Dialling Dylan

Over the years Dylan's music has entwined itself in my life, so much so that I sometimes think of him as a distant relative; you know, the type of uncle or aunt that you see seldom, but that always seems to direct your life in some way or another. Dylan helped me process religious conversion and Blood on the Tracks brought me back from the despair of failed romances. He puts our pain, suffering and humiliation into a digestible form, yet, as a fan, he requires that you take him on his own terms. This is what so many missed when he turned electric. Thus, as soon RSS feed came on my screen that he was coming to Victoria, I went to bobdylan.com and got some tickets, five days before they went on sale at the local box office. The seats were good and so was the company, my brother-in-law, Jer; I was looking forward to this night.

Although I didn't enjoy all of his interpretations of the "classics" and the fact they were interpreted at all, I had to respect his choice: the master bard had a right to know better. All of this came to head when he finally moved away from the keyboard and picked up his guitar (actually when the roadie that so longed for stage-time gave it to him); the fans were munching on the few scraps they had been thrown, barely able to distinguish his playing on Just Like a Woman, when the song ended and they cheered for more. None came, not even one song during an encore; Dylan was once more difficult to pin down, an-iconic. Nevertheless, I didn't know any of the men in their late fifties that comprised his band and I wished for some frame of reference, so I yelled above the crowd to the die-hard fan in front of me who had been writing down a set list, "Wouldn't it be great if Robbie Robertson appeared on stage." The fan responded with some empathy, "You never know." You never do know, but the band had a solid vibe; if Dylan wasn't as well versed in the keyboard, that was o.k. It was good to commune with him once more.