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Crowe's Nest |
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Bob Dylan is the most interesting singer and songwriter that I ever heard. God must have blown some magic into his ear. For originality, poetry and storytelling that covers the full range of the human condition, there’s not another artist, living or dead, that can touch him. I saw him perform at the Highlands Arena in Dalton, Ga., on May 2, 2001. I still remember it as if it were yesterday: Dylan, who always starts on time, was already rocking the house by the time we walked in. "Things change," he was pointing out, or singing, in that peculiar way of his, as the crowd thundered its approval. Those were the only two words I understood out of the whole song, just about, but that was all right. I got the point anyway and wanted more. The crowd reacted as if they understood every word of every song. Many – especially some close to where we were sitting – seemed to be gorging themselves on the performance, and at times appeared on the verge of rocking off into some sort of delirium fever. They couldn’t get enough, and Dylan – backed by three cool guitar dudes and a savvy drummer I couldn’t see – dished it out in buckets for about two hours and then threw in about a half-dozen big encores. It was billed as "An Evening With Bob Dylan," but for these fans it was more than that, almost like an historical experience, especially for those who had never seen him "live." Over 60, and a performing artist for about 40 years now, the man is mythical, the musical poet laureate of American "cool," and still an enigma, unexplainable and unable to be labeled – other than to say he’s Bob Dylan. On stage, he’s all business, holding his guitar like a Tommy gun, which he can play the dickens out of, and doesn’t stop until he’s done and the audience has been given its money’s worth. He presents something of a remarkable presence – a skinny, almost delicate frame with a large head and a face a little worse for wear than you would expect. The skin looks thin, with the rut of a major highway on each cheek and some lesser byways around the mouth. The deadpan face - with sharp-edged features and a wide, thin slash of a mouth - doesn’t smile and has taken on a dramatic, almost devilish look, not unlike a little Vincent Price, up to some kind of chicanery. The Bob Dylan hair is still there, shaped like a short-bobbed coonskin cap, but a little more sparse and mystical than the old hair. He’s dressed in a fine, thin gray suit of a light material – maybe silk – and the other guitar players are rakishly dressed, good-looking hombres, all here for one reason and one reason only – to rock the house. Dylan, who doesn’t speak to the audience directly, except through his songs and at some point to introduce the band members, basically takes you on a trip with him which seems as much fun for him as it does for you. Of course you can never go home again, but you can revisit, he seems to say as he takes you on a ride down "Highway 61," and on across the landscape of his youth, stopping here and there for a little country, a little folk and a whole lot of full blown rock and roll. He doesn’t sing the old songs the way he used to sing them, he revisits them. And some he seems to have retooled altogether, leaving almost nothing the same except the lyrics – which aren’t really the same anymore either because of the way he sings them. Just like him, they’ve aged and changed, but they’re still "right on" and they still groove. Songs like "All Along The Watchtower" and "Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again" and "Like A Rolling Stone." One of the most astonishing things about Dylan, for those attending one of his concerts for the first time, is his musicianship on both the acoustic and electric guitar. In this show, he only went to his harmonica a time or two to add a little trimming to a couple of songs. It wasn’t a whole lot, but just enough to remind us that he still held his credentials on that instrument too. There’s no jumping and running about the stage like a wild rooster and there are no high tech effects or explosions in his concerts. It’s just straight, full tilt rock and roll, with an occasional interlude of "nice and easy", or some sassy, lighthearted commentary about some dame or situation. Dylan doesn’t move around much, but does display little, light-legged, jerky, quirky movements when he’s in a particular groove, especially when he’s jamming and getting down with his lead guitar man, which is entertaining in itself to see. Some say that Dylan is more of a songwriter than a singer, and there are others that say his singing has gotten harder to understand than ever. Whether that’s true or not, he’s got something very special and brings it with him. Call it an atmosphere, a blending of the innocence of youth and the wild abandon of the hippy spirit within us all, desiring to get loose and frolic like we didn’t have any better sense. Whatever you call it, Dylan’s still got it. Like some Pied Piper, he lured them in and didn’t let them go until he was finished and had given all he had intended to give. They came from all walks of life, from the real hippies of the ‘60s and ‘70s to the movers and shakers of the ‘80s and ‘90s, to the modern day businessman and everyday working stiff, just to see him and hear him – some for the first time and some to experience it again. When he was done, he put a handsome gray, felt cowboy hat on his head (realizing, I believe, how cool he looked in it), looked over the audience in sort of a shy, curious way, without so much as a grin, and walked off the stage, scratching his chin. But he came back, just like we knew he would. And like he knew he would, to leave us with a few more messages. He reminded us of our common mortality, with his anthem "Knocking On Heaven’s Door," underscoring the fact that a lot of us are closer to the ending than we are to the beginning and he probably won’t be passing this way again. For the idealism of the young and the hopeful heart, he sang one of his earliest and most poignant anthems, "Blowing In The Wind." And for the old hippies, and the hippy in spirit, there was "Rainy Day Women No. 12&35," which he rocked out on and even flashed a couple of rare smiles. You know how it goes: "They’ll stone you and say that it’s the end. "Then they’ll stone you and then they’ll come back again. "They’ll stone you when you’re riding in your car. "They’ll stone you when you’re playing your guitar. "Yes, but I would not feel so all alone, "Everybody must get stoned."
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