I have tickets to see Bob Dylan in Dublin in three weeks. The last time I saw him live was in 2011 ...
MY NIGHT WITH BOB DYLAN
26 October 2011
A few months ago ads began appearing for a series of concerts by Bob Dylan and Mark Knopfler.
Now, there was a time when, to a generation of Golf-driving estate agents with rolled up Top Shop sleeves, this may have seemed like a dream ticket. That was however some 30 years ago – when Knopfler was dividing his time between fronting Dire Straits and assisting Bob Dylan to record “his best album since Blood On The Tracks”.™
In the intervening decades Dire Straits have become a guilty pleasure; the ‘Brothers In Arms’ CD, said to reside in almost every household, hidden behind an unread copy of 'A Brief History of Time’, a cracked Rubik’s cube and ‘The Lovers Guide’ on VHS.
For the record, I have never owned a copy of ‘Brothers in Arms’.
Dylan meanwhile has receded into and emerged from cultdom at least twice, and continues to tour to the delight of fans and the consternation of critics. I fall squarely into the former category. That said, I have seen some dreadful Dylan gigs in my time; but I also know that he has, at least as recently as 2009, remained capable of greatness on stage. His two Dublin gigs in 2009 were amongst the best of his shows that I have seen.
Did I really want to risk one more gig that might undo the memory of those 2009 highlights? Needless to say, I was on Ticketmaster faster than Oprah on a baked ham.
As arenas go, the O2 in Dublin is pretty great; and if it weren’t for the price of the beer I might actually live there. Our seats were in the stand, directly centre stage and in front of the sound desk. With very little fanfare Mark Knopfler and his band sauntered on to the stage, sauntered through a selection of dull fare set to a country jog beat, and sauntered off. It was, in the words of Pat Carty of this parish, an unholy snooze-fest. Knopfler comes across as a very rich man with no remaining ambitions, pursuing music as a hobby. His voice is a monotonous drone, and his band - slick and soulless - cannot seem to rise above the professional session men that they are.
To the visible dismay of the greying estate agents in their Designer at Debenhams™ blazers, who have given £20 to a man in a hat outside to keep an eye on their Audis parked on a vacant building site, there is not one song from his former band’s back catalogue. On the plus side there was no encore.
A quick turnaround and Dylan and his band take to the stage. Bob is stage left standing behind the keyboard which has been a feature of recent gigs. The opening song is a rocking version of ‘Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat’ with Charlie Sexton peeling off rockabilly riffs. Dylan remains behind the keyboard for ‘Don’t Think Twice’ which is pitched somewhere between a Cajun two-step and reggae light.
The first revelation is on ‘Things Have Changed’. The song is taken at a furious pace, Dylan out front dressed in a black skinny suit, wide brimmed white hat, and spats! Striking poses against the mic after every line, he resembles an aging negative of Michael Jackson. His voice is strong and clear and the sound is amazing.
The setlist is a balance of old and new. Staying centre stage for ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ Dylan rephrases each line to break up the rhythm and shamelessly plays to the crowd.
Picking up an electric guitar for ‘Spirit On The Water’, Bob delivers a truly dreadful solo that doesn’t stop; then heads back behind the keyboard for inspired readings of ‘Desolation Row’ and ‘Highway 61’ his organ fills are great and Charlie Sexton plays off each riff.
On ‘Forgetful Heart’ Dylan’s voice is in fine form – perhaps because this is still early in the tour – and it is a genuinely moving performance. This is a great band and a great singer.
The final three songs – Ballad of a Thin Man’, ‘Rolling Stone’ and ‘Watchtower’ - are the usual romp home. Interestingly, and in my recollection uniquely, on ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’ there is echo on the refrain ... “Do ya! … (ya) … (ya) … Mr Jones?”
Thankfully there is no re-appearance from Mark Knopfler. I’d like to think he was standing in the wings, watching and learning but he was probably already back at the Travelodge, sipping Newcastle Brown Ale from a champagne flute and leafing through a copy of ‘Fret Fanciers Weekly’.
