I Saw Dylan Perform Live Saturday Night

All around us in the Wang Theater, the buzz was building. About 20 minutes later than the concert had been scheduled to begin, those in the front rows started screaming. The wave of adulation as he came out on the stage was profound and heartfelt. What kind of impact, I wondered, would a steady diet of that degree of fan-love do to the mind of an entertainer?

In Bob Dylan’s case, it seems to have made him… well, a rude and parsimonious performer. His musical styles may have changed over the decades, but not his attitude towards his audiences. Perhaps he’s of the “treat them mean; keep them keen” persuasion. He certainly wasn’t going to give us any sense that he was happy to see us, too. No, he was going to ignore us, never speak one word to us, never show the slightest emotion, excitement or passion.

My partner had surprised me with tickets to the Bob Dylan concert this weekend. I used to see him in the ‘60s at Club 47, an intimate basement folk club in Harvard Square. He was a curly-haired, rosy-cheeked lad in those days – and taciturn even then.

Here at the Wang, we sat in the center of the orchestra section. Luckily I had brought the Russian opera glasses that had been a present from my late friend Nina.

But what a bummer. The sound sucked. It was like a wall of noise, making every song a bit of a homogeneous jumble. Dylan’s band had been so highly praised that I was expecting music, not mud. Other than “Lay Lady Lay,” – which I really liked – Dylan’s reinterpretations of favorites turned them into a comfort-food-like sameness that was, at the same time, quintessential Dylan, for when we could hear it, that gravelly rasp gave it all a familiarity.

His show is very professional – even slick. There’s not a spontaneous moment, not a glance towards the audience or a lead-in anecdote to any song. There is only the playlist.

The set-up of the stage is calculated to isolate Dylan and the band from the audience. The band is spread across the stage, in a kind of rising semi-circle (the drummer is at the apex) with Dylan to the audience’s right. All the instruments and mikes are set in Dylan’s direction and the band members rarely look at anything but Dylan. They are a function of him – even when they’re doing a solo. It’s aimed to him, never to us. Not a one of them is having fun. There is no smile, ever. It is an especially dour group of white boys.

Dylan is crazy skinny, but dressed up and dapper in a hat, fancy shirt, dark vest and jacket. He stands with a certain elegant grace and while his movements are subtle and diminutive, they are also cool. When he’s not on an electric keyboard (most often) or guitar (a few times), he stands with his legs apart, knees slightly bent, feet parallel, and gesticulates with a muted version of crooner gestures, opening his arms wide, pointing his finger.

After each song, the lights go down. They huddle in the dark and decide on the next composition and are back in their places when the lights go up – all the musicians riveted on Dylan. They are supposed to play for 2 ¼ hours, but they play for 1 ¾ hours. It is enough for me. They don’t do an encore, but by the end of this cold, alienating set, the audience of multiple generations is no longer quite so adoring.

Here is a clip from a different town a few days earlier this week on their tour. His style is the same and the music is just as muddy. People paid big bucks in these hard times to see him, but he wouldn’t give us a thing. Not love. Not recognition. Very little nostalgia. Not a modicum of clarity in the music. It was a demonstration of constipated rote. My question: Why is the man touring when he obviously dislikes his work?