan's core audience, the indoctrinated folkies, despised the most.

Commercial appeal. It took no time before they hung that voice of a generation albatross around Dylan's neck. From Bob Dylan's perspective, he wasn't the voice of anything or anyone except Bob Dylan. He was a loner, an outsider, on the run from a past that never was. He wasn't about to claim leadership of or membership to any group. He was an outlaw, just like Billy the Kid. Hell, just like Pat Garrett, too, before Chisholm stuffed all that money in Pat's pocket.

Dylan was as free as the roving carnies he paid to see back on the Iron Range as a kid. Groups did not interest him. Music and art were freedom. Groups were death. Groups are governed. With government comes power. With power comes corruption.

That's what Medgar Evers was about. Sure, the murder of a black civil rights activist in Jackson, Mississippi in 1963 was about racism. But at its core, that horrific event was also about the corrupt abuse of power. The white man showing the black man who was in control in this part of the country. And right now, the state was in a power struggle to maintain that control. It was all, in a word, disgusting. And it freaked Dylan out.

So he wrote about it, first directly in the song "Only a Pawn in Their Game" and then figuratively in "The Times They Are Changing." He never intended for either song, or any of his songs, or for his performance at the March on Washington in 1963 alongside Martin Luther King Jr. in support of the Civil Rights Movement to lead to any of this "voice of a generation" crap.

Bob Dylan was just an antenna tuned to what was going on around him. He was an outlaw writing what others were feeling at the moment. He saw an abuse of power and he felt compelled to comment on it. He wasn't trying to lead anybody. Not like Kennedy. That thing, a couple weeks ago in Dallas, that was certainly about power. That thing that happened to JFK on November 23rd, 1963. Back in Manhattan at the ECLC Bill of Rights dinner,

Bob Dylan stood at the podium accepting his Thomas Paine award, looking out at a bunch of bedazzled elites, all beaming with pride. They were all so self-satisfied, certain that what they were doing was good. They were, after all, awarding a young folk singer who was tapped into the times. This gave them a sense of moral entitlement that, well, you could only obtain by paying a couple thousand dollars a plate.

Plus, formerly fetting Bob Dylan might give them sway with their kids, who'd begun to abandon their parents' ways in favor of grass and sex on the quad. Dylan's eyes went wild up there on the podium. And then he spoke. Old people, when their hair grows out, they should go out. And I look down to see the people that are governing me, making my rules. And they haven't got any hair on their head. And I get very uptight about it.

All of a sudden, a tension fell upon the room. That nasally scat. That smirk. What was this? Dylan continued. "And they talk about Negroes, and they talk about black and white, and they talk about colors of red and blue and yellow. Man, I just don't see any colors at all when I look out. I don't see any colors at all, and if people have taught through the years to look at colors,

James Baldwin shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Men in the front row avoided eye contact. Their wives busied themselves with their salads. Dylan went on. I want to accept this award, the Tom Payne Award, from the Emergency Civil Liberties Committee. I want to accept it in my name, but I'm not really accepting it in my name. And I'm not accepting it in any kind of group's name, any Negro group or any other kind of group.

With this, boos started making their way from the back of the crowd. Dylan was undeterred. I'll stand up and get uncompromisable about it, which I have to be to be honest. I just gotta be, as I gotta admit that the man who shot President Kennedy, Lee Oswald, I don't know exactly where or what he thought he was doing, but I gotta admit honestly that I too, I saw some of myself in him. Then the boos started to rain down.

Dylan didn't stop. He continued. You can boo, but booing's got nothing to do with it. It's a, I just, I gotta tell you, man, it's Bill of Rights. It's free speech. And I just want to admit that I accept this Tom Payne Award on behalf of James Foreman of the Students Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and on behalf of the people who went to Cuba. The men in the audience cupped their mouths so their boos could be better heard. Women literally clutched their pearls. And Bob Dylan did not give a fuck.

These people, like most who wore their virtue on their sleeve, were as shameless as the carnybarkers back on the Iron Range. But with half the soul, when the scene was beat and Dylan bounced. We'll be right back after this. Word, word, word.

