OH LORD!

11-21-08

Almost two years ago to the day (11-20-06), Dylan closed out his initial Modern Times tour with a barnburner of a performance in Midtown at the New York City Center on a seasonably warm evening. It was windy and chilly on this occasion as I left work and boarded an A Train for Washington Heights and the United Palace Theatre. This renovated theatre also serves as a place of worship for Rev. Ike’s Church, so Dylan opened with “Gotta Serve Somebody.” Bob hadn’t played that in awhile. It sounded great as Dylan stood and delivered from center stage swiping in nifty harmonica licks between lines. A few songs later, Bob sang, “This is a day only the Lord can make,” as he concluded “When the Levee Breaks.” What a version! Hellfire blues, lean and mean.

“The Times They Are-A-Changin” and “Things Have Changed” sizzled in the second and fifth spots respectfully – awesome songs to contemplate as I swayed in my third row dead center loge seat. I was locked in tight and out of range as I pounded tap beer in my dark blue business suit, I was dressed like a member of the Cowboy Band. With the economy disastrously freefalling, anthems like “It’s Alright Ma” were more relevant than ever before –“Money doesn’t Talk it swears…Even the President of the United States sometimes must have to stand naked.” Good luck Obama, you’re gonna need some help from the Lord above. Dylan looked out into the crowd truculent as a rooster and howled, “He not busy being born is busy dying.” I’ve seen a lot of versions of this song over the years, but none were as powerful or as electrifying as this one. As one would certainly expect, “Desolation Row” was a thrill to witness, though it started out a little choppy. Dylan’s organ playing was magnificent here, fascinating stuff; nobody is on this guy’s wavelength, though the Cowboy Band does a magnificent job following along. This was a great night for the band. Surprising the faithful with “Tomorrow is a Long Time” in the fourth spot, Dylan had unleashed a supreme concert through the first half.

After spoiling us with lobster medallions, Dylan served cheese puffs for the next five songs. I’m quite fond of “Beyond the Horizon,” but Dylan has yet to nail it in concert. The musical arrangement was fetching, but his vocal cadence was way off. “Make You Feel My Love” had a great harp finale. “Spirit on the Water” was well played and received, but it was the fifth consecutive uninspiring selection. However, everybody was happy. Much ganja filled the air. There were no lines for fresh tap beer or the restrooms. Seeing a concert at this venue is a pleasure you must experience.

Bob stripped all the meat off the carcass with a curt “Highway 61,” knives scraped against bone. Recile was a beast pounding the percussions wildly. Tenacious rock-and-roll thundered through the palace, 67 year-old Bob Dylan had conquered NYC all over again. As the crowd went bananas, Dylan shuffled out from behind the organ, looked at Garnier, looked at the crowd, and then raised his arm and began to fidget around with the back of his neck behind his top hat. He looked like a pitcher in search of a foreign substance for the purpose of doctoring a spitball. We were back on track. Dylan performed “Ain’t Talkin” with visceral preacher-like charisma –“They say prayer has the power to heal so pray for the mother.” The band crisply played four unique and succinct solos. An incredible masterpiece was painted at the theatre. Dylan’s vocals were exuberant during “Thunder on the Mountain” and he dished out an extended organ instrumental. The three-song encore consisted of the usual culprits with extra zest. That “Watchtower” was positively wacky and the crowd adored Dylan’s guitar solo during “Blowin in the Wind.” Dylan’s still leaving a greasy trail, so I’ll be back for many more in 2009.

http://www.visionsofdylan.com/ "The world of research has gone berserk"

MORE RICE AND BEANS

MORE RICE AND BEANS

11-19-08

It was a glorious road trip to Oneonta. I enjoyed the two hour bus ride from the Port Authority to Kingston while listening to Tell Tale Signs. After checking into a forlorn Super 8, my long-time friends King and Blaze picked me up for the last leg of the journey. Sticks, deer, a mountain and ninety miles of road headed west were all that separated us from Oneonta. It was a cool crisp autumn eve. We listened to Tell Tale Signs all the way – “Some of us turn off the lights and we lay off/ In the moonlight shooting by/ Some of us scare are selves to death in the dark/ To be where the angels fly/ Pretty maids all in a row lined up/ Outside my cabin door/ I never wanted any of them wanting me/ Except the girl from the Red River Shore.”

