North Atlantic Skyline - - Photographs from the west of Ireland (Galway, Mayo, Clare, Limerick, Roscommon and even Leitrim)

It takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry

The first time that I heard Bob Dylan, I mean really heard him, was in Tower Records in London in the summer of 1986. Yes, I’m aware that Bob had been around for a while at that stage, but back then, I was listening to the Smiths (in the mistaken belief that Morrissey had a sense of humour).Tower Records had a great sound system in the store, and I had just walked in when the opening bars of Ballad of a Thin Man sounded out. I had never it before and I was just transfixed as Bob snarled his way through song, lacerating just about everyone he had ever met up to that point in his career. As soon as the song ended (and it does get a bit strange at the end), I marched up to the counter. ‘I want that’.

The first time I ever saw Dylan in concert was at a racecourse in Waterford in 1994 – it was the Fleadh Mór at Tramore. On a whim, I drove down with two complete albatrosses from Cork. As soon as we pitched our tent on the freshly mown field, they began weeping. ‘Jeez lads, the tickets weren’t that dear’. But no, these two beauties had somehow forgotten that they had hayfever. Bigtime. The following morning, we drove into Waterford city for a breakfast fry-up and managed to find a café that wasn’t too crowded down on the docks. No sooner had we begun eating when the tears began again. I tried to console them, ’Ah lads, they were going to kill the pig anyway’. Outside, the cargo ship that was tied to the quay was being unloaded – of its cargo of hay.

But I digress. The line-up was eclectic – the usual suspects of Christy Moore and Van Morrison, along with Joan Baez, Jerry Lee Lewis, Ray Charles and Bob Dylan. Chrisy was well, Christy, Joan was a bit of a curiosity (and an excuse to queue for the jacks) and Van was sulking. He delivered his set as if he was reading a ransom demand over the phone. And he did the same on the second day too, grumpy old sod. Jerry played up a storm (I think he headlined on one of the night) but Ray Charles stole the show. Most people (OK, me) would have been hard pushed to name many Ray Charles songs and were wondering what his performance would be like. It was hard to top – as a full moon rose over the stage on a warm summer night, and with what seemed like a full orchestra to accompany him, his voice and wit charmed us all.

But what of Bob? A work colleague, who might just be the most dedicated Bob fan ever™ warned us before hand that Bob could be a bit hit or miss. He spoke of gigs where Bob would shuffle out on stage with a hood on, and play his gig with his back to the crowd (a bit like going to Mass pre-Vatican 2, except the incense smelled a bit different). But you might be lucky, he said more in hope than conviction.

It didn’t start too well. Bob strode out on stage with an electric guitar, mumbled something into the mike, and began singing. Thirty thousand faces stared blankly back for a while until, eventually, people began to recognize snippets of words. Listening to the music wasn’t much good, since it didn’t even remotely resemble the original. And so it went. Mumble mumble mumble, generic guitar riff and a slow, sinking feeling. And then something happened. Bob let the rest of the band leave the stage, he strapped on an acoustic guitar and began singing. Not like an angel, but like Bob Dylan! The one we had come to see; the one that had wrote the songs and whose singing we actually liked. His voice, though worn with age, was miraculously resurrected, even his mid-song banter was understandable and the set was livened up by the appearance of a bald, pudgy Ulsterman at the back of the stage waving a bottle and shouting his head off. He shall remain nameless. When Bob finally left the stage, the audience was ecstatic. We were like pilgrims that had glimpsed an apparition – our faith not just restored but doubled.

And so to Bob’s gig last night in Galway. Despite being woken by the noise of rain hammering against the window yesterday morning, the sun broke through in the afternoon and the sky remained clear for the rest of the day. I didn’t bother with any of the support acts, choosing to have a couple of pints in a nearby pub before hand (and just as well, because the queue for the bar in the stadium was a complete joke). Bob came on to a great cheer and launched into erm…uh…oh wait a minute, it’s …no..it’s..em…Ok, eventually I figured out it was Rainy Day Woman etc. once he got to the chorus (i.e. ‘Everyone must get stoned’, and judging from the cheering around me, many of them must have been). Ah Bob, I had such great expectations, but why did I have to be Pip to your Estella ? Maybe it was just me but the gig was just brutal. Song after song of mish-mashed lyrics, heavy-handed arrangements (Bob doesn’t play guitar anymore, and the band were obviously being paid by the decibel) and every ounce of nuance and subtlety beaten out of the lyrics. Why does he even bother? When he listens to the crowd blissfully roaring back the chorus of Like a Rolling Stone to him as one, ‘How does it feeeel, to be on your own’, does he wonder if any of them get it? Does he care?

It’s like hearing about how the Pope can speak in 20 languages when everything he says sounds the same in any of them. I waited in vain for the redemption that would the acoustic set. But no, it was not to be. Why was I surprised – the decline was obvious when I heard him Kilkenny two years ago. Bob probably doesn’t know any other way. He’ll probably keep touring until the end. As I was standing there as the sun set, and watching the odd wisp of cloud pass over the stage tinged with orange and gold, I thought back to another gig ten years ago, and of two old men; captivating, brilliant and burning with energy. Maybe that’s the best way to remember.

Posted by Monasette at June 29, 2004 12:33 AM