Those who believe that President Richard Nixon was the victim of a coup d'etat and was not undone by his own corruption believe he was overthrown by a combination of CIA and FBI agents working together to secretly protect their own interests.

Mainly, they believed that these powerful intel agencies were hell-bent on preventing Richard Nixon from disclosing the truth about President John F. Kennedy's assassination. What you're about to hear is me reading to you an actual FBI file regarding Bob Dylan following his public appearance at the ECLC Awards just a few weeks after the assassination of President Kennedy. This file can be found easily online by searching Newly Uncovered Documents Reveal FBI's Campaign Against Bob Dylan.

When you hear me use the word redacted, redacted is not actually written in this FBI report. It just means that there's a big black mark over whatever word goes in that part of the document.

December 16th, 1963 Airtel 2 Director FBI 100-384560 From SAC, New York 100-1074419 Subject Emergency Civil Liberties Committee IS-CISA of 1950 New York

Forwarded herewith are five copies of letterhead memorandum concerning the 12-13-63 dinner of the Emergency Civil Liberties Committee. The source is redacted. The source furnished the characterization of the individual listed below. Bob Dylan, a.k.a. Bobby Dylan, a.k.a. Robert Dylan.

Robert Dylan, self-employed as a folk singer, appeared on December 13th, 1963 at the 10th annual Bill of Rights Dinner held by the ECLC at the American Hotel, New York City. At this dinner, Dylan received the Tom Paine Award given each year by the ECLC to the foremost fighter for civil liberties.

In his acceptance speech, Dylan said that he agreed in part with Lee Harvey Oswald and thought that he understood Oswald but would not have gone as far as Oswald did.

Under the counterintelligence program, it is urged that this statement of Bob Dylan made at this meeting be brought to the attention of all Bureau's contacts in the mass media field so that proper publicity will be given to Dylan, who by means of his folk singing has the ability to have some communication with the American youth. It is recommended that Bob Dylan is kept under continued close surveillance by the following source, redacted. Bob Dylan sat in his Greenwich Village apartment stewing. It was 1971.

Ever since the Tom Paine award fiasco back in late 1963, Dylan had indeed been under FBI surveillance, as public FBI files indicate. And quote-unquote "proper publicity" meant Dylan was being dragged through the press repeatedly during the late 60s and early 70s by American journalists who were working covertly to do the FBI's bidding. Dylan did himself no favors by continuously taking a contrarian view of the world in his interviews.

As the 1960s counterculture raged against the Vietnam War machine, Dylan was asked by Sing Out magazine if he, as an artist, had a responsibility to speak out against the war that was dividing the nation. Dylan responded that he knew, quote, very good artists who are for the war, unquote, and that he and this artist friend of his shared the same basic values. And Bob Dylan then asked the interviewer how he knew that he, Dylan, wasn't actually for the war.

The mainstream record-buying public did not understand Bob Dylan's comments. How could the so-called voice of a generation, the voice of the peace and love generation, be for a war that this hippie generation was so fervently against? Dylan didn't even know the answer, and neither did his friend Andy, who sat with Dylan in his apartment, watching him. The two men sat in silence, taking in the sounds of the city from outside Dylan's McDougal Street townhouse.

Andy knew what Dylan was thinking. His friend, the so-called protest singer, had learned his lesson from the Thomas Paine award ceremony back in '63. He wasn't going to get roped into leading any cause, even if he did believe in it. Leadership meant power, and power corrupts. It was getting dark, and the city had entered that in-between time of day, when the sun dips down and New Yorkers en masse head for their homes to regroup and get ready to head back out on the town.

There's a strange lull around dusk in the city. You can feel it. That moment when everyone is taking a beat and recalibrating. It's not exactly silence, but it's at least an urban hush. For a few moments, peace in this chaotic Gotham seemed possible. And then, Dylan rocketed out of his chair. Damn it! Fucking Weberman again, man! Dylan raced down the stairs of his apartment and into the alley out back. Andy followed him.