The Alumni Field House at SUNY Oneonta was quaint, smaller than it sounds. The basketball backboards were raised to the low-lying rafters and the concessions consisted of bottled water for $1. They took our tickets from us and put them in a yellow sack and returned them after the show instead of giving us stubs. I’m not sure what that was all about. Dylan set the tone by opening with “The Wicked Messenger.” Getting up front was a hassle-free experience and the music was thundering. Under dim lighting, Bob looked dashing in a black suit with matching silver medallions, gold tie and white top hat.

Bob slipped out from behind his organ for a stroll to center stage on “It Ain’t Me Babe.” He side saddled by the microphone twisting to his right. Between singing lines, he added some tasty harp licks, circa 1966. His gesturing and posturing was fascinating all evening. Garnier’s bass was blasting my brain during “Levee Breaks.” Dylan taunted the college kids singing, “I was so much older than/ I’m younger than that now.” Donnie’s banjo sounded great on a brilliantly rearranged “High Water.” Near the end of each verse, the Cowboy band switched gears from thrashing blues to a feel good ragtime sound – the world of American music has gone berserk.

Dylan’s Wolfman howl worked over my eardrums as he shuffled to center stage for “Stuck Inside of Mobile.” Somebody yelled out, “Hey Dylan, eat some soup.” We were swimming in a sea of organ as Dylan chastised us with “Ballad of a Thin Man.” His organ playing was infectious, marching to its own beat. He also treated us to one of his patented and repetitive two note harp solos. It never grows old, only keeps getting better. The rock and roll bombardment continued on “Honest with Me”, “Tweedle Dee”, and “Highway 61.” Stu’s playing more leads than I can ever recall, it mixed in nicely with Denny’s jazzy touches. The Field House was dark during Tweedle, as Dylan was orating/ lead-singing – at times he looked like he was balancing himself on a surf board; then he looked like he was trying out for the lead role in West Side Story. There was a lot of finger pointing and gesturing to the audience. “Tweedle” was powerful and wonderfully strange.

The highpoints of the show were the slower numbers from Modern Times. “Workingman’s Blues # 2” was immense – booming vocals with chilling poignancy against a delightful arrangement. There’s nothing wrong with living on rice and beans. His vocal inflections and word play on “When the Deal Goes Done” and “Nettie Moore” was gripping. Denny really added some creative touches pulling out those Wes Montgomery – Grant Green like riffs. Bob was extremely animated during his vocal presentation of “Like a Rolling Stone.” He laughed into the microphone several times, as well as laughing in Donnie’s direction. Dylan further riled-up the crowd by playing a Gibson Guitar that was thrice his size during “Blowin in the Wind.” The crowd was pleasant, but not the type of crowd you would expect to whip Dylan into a frenzy. Whatever the reason, Dylan had IT going on in Oneonta, New York – a small old-time railroading town with two colleges, a Minor League stadium for young Yankees working their way towards the Majors, and the Soccer Hall of Fame. It was another new stop for the Bob Dylan Show, in its 20th year – one of its most innovative, strangest and finest years. Here’s to the next twenty.

http://www.visionsofdylan.com/ "I say it so it must be so"

Bad News for Joe the Plumber

11-04-08

NORTHORP AUDOTORIUM

It was a performance dominated by anthems that changed American culture. Revisiting his old school, University of Minnesota, Dylan played “The Times They Are-A-Changin,” “Masters of War,” “It’s Alright Ma,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Blowin in the Wind. ” Walking out into the lobby of Northrop Auditorium after the show, there was a thunderous roar, females were hysterically screaming. Initially I thought Tony Garnier had been spotted in the lobby, but everybody was reacting to the scoreboard on the big screen: Obama 297 Mc Cain 130. It was bad news for Joe the Plumber, but fantastic news for Obama, Dylan, all the young liberals on campus and yours truly. A poignant celebration broke out in front of the Auditorium. This was the place to be – a crowd touched by Dylan’s desire celebrating on Obama’s historic night.

