I wasn t sure if I would ever make it to a Bob Dylan concert. He is known for having an erratic touring schedule, and, after all, he is getting on in years. Then I got the phone call that made me a happy woman.
I had tickets to a Bob Dylan concert, and I was sitting close to the stage. After thoroughly enjoying two vastly talented opening acts (Amos Lee and Elvis Costello) I was more than ready to witness the master poet in action. Dylan didn t disappoint.
He strode to the front of the stage, the wide-brimmed hat perched on his head reminiscent of the one he wore on the Desire album cover in 1976. The rest of his garb consisted of a shrunken black suit with white piping down the sides, and he topped it all off with a sparkling lavender guitar strap and harmonica brace. Those skinny old man legs were jumping, and he looked like he was ready to show me a good time.
Throughout the course of the evening, he played three different instruments: electric guitar, harmonica and keyboard. He played these instruments while simultaneously huskily wailing brilliant lyrics into his microphone. The clouds of nag champa incense emanating from the fog machines served only to enhance the surreally magical atmosphere.
That s certainly saying something for a concert that took place inside of a basketball arena. It has been said that the husky wailing of Dylan s recent performances has proven indecipherable to fans at his shows. I vote not true.
As any fan of his music can tell you, inarticulate mumbling is a basic characteristic. If you re looking for clearly delineated, easy on the ears pop, I hear that Hanson is touring again. Dylan rocked his show.
He played mostly from his recent album, Modern Times , and interspersed some old classics as well. All Along the Watchtower , anyone? I was almost completely sated with his performance.
Almost, as was the little old lady in the front row, center with a leopard skin pill-box hat on her curly grey mop. The reason that we left feeling unfulfilled is that he was so completely immersed in his creative process that he hardly glanced up. And I can verify that the little old lady in leopard was wiggling her hips so hard I thought she d break in half and fall over.
The man is, alas, an island: I would still rather watch him not notice me than have Bret Michaels or Pete Wentz lick my face.
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