There he was, A.J. Webberman, self-proclaimed Dylanologist, the inventor of so-called garbology, going through the dumpster, rooting through Dylan's trash, looking for some sort of evidence of Bob Dylan's political leanings, writings, pamphlets, anything that would feed his delusion that Bob Dylan was down with the cause.

"Weberman, you crazy fuck! I told you, man, my wife is gonna kill me! She's gonna kill me if she catches you one more damn time in our trash, man! Now get the hell..." Dylan picked up a discarded can of peaches and rocketed it at Weberman's head in the dumpster. Weberman propelled himself out of the dumpster. Incredibly, with no shame at all, he dusted himself off and confronted his hero.

"What's it gonna take?" Dylan asked. "An interview," Webberman replied. "Man." Dylan did not want to hear that. "One interview, man. One interview for my magazine and I promise I'll leave you alone." Dylan paced in the alley, his hand on his chin, thinking. Andy stood nearby, watching, ready to pounce on Webberman if need be. Dylan spoke. "One interview? One interview and you'll never come around here again? You'll leave my wife and my kids alone?

I promise, Weberman said. Dylan replied, Tomorrow. Call the studio. I'm there all day. Bob Dylan then turned and headed back into his townhouse. Inside, he let loose on Andy. They don't quit, man. I tell you, magazine. He ain't got no fucking magazine. It's a damn rag.

A.J. Weberman was the head of the Rock Liberation Front, a loose group of new left radicals hell-bent on bringing down Richard Nixon's government in 1971, with the specific mission of enlisting rock stars to help them with their cause.

When A.J. Webberman wasn't dumpster diving, he was focusing on "liberating famous rock artists from their bourgeois tendencies so that they could continue to represent the political counterculture of the 1960s." As insane as this sounds, A.J. Webberman was not ineffective. He prevailed upon no less than John Lennon in the early 70s to take up his cause.

This was at a time when John Lennon had moved to Manhattan and had become increasingly political, supporting all manner of radical causes.

singing out against the pot-related persecution of radical John Sinclair, parading the Black Panthers onto national television, aligning himself with Jerry Rubin to make plans to disrupt Richard Nixon's 1972 Republican National Convention, and yes, even aligning himself with A.J. Weberman to pull Bob Dylan out of his apolitical trance and into the cause, to help America disentangle itself from the war and overthrow Richard Nixon from power.

John Lennon was so convinced of the need for his old friend Bob to join the new left's fight that he famously wore a pin that read, Free Bob Dylan. A few weeks later, Andy sat on Bob Dylan's stoop next to his friend and told him about the pin. Bob already knew about it. John, man. Andy cut him off. John's in a lot of trouble. Dylan got quiet. Andy went on.

That Jerry Rubin stuff. Nixon hates Rubin. Hates Abbie Hoffman. Hates the new left with a burning passion. John's days are numbered. "What?" Dylan thought of Kennedy. "No," Annie said. "Not that. But…" "Well, what, man?" Dylan was impatient.

He'd already started his day upset. The AJ Webberman interview had come out and it was filled with lies. Filled with misquotes. A total frame job meant to get the radicals' point of view out there using Dylan as their vehicle. Worse, it projected the radicals' belief onto Dylan. Dylan thought it made him look like a clown. Like one of those geeks they paid to see in the carnival. A freak. Dylan was pissed. And now this news of John was troubling.

John was still Dylan's friend, even if he was annoying him at the time, trolling him in the press with this free Bob Dylan bullshit. "Is John gonna be alright?" he asked Andy. He didn't hear. "Hear what, man? Quit being cute. What's happening with John?" Nixon came at him and Yoko with both guns. Deportation. Maybe even jail. Dylan shook his head in disgust, spit between his legs onto the stoop, then looked up. And there he was.

AJ Weberman, strutting his hippie ass down McDougal Street. The dirty fucking rat. Hey! Dylan yelled. Weberman turned his head quick, saw Dylan, saw that he was pissed, and took off in a sprint. Dylan jumped from the stoop and gave chase. Within seconds, he was on Weberman's back, dragging him to the pavement. Bob Dylan, the peace and love so-called voice of the hippie generation, rained down punches onto his detractor.