Around noon time, I was kicking around in Bob’s old crib – second floor of what was Gray’s drugstore in Dinkytown. Dylan spent some time up there reading Woody Guthrie’s Bound for Glory in 1960. It was an unseasonable warm and glorious day, t-shirt weather. Gray’s is now Loring Pasta Bar, a nice place to woof down lunch. I had a few beers and a yellow fin tuna sandwich topped off with a jalapeno laced pickle. This was a historic day; Dylan’s first major concert took place on 11-4-61 at Carnegie Hall. I was born on 11-4-63.

There was a popping instrumental, but Dylan lyrically butchered “Cat’s in the Well.” The crowd went ballistic when they realized “The Times They Are-A-Changin” was second. His fellow Minnesotans were boisterous all night. Dylan offered up a pair of harp solos and went for a stroll to the center of the stage on solo #2. I liked Summer Days in the third spot, but only Dylan jammed on organ during the instrumental. It’s weird, there are these two guys in suits and top hats, Denny Freeman and Stu Kimball, who used to rock solos, but now their lack of contribution is staggering. Bob needs to free them up to play, or sack them.

During “This Wheel’s on Fire,” Dylan emerged from behind his organ and shuffled around the stage like a motivational speaker as he sang. He then placed the microphone on stand, continuing to sing, now motioning with his hands like a flight attendant reviewing safety procedures. A few Rockettes style kicks were thrown in for good measure. The next song started off like the Barney Miller TV theme, no wait a second, it sounded like “Chain Lightning” by Steely Dan, but I realized Dylan’s garbled words were “Tangled Up In Blue.” Yikes, this really didn’t work out too well. Two songs later, the reworking of “Stuck Inside of Mobile fared much better, though Dylan mangled and flat out blew several lines.

“Masters of War” was excellent, and with the inclusion of an eerie “John Brown,” this performance had the feel of a final parting shot at the Bush regime. Musically, the concert was a little ragged, Dylan never really got on a magical roll, though his organ playing was excellent and dominating the sound. “Shooting Star” was a great choice for his return to Minnesota: “Seen a shooting star tonight and I thought of me. Was I still the same did I ever became what you wanted me to be.” A black backdrop with stars appeared, created for this exact moment in the show, I suppose. Dylan started the song playing keys and then strapped on his electric guitar for the final verse. Huge roar; that was the extent of the guitar experiment. A late “Under the Red Sky” was another nice call, loosening-up the mood. I love “Thunder on the Mountain,” but the lack of Freeman’s guitar was disappointing.

“Ain’t Talkin” was a great way to wrap the set up. In his black pants with the singular red stripe running vertically and grey top hat, Dylan barked out his masterpiece with gritty determination. It was a wonderfully strange show. “Like a Rolling Stone” was necessary, as always. Dylan wailed a great harp solo to the crowd’s delight. It was a spot usually reserved for Freeman, who is quickly joining Stu Kimball and Stephen Marbury on the bench. Oh well, Tony and George are still cranking and Donnie’s happily hanging in. Before “Blowin’ in the Wind,” Dylan said something like, “I was born around the time of Pearl Harbor, I’ve seen some darkness, but I think things are beginning to change.” After thrilling the crowd with the final encore, the hometown hero, came to the front of the stage with his Cowboy Band lined up like statues behind him. He was giddy, smiling at the rowdy audience. He raised his arms upwards in a curling motion, holding them there suspended, palms stretched outwards as he swaggered to the left and shuffled to the right. I give all this to you, the good people of Minneapolis. Watching Dylan receive his admirers was worth the price of admission. We filed into the lobby and looked up at the screen. An African American man was elected President of the United States and the all white crowd broke into an hour of spontaneous celebration.

BORGATA REVISITED 8-16-08

THUNDER AT THE BORGATA

Sparse gray trails of burning incense filled the air in front of the purple drapes. Like lonely wallflowers, an assorted array of instruments awaited the arrival of Dylan and his Cowboy Band. Bob was in his house, the Borgata Resort and Spa Casino Event Center, the site of inspirational and creative Dylan performances each of the last three summers. The venue lacks historic significance, maybe that’s why Dylan has thrived here. The quintessential time-traveling minstrel/ ambassador, Dylan effortlessly weaves America’s musical past from the 19th and 20th centuries into the here and now. I was taking in the ambiance prior to what I knew would be another scintillating evening at the Borgata. What is it about this place?

