The Bob Dylan Concert (And remember, I calls 'em likes I sees 'em.)

So, yesterday, the S-Man and I set off in the early afternoon for the big city of NashVegas.

We arrived later than we intended, at around 3:30, but still enjoyed a late lunch at our favorite eatery and then happy hour at our favorite bar where we enjoyed a few “hollers” and “swallers” putting us in the perfect frame of mind to experience the show we’d come to see: live and in person, the legendary Bob Dylan at the holy church of music, The Ryman Auditorium.

It was a terrible splurge to buy the tickets, but there’s only one Bob Dylan and he’s only going to be around for so long. Dylan is an artist that the S-Man, me and I suppose most of the rest of the world can agree on. Along with everybody else, we remain in awe of Bob’s almost superhuman period of creative productivity beginning in the early sixties and continuing into the early seventies. His music and lyrics are the very embodiment of the anti-war free love movement of the sixties. More than anyone else, I think, it’s almost impossible to imagine modern times without the incredible soundtrack of the music of Bob Dylan.

Honestly, I can’t say enough about Bob’s amazing talent and what high esteem I (we) hold him in as an artist.

So, it was with great anticipation that we waited in our seats at the Ryman as the lights lowered and the opening act, Amos Lee, took the stage. Along with his backup band, Lee deftly played a quick set of about five bluesy but uptempo and appealing songs. Listening to him live, I thought Amos’ voice had a Clapton-like quality, but listening to samples from his latest, “Supply and Demand”, at Amazon just now I’m no so sure. Still, he was a great opening act, not too long, and left us all set up for the headliner.

Again, the lights dimmed. And then came back up. And out onto the stage walked…

Elvis Costello.

Elvis Costello (noise)? Yes, no kidding, there he was. The crowd went wild. Elvis grabs a guitar and launches into some of his standards: Alison, Peace Love & Understanding, etc. Three songs turned into four.

I’ll just have to go ahead now and tell you that I’ve never been a huge Elvis Costello fan. I know, I know, he is someone with quite a reputation for all-around groove, but he just never got to me particularly.

Meanwhile, last night, Elvis keeps playing. He has a collection of guitars on the stage and he picks up a new one for every song. And he keeps playing. Just the man and his guitar. Eventually, he launches into a medley that includes Van Morrison’s “Jackie Wilson Sang” (?) which morphs into: “Suspicious Minds”, the Elvis Presley standard. Even the enthusiastic Ryman crowd was thrown for a loop at this choice of song. You have to picture: A dark stage, Elvis Costello, an acoustic guitar and the sudden, “We’re caught in a trap…” in Elvis’ light punky British voice.

It was weird. Really weird. Someone in the audience shouts, “ELVIS LIVES!”. Someone else shouts, “JAILHOUSE ROCK!”

Elvis, looking panicky, immediately transitions into one of his own songs. Finally, the Medley of the Bazaar ends. There is wild applause. Elvis bounces off the stage.

The S-Man and I give each other a look. We’re willing to forgive the Elvis Costello thing. Because. BECAUSE! We’re about to see The Bob Dylan. Wooo! Bob Dylan! And then…

Elvis Costello bounces beefily BACK onto the stage! He’s doing an encore, for God’s sake! He grabs yet another acoustic guitar and tells the story of P.T. Barnum. He wrote a song about P.T.! Would we like to hear it?!?!?!?

We hear it anyway.

Elvis’ “encore” lasts a good four more songs. The S-Man and I begin to exchange strategy suggestions on how to get Elvis off the stage. Drop the curtain? Bring out the hook? Yell “fire”? Kill the mike? Has no one perhaps told Elvis there is a time constraint?

Finally, Elvis exits the stage for the last time. The Roadies come out and begin to ready the stage for what, clearly, is the headliner. The lights go dark, but still, we can make out the forms of the five-piece band and Mr. Dylan himself taking the stage. The lights come back on. The crowd goes wild.

There he is. Bob Dylan.

Rail thin, and wearing a voluminous suit in the style of what I can only describe as the sort of thing an old timey riverboat gambler would wear: black pants with a cream pin strip running up the outside of the trousers, a long black (to the knee) suit coat, lavender ascot, panama hat and boots. A lavender guitar strap trimmed in sequins holds his electric guitar.

He is Bob Dylan. He pulls off the outfit.

Without preamble, Bob and the band launch into a bluesy song that was probably something from Dylan’s latest: Modern Times. Bob leans in to the mike and begins to speak the lyrics, unsmilingly, into the microphone (You’ll recall Dylan was never one to smile).