Webberman laughed, delusional fuck that he was. It only fueled Dylan's anger. Dylan spouted unintelligible rage. For months, this scumbag had invaded his privacy, his wife's privacy, his children's, his fucking kids, his family. Webberman confronted Dylan's wife on the street, went through Dylan's mail, went through Dylan's trash, misquoted Dylan in the press, miscategorized and misrepresented Dylan's words, talked bullshit about Dylan and his family.

Webberman protested. Webberman giggled. Webberman winced. Webberman outright laughed. Webberman was psychotic. Dylan stood and kicked Webberman in the ribs, kicked Webberman in the head, and stomped him furiously until Andy pulled Bob Dylan off of A.J. Webberman. It's a good thing Andy was there, or Bob Dylan may have killed A.J. Webberman. Andy was always there for Dylan back then.

It's hard to tell when Andy the Answer came into Bob Dylan's life, sometime around 1963 from my research, but by most accounts, he just appeared. Andy the Answer blew in with the wind, and that's where his nickname came from. Like Bobby Newerth, Andy the Answer became, at times, one of Dylan's closest and also most mysterious friends. He was around, and then he wasn't.

and Dylan didn't seem to mind. Andy didn't require much of Dylan. He gave more than he took, which is to say he didn't take much at all. And for a famous person, this is precisely the type of dynamic needed in a friendship. So when Andy the Answer blew in with the wind to Washington, D.C. on June 17th, 1972 and called on Bob Dylan, nobody, least of all Dylan, suspected anything.

On January 23rd, 2025, President Trump issued an executive order instructing members of his intelligence community to come up with a plan within 15 days to release the so-called JFK files.

Within the last few weeks, hundreds of thousands of pages from this treasure trove of previously unreleased documents related to the Kennedy assassination have been unredacted and released officially. One document in particular, a document mentioning Bob Dylan, looks and reads a lot like the previously released FBI document on Bob Dylan that I read for you earlier in this episode. The FBI document summarizing Dylan's comments about Lee Harvey Oswald at the Tom Paine Awards.

I'm going to read this new document to you now. June 16th, 1973. Airtel. To Director, FBI, 100-384560. From SAC, Washington, D.C., 100-1085528.

Watergate Complex Prostitution Ring. Forwarded herewith are five copies of letterhead memorandum concerning the Watergate Complex Prostitution Ring. William Anderson. The source furnished the characterization of the individuals listed below. Becca Handel, aka Rebecca Handel, aka Foggy Bottom Becca, and Bob Dylan, aka Bobby Dylan, aka Robert Dylan, aka Robert Zimmerman.

Becca Handel, 26, employed as secretary by Watergate Commercial Holdings, has, for the past eight months, orchestrated and managed a stable of female prostitutes out of her office at the Watergate Complex building in the Foggy Bottom neighborhood of Washington, D.C. Ms. Handel keeps photographs of the prostitutes she manages under lock and key at her secretarial desk office.

Her clients include mostly dignitaries from foreign countries, notably those from the nearby Saudi Arabia embassy, as well as traveling athletes and musicians. Ms. Handel is in an ongoing, non-commercial sexual relationship with known radical and protest singer Bob Dylan. Mr. Dylan and Ms. Handel meet most times the singer visits Washington. It is recommended that the director utilize this information as an asset to turn Bob Dylan toward assisting the Bureau and its efforts, should the director deem it necessary.

To that end, no effort has been made by the Bureau to inform local authorities of the Watergate complex prostitution ring or Ms. Handel's role in it. It is recommended that Bob Dylan is kept under continued close surveillance by the following source: William Anderson. The Watergate prostitution ring is one of many theories believed to be the real reason behind President Richard Nixon's demise. But we now know that many events contributed to the same result.

Bob Dylan, of course, knew about the prostitution ring. Richard Manuel from the band told Dylan all about the working girl scene in Washington. He was the first to connect Bob with Becca. But Bob, by the account I read, didn't pay for it. Dylan sat at the end of the bed in his Watergate hotel room, staring at the television, stressed out, watching the news. It really looked like Nixon was going to deport his friend John Lennon and John's wife Yoko Ono.