Nightgowns and jewelry sparkled and glittered, drawing attention away from the sagging wrinkled skin and receding hair lines of the affluent baby boomers filing into their seats. A column of speakers hung from the rafters, in front of each side of the stage, like rattlesnakes frozen in time, poised to strike. Square lights were lined up, Xs and Os on a tic-tac-toe board within wooden paneling. Projectors beamed rainbow-colored geometrical patterns upon powder-blue drapes next to the side entrances. Five circular cranberry contraptions dangled down from the ceiling like silicone-filled mammary glands. The Events Center was spacious and serene - modern elegance with a relaxed vibe. Dylan’s predilection for the swank Borgata is understandable, especially in the filthy/ scummy/putrid monopoly rat cage that is Atlantic City, N.J.

“Watching the River Flow” was the commencement to an evening of raging twists and turns. “Mr. Tambourine Man” made his presence known for the first time in two years. Those expecting anything resembling the sensual/poetic jingle from 1965 were in for quite a jolt, the time had come to eat or be eaten. Dylan bellowed his magical words in a deep harrowing howl that echoed through the night with the madness of an Edgar Allan Poe vision. Dylan twisted and mangled his masterpiece, yet it was vibrant and irresistible, “Quoth the raven nevermore.”
“Things Have Changed” and “Mississippi” followed; two of the great compositions of the last ten years. They were Tell Tale Signs that Dylan was and is inspired. I was enamored with Bob’s wildness during “Mississippi;” he shouted and growled while hurling himself at the organ. Dylan was in gonzo mode, there was no looking back.

Though I prefer stronger material, “Make you Feel My Love” was performed with incredible tenderness - the ladies were swooning. “Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum” was shot out-of-a cannon as the Cowboy Band sizzled. The band mistakenly (???) tried to end the song prematurely, but Dylan played through the mishap, refusing to let the song sink - every word must be heard.
“Visions of Johanna” was immense, at this point, the only surprise would have been complacency. The Maestro encouraged the band to wander, turning Johanna into a gripping improvisational piece. The creativity of the jams nearly matched the lyrical brilliance. Dylan broke out his entire arsenal of vocal chicanery - strange incantations, offbeat cadence, up-singing, barking, etc. The poet and preacher poured from his soul.

I eventually pulled myself away from this absorbing performance for a pit stop during “Honest With Me.” I refueled with a beer and a shot, and left a few brews in the urinal. My timing was impeccable, I bumped into a friend who had tickets up front; she invited me into the fourth row where there were some unoccupied seats. I was now standing in the Lion’s Den, part of the Cowboy Band circle, close enough to casually be tossing a pigskin with The Man. He looked in my direction, first toss, “Lenny Bruce.”

It’s been awhile since Dylan served up the underappreciated Mr. Bruce (I believe the last time was back in San Francisco on 10-18-06). Empathizing with Lenny’s struggles, this ballad is Dylanesque to the bone. Lenny Bruce was an outlaw just like “The Man in the Long Black Coat,” “”Pretty Boy Floyd,” “Black Jack Davey” or Bobby Zimmerman. There was a twinkle to Dylan’s nearly shut eyes as he swayed slowly and laterally while plucking his sleek keyboard. A smug smirk was evident when he sang, “I rode with him, in a taxi once, only for a couple of hours, but it seemed like it took a couple of months.” Dylan was in rare form, disturbing the peace like never before, just because he can.

“Highway 61 Revisited” in the thirteenth slot was the first predictable happening of the night, but beloved by all. Overplayed staples omitted from this concert included; “Spirit on the Water” (thank you Sweet Jesus), “Summer Days” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” It was remarkable that Bob had not played anything from Modern Times until he mesmerized the Borgata people with a scathing “Ain’t Tallkin”. After the grandiose finale to his epic, Dylan shuffled to center stage and waved his right arm to the heavens, calling for rain. Following their fearless leader, the Cowboy Band loped into the majestic fanfare beginning of “Thunder on the Mountain.” Absolutely Brilliant! It was the first time these songs were paired - the best combo to end a set. Ever. Where does he come up with these ideas? Hearing those instrumental interludes signaling the ending and beginning of Modern Times in succession was overwhelming. Garnier and Recile were ecstatic; smiles a mile high as they pounded the foundation of another Thunderous Mountain. After all the years the bassist and drummer have played with Dylan, and all the years I’ve had the pleasure of listening in, we were still in awe.

