I must admit, to my shame, that I am only a relatively recent convert to Bob Dylan. Not that I ever tried to resist him, I merely (as many others still do, I fear) overlooked him as an artist of relevance to today’s world and, dare I say it, my generation. However, just over a year ago curiosity compelled me to buy a copy of ‘Highway 61 Revisited’ to try him out and, in a story that will probably be familiar to fellow Dylanphiles the world over, my initial interest grew into an active enjoyment, then a fiery passion and finally into a family-and-friends-alienating, wallet-draining obsession.

So when the chance to see the elusive master himself arose I pursued tickets ruthlessly and spent a good three or four months waiting patiently for the concert to come, all the while being told stories that when friends had seen Dylan he’d only disappointed them with his coldness, lack of interest and even drunkenness. But I was not put off. Bob wouldn’t let me down.

Finally the seventeenth came and my somewhat hesitantly roped-in brother and I set off to Glasgow to see the man himself. Appalling traffic meant we arrived just as he and his band took to the stage, and in my confused search for row GG I failed to recognise the lurching opener that I later found out to be no less than the protest classic ‘Maggie’s Farm.’ Our seats found we watch rapt as Dylan and his band drawl through highlights of his late-sixties country phase, ‘Tonight I’ll be Staying Here With You’ and ‘I’ll be Your Baby Tonight.’ They play with a laid-back casualness that disguises the actual tightness of this highly accomplished band, which switches playlists on every night of their ‘neverending tour.’ Dylan himself is on the piano although his playing is somewhat lost under the layers of guitars; his voice is battered and old, a nicotine croak, yet the words are clearly discernable and none of the fire is lost. His first harmonica blast is greeted with euphoric applause.

But it’s the fourth song of the night, the otherworldly ‘It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)’ that really lets you know you’re seeing something special. It’s rendered into a full rock song here, Dylan making no effort to reel off the words in the almost incomprehensible assault on the senses he uses on the original but instead singing them as ordinary verses; nonetheless the sharpness of these stream of consciousness ramblings remain undulled by time – lines like ‘Disillusioned words like bullets bark/as human gods aim for their mark/make everything from toy guns that spark/to flesh-coloured Christs that glow in the dark/it's easy to see without looking too far/that not much is really sacred’ are as hair-tinglingly powerful even now, some forty years on.

From this point on there’s no stopping him. More classics like ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’ and a furious ‘Highway 61 Revisited’ are, of course, excellent. But it’s not just the sixties songs that stand out – the spiritual ‘Every Grain of Sand’, sang in front of a backdrop of twinkling stars, captures the religiosity Dylan sought whilst writing it. Similarly the quietly contemplative ‘Sugar Baby’ takes on a whole new beauty and depth sung live. For ‘Just Like A Woman’ the audience wholeheartedly joins in for the sweeping chorus, their efforts even prompting the taciturn Dylan to mutter ‘Yeah, that’s right’ in approval. That’s as close as Dylan gets to audience interaction, until the end of the show when he thanks us and introduces each member of his band, helpfully telling us not only their names but also what town they’re each from, and which state that’s in. The initial part of the show closes with a raucous blast-through of the bluesy ‘Summer Days’ from his last album, complete with a furiously plucked double bass.

Of course they return for an encore. A single drumbeat sounds out of the darkness, the lights go up, and they launch into what we were all hoping for, the all-conquering ‘Like A Rolling Stone.’ It actually proves to be the weakest song of the night, as Dylan mutters the words he’s recited a million times already with only a minimum of passion. But at least they played it. Finally a rocking rendition of ‘All Along the Watchtower’ has a fair go at reclaiming that song from a certain Mr. Hendrix, complete with howling guitar solos. The band, having played solidly for just under two hours, assemble at the front of the stage and bow, a frazzled looking Dylan holding up his harmonica collection for everyone to see.

And it’s all over. It’s only later that I think of all the songs I would have loved to see him play which he didn’t – at the time the setlist seemed pretty much perfect. I have no doubt that the quality of Dylan’s performances varies wildly, but on this occasion he blew us away and I’d definitely take my chances again if and when he comes back.

---

Mathew West lives in Edinburgh, which he considers to be a vast improvement over Stonehaven where he was brought up (if you don’t know where Stonehaven is, don’t try to find out. Some things are best left alone). When he’s not throwing money away on cds, complaining, entertaining private Marxist fantasies, or watching TV, he occasionally gets around to studying for a degree in History and Sociology. Once he has his degree he has no idea what he’s going to do with it.

---

© 2006 Laura Hird All rights reserved.