Dylan couldn't wrap his head around this. The blatant power flex. John was harmless, Dylan thought. He was just speaking up for the little guy. He wasn't like AJ Webberman or Jerry Rubin, the radicals John was palling around with up until his deportation problems started. John was a shiny nickel guy. He was onto something one day and then onto something else the next. This political obsession of his would fade. Dylan knew.

But now it seemed it might be too late. John looked to be cooked by Nixon. Dylan couldn't stand Nixon. Who could? The man was clearly governed by his worst instincts. He had no problem stepping all over the little guy if necessary. First it was the hippies, and then the Panthers, and now John. Nixon would trample the rights of anyone to maintain his power. Dylan might not have wanted to lend his name to the cause, but that didn't mean he approved of what Nixon was doing to those who did.

In fact, what Nixon was doing, to John in particular, scared the hell out of Bob Dylan. If Nixon could get away with evicting a rock and roll singer from a free country for exercising his free speech, then what couldn't Nixon get away with? America. It was getting so an outlaw couldn't feel free. Or brave. But Bob Dylan was feeling brave. It was that contrarian instinct. And he gave him the idea.

Andy had just arrived at Dylan's hotel room. Becca let him in and let herself out. Andy noted his approval of her good looks to Dylan, and Dylan ignored the comment. "All she does is work, man. I could dig that." Dylan's consternation over the Nixon and Lennon power struggle was palpable. Andy explained that Dylan could help, finally, and Dylan pretended to not be interested, but he was, at last.

And Andy went on. You don't have to go on television and stand up for the war, and you don't have to do an interview with Rolling Stone disparaging Nixon. You don't even have to open your mouth. Dylan was listening. Andy said, write a letter. Who? Write who a letter? Dylan wanted to know. Tricky dick? Immigration and Naturalization Services, answered Andy. The answer. Why? Why would I do that? Dylan protested.

Andy closed his eyes, clenched his lips, and tilted his head as if to say, You know the answer. And you know I know the answer. So quit being so fucking coy about it, Mr. International Popstar Man. Nah, I'm serious, man. What's writing a letter gonna do to help John? Dylan said. It'll send a message, Andy answered. It'll galvanize public opinion in favor of John. It'll make Nixon realize the youth vote would be even farther out of reach if he deports John and Yoko.

Dylan stood up. He was out of patience. He walked angrily over to the desk in his hotel room. You want me to write a letter? Fine, I'll write a letter. Dylan grabbed a piece of hotel stationery off the desk and a pen, and he wrote down the following. John and Yoko had a great voice and drive to this country's so-called art institution.

They inspire and transcend and stimulate, and by doing, only can help others to see pure light, and in doing that, put an end to this wild, dull taste of petty commercialism which is being passed off as art by the overpowering mass media. Hooray for John and Yoko. Let them stay and live here and breathe. This country's got plenty of room and space. Let John and Yoko stay. Bob Dylan.

When he was finished, he turned to Andy and handed him the paper. "There. Satisfied?" Andy took the letter, tucked it into his jacket pocket, smiled and said, "Actually, there's one more thing you can do." Dylan gave Andy an annoyed look. Andy smiled and said, "Call that pretty young secretary and tell her to blow off work and come back here and keep you company." "Yeah, maybe," Dylan said. "No." Andy insisted and picked up the rotary phone receiver and handed it to Bob.

Call her. I insist. You deserve it. Dylan was too beat to argue. He grabbed the phone, dialed up Becca in her office on the first floor, and started talking as Andy slipped out of the room.

Downstairs, later that evening, Andy the Answer, along with a team of four ex-CIA agents and one security chief from the committee to re-elect the president, all of whom were skilled in spycraft, breaking and entering being among those skills, crept through the halls of the Watergate Complex office building. Their main target was on the sixth floor, the Democratic National Committee headquarters.

But before breaking into that office, they needed to break into the office of Watergate Commercial Holdings on the first floor of the Watergate. The mission was simple. With Becca Handel, the Watergate Commercial Holdings secretary and madam of the Watergate prostitution ring, now preoccupied on the other side of the massive Watergate building in Bob Dylan's hotel room, the burglars could freely break into Becca's office.