DYLAN IN THE PARK 8-12-08

DYLAN IN THE PARK

Although I’ve been trapped in the heart of Manhattan for the past twelve years, the hog-eyed borough of Brooklyn was as mysterious to me as Lewiston, Maine or Mexico City. After exiting the F Train by Prospect Park with everyday commuters, I stopped off for refreshments at a tiny bistro. In the garden, beneath a caravan tent, the waitress poured a FROTHYBrooklyn Lager for me while fondling my upper torso. Greek music and incense filled the air as the scraping of cutlery against plates was offset by birds chirping in stereo. A grey tabby proudly displayed his furry white belly for the patrons, then suddenly whacked a pebble and chased it down the cellar steps. I had to extricate myself from this charming backyard Brooklyn scenery and figure out how I was going to get into Dylan’s sold out performance at Prospect Park.

As evening sky grew dark, I was struck with the realization that my mission was futile. I wasn’t able to find a reasonably priced ticket or scam my way in, so I joined thousands of Brooklynites who were content squatting or milling about the bandshell perimeter. Any view of Dylan or the stage was completely obstructed, and from my vantage point I could hear the music, but it wasn’t loud enough to get off on. I sulked during spotty performances of Rainy Day Women and Lay Lady Lay. A generic set list ensued. Dylan shuffled out the wonton soup, egg rolls, chicken and broccoli, pork fried rice, orange slices and fortune cookie like so many times before. On the grassy knoll, I sat amongst those spread out on blankets. Lonesome Day Blues was apropos for my situation, and well played. Dylan and the band really laid into a fiery offering of When the Levee Breaks. However, an obnoxious Bensonhurst couple bickered non-stop right behind me. They were unhappy with the concert series, Dylan, each other; they were born pissed off. A sullen-faced brown dog sidled-up by my side and licked my face for a minute or so. “Bones come here, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed the embarrassed dog owner. I was fond of Bones, but I decided to relocate.

Sandwiching the next segment with the old timey swinging ping pong waltzes Spirit on the Water and Behind the Horizon, the concert felt like a summer’s eve on the Coney Island Boardwalk, circa 1941. Picnickers, dog walkers and curiosity seekers peacefully paraded around the perimeter of the bandshell. In my line of vision was a poster promoting Issac Hayes’s July performance at Prospect Park - one of his last. R.I.P. Shaft! “You know you hurt me, you gave it to me, you socked it me mama, when you said goodbye, oh mama, walk on by.” Highway 61 Revisited was muscular; you could hear Stu’s guitar squeal and screech. Netitie Moore was cathartic. I needed to be closer to the Cowboy Band. Summer Days grooved - an amalgamation of all of Dylan’s vocal and musical stylings on this night. With Russian bombs raining down on former Soviet soil, Dylan’s performance of Masters of War was wicked. Resumption of the Cold War loomed in the air, but It’s Alright Ma, it’s life and life only.

Better tardy than not at all, I found out where the cool kids were chillin to Dylan. Up on the hill where the asphalt cuts through the greenery, and the bicyclists and hipsters hang, the music was thundering. The hypnotic flashing neon lights of the NYPD mini jeeps effortlessly danced amidst the towering pines beneath the egg white omelet moon. I should have been in this spot all night. Dylan was deep inside Like a Rolling Stone, 20,000 New Yorkers were in awe, and I was at one with the universe. Thunder on the Mountain was out of control, everything exploded from its essence. Blowin in the Wind was anti-climatic after that one-two punch, but Sweet Jesus, we were in the park, with the Maestro, on a sweatless, starless night in a City Park. Saturday Night at the Borgota beckons.


