I saw Dylan on Sunday. Got up ridiculously early on a Sunday morning to pick up tickets, went home and had lunch, sat for awhile watching movies and then thought ‘fuck it, just go get in the queue’. I was stood in that queue for five fucking hours. On my own, but for the Irishmen that got in the queue behind me who were very nice but proper Bobcats. One of them had come to England for ALL the Dylan shows, and has seen the old man over 300 times since something like 1995. That’s a level of obsession I can’t relate to, man.
Anyway, the wait in the sunshine paid off and I was at the front except for one woman even shorter than me and with an excellent view of the Old Man at the keyboard.
However, the gig wasn’t lifechanging or beyond brilliant. It was just a Dylan show, the kind where I think one leaves thinking "well, he has some really bad shows so…" I mean, it was great and he played songs from Love and Theft and Modern Times which I love but… as contrary and curmudgeonly as we all know the old bastard is, it would’ve been nice for him to acknowledge the seeming specialness of the show.
Then again, I suppose it was ‘just another show’ to him. I’d love to get inside his mind. It must be really fucking weird to be him, you know.