Once inside, the plan was to get the photos from Becca's desk. The photos of the prostitutes. Not all of them, just some. It was key to make it look like nothing happened. And it was also key to leave some of the photos behind in Becca's desk in case evidence was later needed to incriminate her. Then, get out without leaving a trace.

Andy picked the lock to Becca's desk, and there they were, the photos. He grabbed about six or seven of them. Each Polaroid featured a different prostitute, high class, nearly naked, just enough skin to tease. Their names, Candy Cane and Greenhouse Nymph, among others, along with their measurements, were scribbled onto the bottoms of the Polaroids.

And before Andy closed the desk, he took the small spare gold desk key from inside the drawer in case he needed access later. He tucked the key into his pocket next to the letter Bob Dylan had written. What was that? A light came on suddenly from down the hall. This was the part of the mission that was most critical. Andy needed to escape unseen and to leave the others behind. And if he was to get caught, he was most certainly not to have any evidence on him.

So, from in his pocket, Andy grabbed the key he had just taken from the desk. He also grabbed the letter Dylan had written, ripped it in half, and carefully folded one half of the stationery, the half that hadn't been written on, over the key. He put what remained of Dylan's note back into his pocket and then handed the folded paper over the key in the photos to one of his burglars, Frank Carter, and Andy carefully exited the office.

Andy the Answer crept into the stairwell and absconded into the night. The five remaining burglars crept into the stairwell and up to the sixth floor. Andy needed to get out, but only Andy. The other five, the CIA man and the committee man, did not.

That was part of the plan. They had to get caught. But not before the next part of the mission. They quietly broke into the Democratic National Committee offices. Then, Frank Carter planted the photos of the prostitutes that were stolen from Becca's office into the desks of various Democratic National Committee members. He made it look like those depraved liberals were busy paying for sex, which they were anyway. But hold it.

What was that? A noise from outside the office. Stop. It's gone. Back to business. The burglars planted what they needed to. They made the whole thing look messy, but not too messy. And then, white light. It was happening. The rent-a-cop employed by the Watergate security office took the bait. The suspicious tape left on the lock of the exit door downstairs. And he was here now, in the office, doing the whole put your hands up or I'll shoot thing.

The CIA men smirked and did as they were told, and they were ready, and this was necessary. All the clues were meant to lead back to President Nixon. The men who were arrested were all tied into men within Nixon's inner circle. And now, because of this Watergate scandal, there was no doubt. Nixon was unhinged. Nixon deployed his own CIA men to break into his opponent's office to spy and to subvert the Democratic Party.

That's the message the public was sold, and that's the message the public bought. The message to Richard Nixon from the CIA was darker. It said, "We will sacrifice our own to fuck you. We will have our own men arrested and dragged before Congress and publicly shamed to fuck you to the fucking death. We will rat fuck you full of historical disgrace in order to keep our secrets and to keep you the fuck out of the halls of real power.

Because you are nothing more than a temporary employee who merely thought about getting too big for his britches. And we are forever. And we are soulless. We are the permanent Washington bureaucracy. ♪

First, it was called the Watergate Caper. Five men, apparently caught in the act of burglarizing and bugging Democratic headquarters in Washington. But the episode grew steadily more sinister. Political sabotage and espionage unparalleled in American history. Donald Segretti. Reports in major newspapers say White House aides recruited Segretti for secret intelligence work and dirty tricks against the Democrats.

Good evening. In all the decisions I have made in my public life, I have always tried to do what was best for the nation. For opposite of a cartel to the Watergate, I have felt it was my duty to persevere. For the interest of the nation, the status comes for any person. I have never been a quitter. America needs a full-time president. Therefore, I shall resign the presidency effective as meaner.

In the aftermath of the Watergate break-in, there was no mention of the prostitution ring. It is believed that Democrat operatives got a hold of the photos through local authorities and squashed the story with their boys club buddies in the press before the news could get out.