SHAFT

MY OLD SCHOOL 5-24-08

................................................My first college house, New Paltz..................................Dylan's childhood home, Hibbing

MY OLD SCHOOL (Guadalajara wont do)

After enduring Memorial Day Weekend traffic on my way to New Paltz, I hopped off the bus and headed straight to China House. Everything remained the same: same white triangle-framed house; same tiny sign with red lettering that reads – CHINA HOUSE, same waitress. The carpets haven’t been shampooed since I first ate here twenty years ago, and it’s still two-star cuisine featuring mystery meats. The only change over the years was a sign that was put in the window about seven years earlier: “GOOD NEWS: WE HAVE BROWN RICE.” Yes, that’s fantastic news, welcome to the new Millennium.

I tried to recall some of my hazy college days when I went to SUNY New Paltz. I lived in a light blue house where I terrorized my neighbors with a constant barrage of Dylan and Garcia. This house, strikes a resemblance to Dylan’s childhood home in Hibbing (see above). Today is Dylan’s birthday

It was a lush spring afternoon in Ulster County: seventy degrees, partly sunny skies, billowing clouds, a steady breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in the valley. I celebrated Bob’s sixty-seventh birthday by woofing down three chicken tacos and washing it down with several pints of Hoegaarden at Bacchus – a dark musty bar with billiards, hippies, decent food and over 400 varieties of beer. I could wreak substantial havoc if I were to be locked in their beer cellar/ cooler overnight. When I was a student, I spent more time at Bacchus than I did on campus.

I resided in and around New Paltz for ten years – a decade of my life blew by like a puff of wind. Somehow, the Huguenots found New Paltz in 1678 and built stone houses that still stand today. I paid a visit to Huguenot Street, the oldest continuously inhabited neighborhood in the U.S. with the possible exception being some areas that are still inhabited by Native Americans. After my historic stroll, I pulled up to the banks of the Wallkill River and watched her flow.

I lined up the I Tunes for Blaise’s 40th birthday party at his Mom’s house somewhere in the sticks of New Paltz. His family is originally Woodstock – they all dig Dylan. I started the evening off with “Thunder on the Mountain,” and encored with “Huck’s Tune” (“When I kiss your lips, the honey drips”) at 4 AM. After catching a nap on the porch, I watched the rising sun return. I also saw deer, blue jays, robins, and a woodpecker doing his thing – impressive sights for a city boy.

POSITIVELY MAINE

POSITIVELY MAINE 5-17-08

An alarm clock shakes you awake from the thick of strange dreams at 5:30 AM. You gather what you need for your trip to Lewiston, Maine and stuff it in a backpack. Manhattan is quiet except for the yellow taxis rushing the changing traffic lights – you flag one down and tell the driver that the destination is Penn Station.

On a train bound for Boston, you think about the good times you’ve had in Maine, especially that trip to Oxford when you were part of an invasion force of 100,000 Deadheads in town to see a pair of Grateful Dead concerts on Independence Day weekend in 1988. You blew off the second concert because you found out Dylan was playing at a Minor League Ballpark in Old Orchard Beach. You convinced your friend Perry to leave the Dead behind and join you. It was a prudent decision. With G.E Smith by his side, Dylan rampaged through an eighty minute set –something was born. You didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the first leg of Dylan’s Never Ending Tour. The Grateful Dead played their last show thirteen years ago (Jerry RIP), but Dylan’s still on the road, sounding better than he did twenty years ago. Dylan will be performing for you in Lewiston, tonight!

Drifting in and out of sleep, Hank Williams is yodeling in your headphones as you honky-tonk past Providence. After hopping on a Greyhound headed for Lewiston, you know three things happened there: 1) On May 25, 1965, Ali knocked out Sonny Liston in the first round of the weirdest Heavyweight Championship boxing match in history; 2) The Grateful Dead played at the State Fairgrounds on September 6, 1980, unleashing a thirteen song first set featuring a blazing “Sugaree;” 3) Your favorite periodical, The Farmer’s Almanac, gets published there. As the bus turns on to the quaint main drag of Lewiston, you notice there’s a store called Zimmie’s, and a few feet down the road there’s a bar called She Doesn’t Like Guthries. Enjoying the pleasant spring weather and sipping iced-coffee at the Bon Bon Café while in the company of attractive hippie girls, you remember why you’re drawn to arcane Maine.

