Bob Dylan Paints Masterpieces
Here comes the story of a hurricane that wasn’t.
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When my son Patrick told me three months ago that Bob Dylan was coming to Forest Hills Stadium in Queens and that he’d like to see the legend in concert “because he’s going to die soon,” I reacted poorly. My exact words were: “I’ll pass.”
I’m a Dylan fan, but as most everyone who follows this stuff knows, the legend has developed a reputation in recent years as a “challenging” live performer. He doesn’t play the hits. The songs he does play in concert don’t sound like you expect them to sound. There’s no banter, no stagecraft, no razzle dazzle. His voice has always been unique, but now—at 85—it’s unique in an updated way. You might call it a broken instrument. It cracks. He croaks.
That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. A broken instrument can produce beautiful sounds. I happen to love Mr. Dylan’s recent albums, even the ones where he croaks his way through songs that Sinatra once crooned. Those renditions are haunting gems. He’s mining a deep vein of rich emotion on those records. It works for me.
My most controversial take is that 21st century Bob Dylan is better than 20th century Bob Dylan. I once tried this idea out on Andy Ferguson, a writer of enviable style and considerable mustache whose Dylan fandom predates mine by decades. Andy looked at me with pity—not the pity appropriate for an orphan or wastrel, but the pity Mr. T had for kids who messed around with drugs. He pitied the fool who trafficked in such undercooked opinions. I guess I deserved it.
Now, it’s important to note that I am in my early 50s. I discovered Mr. Dylan in the 1980s, not exactly the high point of his long and distinguished career. And I had seen him perform before—once in 1992 at the “Late Night With David Letterman” 10th anniversary special filmed live at Radio City Music Hall, and twice in Los Angeles in the mid-1990s. All three times were underwhelming.
Also—important context—I am on the cusp of becoming an ornery coot. Nothing pleases me more than going to bed early on a Tuesday night. But Patrick is on the cusp of his young adulthood. He has little need of a good night’s sleep. He is hungry for experience. So, with a day or two to mull my initial reaction, I reversed course. The boy is right. Mr. Dylan isn’t going to live forever. It will be nice for Patrick to be able to say one day that he saw the mysterious Mr. Zimmerman with his own eyes and heard him with his own ears. I bought the tickets for us and put it on the calendar.
Tuesday, the big night, brought with it a forecast of big weather in the New York area. The reports were dire—heavy rain, dangerous wind, thunder and lightning, flash flood warnings, a tornado watch. As the afternoon wore on, the sky darkened. At various times it opened up. I began to dread the idea of getting stranded in the furthest reaches of Queens as the elements battered us into oblivion.
And for what? To hear an old man croak out a few unrecognizable tunes? To see what I’d already seen? To be underwhelmed again?
I monitored the situation from my desk at work, waiting for the gig to be canceled. I’m man enough to admit that I wanted the venue to pull the plug. I was rooting for an easy excuse to head straight home, to skip the deluge and go to bed early. “Sorry son,” I’d say, shaking the rain off my boots. “Mother Nature had her own plans. It wasn’t in the cards for us tonight.”
In fact, Mother Nature was bluffing. The weather held. The show went on as scheduled. And, much to my surprise, there was nothing “challenging” about Mr. Dylan’s performance. It was delightful, charming even. He was in fine voice. His band was magnificent. The set was lively and dynamic. Pulsing and propulsive blues gave way to moments of quiet intimacy. The atmosphere was divine, the artistry elite.
The songs, as advertised, weren’t immediately recognizable. It didn’t bother me. It didn’t seem to bother anyone.
At times the band melted away and Mr. Dylan sang over the spare accompaniment of the stand-up bass or a single shimmering guitar chord. You could hear the wind moving in the leaves in the trees behind the stage. I guess there’s a reason they call it Forest Hills. A day of dread morphed into a great evening out, the best I can remember having in a long time.
Several good lessons were learned or relearned Tuesday night. You don’t need a weatherman. Stagecraft and showbiz are often distractions. A bit of a challenge can be just the thing. Pity the fool who, when offered beauty, chooses comfort.
Mr. Hennessey is editor of Free Expression.