However, Jim Houghton, in his excellent book, Secret Agenda, lays out the scandal with pretty compelling evidence. President Richard Nixon resigned on August 8th, 1974, rather than face impeachment. It wasn't until 1979 when one of Nixon's henchmen, G. Gordon Liddy, broke the news of the prostitution ring and that Bob Dylan began to piece together his role in the Washington scandal. Bob Dylan sat in the backseat of his limousine reading his newspaper alongside Bill Graham.

annoyed at the fact that both he and Bill had allowed an outsider, this one seemingly political, to enter into his world. The aristocrat who just exited the limo. The aristocrat who'd been hanging around with them for the last several evenings, posing as the other's friend, sapping information from Bob, inquiring subtly but consistently about Bob's political leanings, his opinions, his thoughts on his friend President Jimmy Carter, and on Carter's opponent, Ronald Reagan.

Once again, Dylan feared he'd been had. It was nearly Andy the Answer all over again. Positively fucked street. Then, a headline caught Dylan's eye. It was Watergate. The story that wouldn't die. G. Gordon Liddy, that jackbooted thug, was back in the news talking DC prostitutes. Talking Becca Handel blues. Bob Dylan, of course, recognized Becca's name. But that didn't rattle him. What rattled him was another detail.

According to G. Gordon Liddy, one of the Watergate burglars was arrested with a key in his pocket. And that key belonged to Becca Handel, the madam of the Watergate prostitution ring. What did Bob Dylan think about this news then? We don't know.

But what does Bob Dylan think about all of this now? What does Bob Dylan think about this final mention of him in the FBI files? Again, another memo from 1972, but another recently released as part of the JFK assassination document disclosure, which reads, 2. Director FBI 100-384560 from SAC, Washington, D.C.,

Subject, Frank Carter, Watergate burglar.

Frank Carter, aka Bernard Barker, of the CIA, was apprehended at the Watergate complex in connection with DNC offices' burglary. Local authorities reported that on his person, approximately $234 in cash was confiscated, along with a walkie-talkie, pen, Rolex watch, and a small gold key and folded piece of paper. The key is believed to be the key for Ms. Handel's Watergate Commercial Holdings office desk.

The paper's origin is unknown. Photographic evidence of the paper attached herein reveals only the words, Co. Stay. There are no theories regarding the origins of this paper note, but the key is believed to have been given to Agent Frank Carter by FBI source William Anderson, a.k.a. Billy A., a.k.a. Wild Bill, a.k.a. Billy the Kid, a.k.a. Willie Anderstein, a.k.a. the Magnificent Anderson, a.k.a.

Andy. How many other Andys were at the Watergate complex on that day, June 17th, 1972, and had their hands on a small gold key and a crumpled up piece of paper inscribed with the words, "Co. Stay." "Co. Stay" were the final scribblings of the final sentence in the note that Bob Dylan wrote on behalf of John Lennon. "Let John and Yoko stay. Co. Stay."

Bob Dylan gave that letter to Andy, who was surveilling Dylan for the FBI. We now know this because of the unredacted FBI file from the trove of newly released JFK assassination documents. Andy is the dude in that first FBI file from way back in 1963, his name redacted, surveilling Bob Dylan.

I believe that it was Andy who broke into Becca Handel's office to steal the prostitution photos and that he took the spare key so that he could relock the desk drawer. He then took that key and folded it into part of the letter Dylan gave him and handed it to Watergate burglar Frank Carter, as proven in this FBI file.

This newly disclosed FBI document proves that the key in the letter come from an FBI source and that the source's name was Andy. And that proves that the FBI had something to do with the Watergate break-in along with the CIA.

And that proves that the FBI had a corrupt interest in feeding, through Deep Throat, aka Mark Felt, aka the second most powerful man in the FBI at the time, feeding Deep Throat information to Bob Woodward and Carl fucking Bernstein to help them take down the president.

The FBI was there that night with the CIA. It wasn't just the CIA. We now know that because of Bob Dylan's recently disclosed relationship with the FBI source, Andy the Answer.