At Chick-A-Dee’s, a twin lobster feast with two Shipyard Export Ales and a Glenlivet on the rocks only costs $47.95. Feeling omnipotent, you make a donation to the Lewiston Little League team, dropping three dollars in the collection bucket. A taxi takes you to the see Dylan at the Androscoggin Bank Colisee which was formally known as the Central Maine Civic Center. When Ali delivered his “Phantom Punch,” this venue was simply known as St. Dominick’s. Whatever you call it, it’s nothing more than a banal high school hockey rink with limited seating, exactly the type of place you love seeing Dylan at. The beer lines are long, you feel obliged to grab two.

Leaning up against the corner of the stage, on the extreme far left side, Dylan’s looking at you as he surprises by opening with “Watching the River Flow.” You can only see Dylan; the black equipment cases in front of you block out the Cowboy Band. Perched behind his organ, Dylan’s a sheet of black from his top hat to shoes. He’s really digging deep and growling viscerally during “Lay Lady Lay.” Sweet looking ladies surround you, apparently this is where the groupies hang, vying to get into Dylan’s big brass bed. Between two romping blues remakes, Dylan delivers a delectable “Shelter From the Storm,” that’s unlike anything you’ve heard before, complete with a harp solo that flutters. The Cowboy Band sounds tight as they shine the light on the maestro.

It’s masterpiece theatre - Dylan breaks into “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll.” The musical backing is sparse and spooky as the words ricochet off the brick walls and low-lying rafters dangling overhead. This is incredible. Looking at the centrally located soundboard, you wonder if that’s where Ali took out Liston with that short choppy right in round one. Imagine the intensity in this building that night. Malcom X had been assassinated three months earlier; there were death threats to both fighters. The year was 1965; Ali and Dylan were two young men changing American society with their creative powers.

The hard charging beat of “Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum” emerges. Dylan zaps you into the 21st century with the opening number from Love & Theft, the CD you bought at the Nobody Beats The Wiz in the Garment District, on the morning of 9/11. The place is reeling and rocking, but Dylan suddenly motions for the band to abort the song halfway through. Alright, it’s time for track two of L&T, “Mississippi.” Is this really happening? It’s a mysterious dream. Dylan’s a howlin’ and growlin’ one of his modern day masterpieces, plinking ring tones on his keys. It’s a funky, shuffling arrangement with a distinct country & western twang. You’re ecstatic, you last saw “Mississippi” at the Beacon Theatre on Friday, April 28, 2005.

“Highway 61 Revisited” roars by, full throttle, as the band rattles this dinky rink in the middle of nowhere. You’re seduced by the serene and hypnotic beginning to “Workingman’s Blues #2.” Dylan sings, it’s poignant, yet the words sound like they are being barked out by a motivational speaker. It works. The eleventh song of the evening is another 1965 classic, “It’s Alright Ma,” in a new spot in the rotation. Disorientation sets in. You go score a brew, and leave a few brews in the urinal. “Spirit on the Water” follows, so you decide to get some chicken fingers and strike-up clever conversation with the girl who sold them to you before returning to the ceremony. The thirteenth song is “Ballad of Hollis Brown.” Everything is beautifully out of whack and surreal.

You relocate. You’re dancing and shuffling in Ali’s footsteps, in the center of the ring as the Cowboy Band explodes on “Summer Days.” Dylan boasts, “You can't repeat the past. I say, You can't? What do you mean, you can't? Of course you can.” Garnier and Recile grin and smirk confidently as they manipulate the tempo. Dylan jabs at his keys offbeat, hitting the wrong notes at the right time, just like a jazz master. Freemen and Herron are plucking leads; Stu’s doing his thing. It’s old-time swing music in a dance hall – Looney Tunes with cat and mouse professionalism. You howl in disbelief when you realize “Ain’t Talkin” is the final statement of the set – a dark apocalyptic epic for the finale. The preacher sounds incredible; acquire the tape, you must.

The Dylan eye logo banner drops, everybody gets up and prances around to “Thunder on the Mountain.” You’re awed by Dylan’s new classics and how well they stand up along side his 60’s anthems. “The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind,” he sings; there’s a harp solo; the lights go out; he remerges in front of the stage with his Cowboy band; briefly accepts applause, and then Dylan disappears into the darkness.