At first? I thought he was doing it on purpose or, heck, I don’t know what I thought. But his voice, never what one would consider overly melodic is just gone. The show we saw was not the first performance at the Ryman. Bob and the band had done a show the night before and I speculated that on top of having major vocal problems, I think, it was hard to tell, but I THINK Bob was hoarse. Whatever the underlying issue, what was coming out was somewhere between a goose honk and a growl. It was painful to listen to and I could only imagine almost certainly had to be painful for Bob to produce.

It was like Bob had gargled a bottle of extra strength Drano and was now stoically, manfully, growling into the microphone.

I started to feel guilty. Good lord, we shouldn’t be expecting this of Bob. He is a national treasure! An icon! A profit! A holy man! I wanted to jump up, halt the concert, and just give Bob a hug.

And then I remembered what the tickets cost.

I glanced over at the S-Man who was blinking rapidly and wincing his way though the song. I leaned over and said,

“Is there any way he’s doing that on purpose?”

“His voice is. Just gone,” came the reply.

Yep.

The first song ended. The lights went dark. The lights came back up. The band launched into song two. The crowd went doubly wild. Bob growled into the microphone.

“What is it! What is it!” I asked the S-Man.

He responded after a few seconds of intense listening, his head cocked to one side, eyes closed, “Lay Lady Lay.”

“Oh….” I said, nodding slowly.

Wow. “Lay Lady Lay”. Bob honked into the microphone with slightly more, almost imperceptible, intensity.

By now, the S-Man and I both had a bad case of the winces. Which. You know us. Eventually gave way to the uncontrollable giggles.

Bob and the band played on, bluesy numbers, again, probably from Modern Times. Bob put down the guitar and got behind the keyboard, assuming a splay legged, slightly bent-knees position. Very occasionally, Bob would sort of bounce up and down. We knew none of the songs. Bob growled on.

Bob played one perfectly lovely harmonica solo.

After a bit Satan observed, incredulously, that Bob’s voice was improving. Well. Improving is a strong word. More like, now, very occasionally, you could sort of recognize a word or two.

So this was it then.

After each song, the stage would go dark for a second or two and then the lights would come back up for the next number. We knew, of course, that Dylan doesn’t like to do songs from the past much and knew better than to expect to hear “Blowin’ in the Wind” and all the standards, much as we would have liked to.

The show settled into a rhythm of songs we didn’t know.

The stage went dark. The lights came up. Another unknown song. More growling.

But then.

The lights came up and on the stage with Bob and the band was another performer. A very tall young man dressed all in black with a white guitar. The audience shot to its feet, screaming wildly. The band launched into a song I didn’t know and the unknown man strode to center stage, threw his head back and played some of the most awesome guitar licks I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing in person. Or heck, anywhere.

Instantly, the place began to pulse with enthusiasm. The unidentified man, now center stage, began to sing…ah…a wonderful, powerful, melodic voice. His charisma was palpable, his guitar playing incredible. His presence had an effect similar to that of John Travolta plunging a syringe of adrenaline into the chest of Uma Thurman.

Suddenly, it was like WOW! What the heck just happened!

Because this guy was. Uh. Maze. Zing. Electric. He played. He sang. Both effortlessly, but with incredible intensity. The number was supposed to be a duet with Bob and Bob did indeed croak along at times, but was nothing more than a footnote in this power laden performance of who I have only now learned was Jack White of the White Stripes. The song was "Outlaw Blues".

I’m sure the rest of the world is all about Jack White and the White Stripes, but I was caught completely unawares. I’ve scoured YouTube and come up with this little sample of their work.
Good God, ya’ll is this kid ever talented. And, Christ AllMighty, HOT.

Uh…yes. Where was I again? I was feeling a little faint there for a minute.

Right. Bob Dylan.

Jack White played only the one song and then, just as quickly as he appeared, was gone again. It was like Jesus left the stage, ya’ll, I’m not kidding.

Bob and the band continued apace. The S-Man identified “Tangled up in Blue” for me.

Ultimately, we left before it was over. That’s just how it was. I cannot tell a lie.

We spent the drive back recounting the wonderful Dylan songs we know and love and couldn’t possibly have grown up without. We sang and recited and marveled again over the amazing poetic lyrics that are burned in our memories.

We are honored to have been in the same room with Bob Dylan.

And we are buying some White Stripes. This. Minute. (Feel free to suggest which White Stripes I should buy in the comments, if you are familiar.)