I believe Andy the Answer, or Andy Answers, or William Anderson, or whatever the fuck his real name was, surreptitiously used Bob Dylan to distract his girlfriend, Becca Handel, so that he could break into her office and plant incriminating evidence to frame Democratic operatives as part of the Watergate plan. From there, the FBI took over from the CIA and, like I said, used their man Deep Throat to help Woodward and Bernstein take down the president.

Was the Watergate so-called scandal uncovered by a heroic feat of investigative journalism by a former naval intelligence officer, Bob Woodward, and his dopey rock journalist buddy, Carl Bernstein?

or was it an informational psy-ot, spoon-fed to these two Washington Post reporters by a seasoned FBI man posing as a noble source with an agenda to shape public opinion strongly against Richard Nixon so as to leave the president no option but to resign or face impeachment?

This document indisputably proves the Watergate prostitution ring theory, and it very nearly proves that not only did the FBI and CIA collude to take down Nixon themselves, but that they did it with the unwitting help of Bob Dylan, whom they'd had under watch for nearly a decade. Again, as the FBI files, both the ones that have been public for years and the ones that have been recently released, prove. And what does Bob Dylan think of all this? He must know, right?

I believe Bob Dylan first realized what he had done years after Watergate, in 1979 in the back of that limo as I mentioned earlier, as reported in Jeff Taylor and Chad Israelson's book, The Political World of Bob Dylan. You can check that out. I believe Bob Dylan's guilt over his part in Watergate is what led to his conversion to Christianity.

Dylan knew it. He knew that that kind of power was dangerous, not worth getting too close to. It's why he avoided politics, until he didn't, by writing that damn letter, and the results were disastrous.

Writing the letter distracted Dillon. He allowed himself to be taken advantage of by Andy insisting he call Becca. Andy used his power to manipulate Bob into unwittingly manipulating the will of millions of Americans, overturning an election where the vast, vast majority of citizens voted for Richard Nixon to become their president in an election where Nixon won every single state except Massachusetts. Richard Nixon was not a great president.

He was petty, paranoid, and abused the power bestowed upon him. But Richard Nixon was set to reveal an even bigger abuse of power: the assassination of President Kennedy at the hands of his central intelligence agency. And as a result, that same agency, along with the help of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, neutralized Nixon by orchestrating a secret coup d'etat that preyed upon Tricky Dick's obvious flaws.

The presidency is a very powerful position. But those who can overthrow a president? Twice? Those who can openly upend the will of millions of Americans? Those who can completely subvert democracy by utilizing the power of bureaucracy? That's a truly disgraceful kind of power. And a disgrace that a powerless protest singer named Bob Dylan unknowingly helped engineer.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is an April Fool's episode of Disgraceland.

Well, well, well. Did I get you? I don't know. I can never tell with these things. I know I got you before in the past. I don't know if I got you here. I hope I did. And if I did, I hope you're not too pissed at me, all right? No, Bob Dylan, he did not have anything to do with Watergate aside from actually staying at the Watergate Hotel while on tour in the 1970s. That's kind of what gave you this idea. Other than claiming that Dylan was responsible for the Watergate break-in,

Other than that and the last two FBI files that I read to you, pretty much everything in this episode is fact. The Dillon fight with Webberman,

The Watergate prostitution ring conspiracy theory, that's an actual conspiracy theory. It was litigated in court, I believe. The 55 families, true. All that's true. Me working with Carl Bernstein, that's true as well. And despite this episode being satire, nothing in here disproves the theory that Nixon was set up by a CIA with Watergate, which, due to the JFK files, I am beginning to believe this theory more and more as fact.

But I'm not quite there yet. I'll have more on all of this in this week's After Party bonus episode where I'm going to dive deeper into the making of this episode and separate the historical facts in my story here from historical fiction. In the meantime, call me, text me, 617-906-6638. Let me know if I got you here. Hit me up at DisgracelandPod on the socials. Let me know what you thought of this episode. Let me know the answer to this week's question of the week, which is which songwriter is

Best spoke for your generation was a Bob Dylan, Kurt Cobain, Kendrick Taylor. Hit me. I want to know. And you might hear your answer on this week's after party coming up next in your feed. Apple podcast listeners, make sure you have auto downloads turned on. Here comes some credits. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com.

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