Why Bob Dylan’s still tackling more shows in the eighteenth year of his 'Never-Ending Tour' than most of his stadium-straddling contemporaries manage in a decade becomes obvious as soon as he straps off his Strat and starts tinkling the keyboards. The old codger’s having a whale of a time on stage – busting a bunch of bizarre knee-bending moves, emphasising the lyrics with comic hand movements, humping the piano in a classic Jerry Lee Lewis pose, exchanging winks and nods with his band when a lick or a line is nailed to perfection and generally performing with tons more gusto than you’d reasonably expect from a 65-year old veteran of a zillion gigs. Even that sandpaper and glue voice is in a decent shape, especially if compared with the guttural geriatric-crow-with-a-terminal-throat-condition growl of recent years. You can practically hear the smirk on his weathered mug at many points during tonight’s generous two-hour show.
Not quite what you’d expect from the infamously grumpy “Poet Laureate of Rock” (as the self-deprecating taped introduction puts it), then. But Dylan’s got plenty to smile about. Most importantly, there’s the late-blooming renaissance as a recording artists, culminating with last year’s cracking ‘Modern Times’ (his first US number 1 in 30 odd-years), the contents of which rightly dominate the setlist. Dylan's relevant again, a vibrant working musician with genuine cross-generational appeal, as opposed to a musty relic gathering dust in the grand museum of popular culture, capable only of cashing in on past achievements.
As such, the playful proceedings couldn’t be further removed from the nostalgia-courting greatest hits packages usually encountered on the arena circuit. There’s no video screens, no crowd-pleasing spectacles, a near-total absence of chit chat despite Dylan’s recent stint as a digital radio DJ, the main attraction himself spends the vast majority of the set facing the band instead of the audience, and most attempts at singalongs are thwarted by Dylan’s insistence on rearranging the evergreens, often replacing the familiar melody with eccentric new variations. What we get instead is Dylan, dressed like a flamboyant 40’s hillbilly high-flyer in a shiny cowboy suit and Stetson combo, aptly backed by his well-oiled, nattily suited five-piece, setting his sights on whipping up a shit-hot hybrid of the honky tonkin’ heroes of country mecca Grand Old Opry, the raw rock ‘n’ roll of Sun Studios and the boiling-point blues power of peak-era Chess Records, a stripped-down sound firmly rooted in tradition, yet unmistakably modern at the same time.
Granted, it's a bumpy ride at times. Whilst most of the risky renditions of 60's classics work a treat (the barroom shuffle of 'She Belongs To Me' and the muscular cruise through 'It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)' are particularly potent), others suffer from excessive idling, with the musicians clearly having little or no clue where certain tunes are heading. The graceful glow of 'When The Deal Goes Down', meanwhile, is severely dimmed by the cringeworthy cutprice Casio organ sound Dylan opts for, more suitable for ice hockey matches and low-budget Las Vegas wedding chapels than decorating stately smoochers. At the opposite end of the quality scales, the lilting swing of 'Spirit on The Water' channels the romance-dripping delights of a bygone barn dance, whilst the bluesy selections - 'Highway 61 Revisited', 'Rollin' and Tumblin', 'The Levee's Gonna Break' - gallop, kick and snarl as if the sextet can barely keep the mean-spirited twelve-bar beast from cutting loose of the reins. Just in case there’s any hint of Dylan coasting, rehashing arcane formulas at the expense of risking anything more demanding, a throbbing ‘High Water’ oozes ominous voodoo and explosive dynamics, whilst the pulsating hard travelin’ lament ‘Nettie Moore’ is treated with great care and precision, with Dylan squeezing a staggering degree of mournful resignation from his ravaged pipes.
“I’ve got eight carburettors, boys, and I’m using ‘em all,” Dylan brags during the feverish rockabilly ramalama of ‘Summer Days’. On tonight’s evidence, he’s no trouble whatsoever backing that boast.
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