Faith in Bob, Paul as Prophet

Familiarity breeds affection, as the old saying goes. And indeed I have so much affection for Bob Dylan that I have even found myself revoking, albeit half-kiddingly, new relationships based on the other person's dislike (or at times, dread) for Dylan. But who wouldn't feel inclined to give allegiance to an old friend over a new companion?

One such prospect accorded the following about Mr. Dylan's voice: "If incident sound waves move parts of my body in a way that causes annoyance, discomfort or pain, then any musical value is precluded because my body rejects these sounds even before my mind can appreciate them." And I have to totally agree with him: Dylan doesn't have the most soothing voice. Maybe I have a high tolerance for pain or masochistic tendencies...or (more likely) Bob Dylan is really all that he's cracked up to be (voice aside).

There was always uncertainty behind my defense of Dylan: Was I championing, in a figurative sense, a dead man? Since I had never heard him live in concert, it was difficult for me to determine whether he was all hype hiding behind a veneer of legend and recording technology. The question was never whether his heart was healthily thumping away--rather, pragmatically, if I saw him in concert, was he going to suck? And therein lies the peculiarity of affection: it fears the possibility of change. For our purposes, that would result if the familiar image of good Dylan will be destroyed and replaced by a Dylan who sucks.

Let's just say that Dylan didn't suck.

The concert began with a solo set by Dylan's more melodiously-voiced counterpart, Paul Simon. On the whole, Simon's live performance did not live up to his recording reputation. His style which seems to border on world-music kitsch, was very treble emphasized and percussion heavy, assuming an almost flippant, less weighty framework. Beginning his set with many of his earlier works, especially many he originally recorded with Art Garfunkel, his renditions of "Mrs. Robinson" and "Bridge over Troubled Waters" were unconvincing testimonies of his solo career. But the latter-day Simon finally came out during less-instrumental tinged moments such as an almost a capella version of "Slip Slidin' Away". At last, his didactically bohemian hand gestures appeared appropriate. Simon wanted to tell us a story, and we were willing to listen.

Then in a tone reminiscent of a Las Vegas boxing announcer, Simon proudly proclaims: "Ladies and Gentleman, it is my pleasure to welcome...Mr. Bob Dylan!" The crowd roars in fernetic expectation. This was a surprise, partly because, for the greater part of the summer, I have been surrounded by anti-Dylan enthusiasts and militants. I was afraid that my defense of Dylan could be likened to a musical Steward's Folly (but let's just remember how much oil was found in Alaska). Although, in my childishly ego-centric way, I could never understand why Dylan's music is so disagreeable; I had still assumed that most of the audience was there to see Simon, not Dylan.

But there he was, alive and in the flesh. I must emphasize "alive" since I have unwittingly forgotten to share a morbid fear that has developed in the deep recesses of my mind. Somehow or other I had convinced myself that due to the how many times I have managed to miss seeing Bob Dylan, I was bound to die the same way, or from the more accurate perspective, that he would die before I would get to see him in concert.

To my pleasure, Simon and Dylan performed a trio of duets (including "Sounds of Silence" and "Knockin' on Heaven's Door", for those keeping track). Their voices paired unexpectedy well. In these brief minutes, the duo seemed to nullify any doubts that were raised concerning this unlikely alliance.

And then it was Mr. Dylan, all by himself. His chosen repertoire for the night was all his vintage basics, dressed up with enough electric guitar and soul to make Hendrix smile from above. He performed everything from "Tangled up in Blue" to "All Along the Watchtower" to "Desolation Row". But the most touching moment was Dylan's "Not Dark Yet", which was the sole post-Blood on the Tracks song, from his most recent album, Time Out of Mind.

But this was not a concert for the weak of heart. Unlike his controversial Royal Albert Hall concert of 1966 during which an audience member denounced Dylan, who was "going electric", as "Judas!", a traitor to his folk roots; this opportunity was never even given. Here was a man who didn't give a damn what you expected from his music. He could afford to do this because live, he is that damn good.

Affection has a survivial instinct. But since Dylan blew away all of my expectations, I will have to amend my initial characterization of his music. It's not mere affection, but I would hate to use the word "love". More accurately, it's a sense of deep appreciation that I was lucky enough to see him before he kicked the can...