By this point, it doesn’t really matter what someone says in a review of a Bob Dylan concert, because the conclusion will almost always be the same: band was pretty good, Dylan not so much. His Saturday show at the Lawrence Joel Veterans Memorial Coliseum was no different. It’s practically a cliché these days to rip on Bob’s live shows, but since he does little to disinvite it, it’s like picking the low-hanging fruit. He’s militantly anti-photo for press and citizen alike; he rarely engages the crowd beyond the most basic of performer courtesies; and his sets have become so mechanical in their administration that one has to wonder if Dylan’s “Satisfi ed Mind” hasn’t been on autopilot for some time now. In a leg of his unending trek that included a stop at an Idaho racetrack, every crowd has to look the same to a man who’s pushing 70 and hitting 50 years of live performing.
Never mind that the impenetrable croak that he musters makes listening to some of the greatest lyrics ever written a maddening experience. It’s like going to view “David” by Michelangelo after it’s been left sitting in the Gaetian Harbors for 22 years. His Never Ending Tour has endured just that long and it is almost like a tacit acknowledgement that he was never really one with the gift of a golden voice to begin with, so what’s the use in taking time off to recoup vocally? Keep a tight band, play the songs and the rest will work itself out at the box offi ce.
It’d be one thing to say that his LJVM show was one of the rare exceptions where he busted out a rarity like “Odds and Ends,” but this was not unlike any of the 71 shows he had played prior in 2010. He took the stage in his black suit and white Cordobes hat in contrast to His Band’s all-white attire, immediately sat down behind his keyboard and started bopping away at “Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat,” just like he had done of every other show. Amazingly enough, his delivery was mostly audible, and its gruff veneer gave a surprising nod to the Lightning Hopkins song “Automobile Blues” from which Dylan drew the inspiration.
Dylan has made signifi cant strides in offering a more compelling set in the past couple of years, however. Rather than plant himself behind the keyboard for 100 minutes, he extended his newly customary olive branch of two songs meekly strummed on guitar early in the set with “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” and “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again.” It seemed he had already spent his one good vocal effort on the opener, but give Dylan credit. He doesn’t try to hide his shortcomings at all. His voice is plunged high and loud in the mix, propped up by his stalwart fi ve-man backing band underneath.
The accompaniment known as His Band is a reasonable facsimile of the Band; Charlie Sexton plays the part of Robbie Robertson admirably and commands the scraps of attention that stray from Bob’s weathered visage. Bassist Tony Garnier, drummer George Recile and rhythm guitarist Stu Kimball do their jobs so well that you hardly notice them. The same can’t be said for Donnie Herron, who’s constant instrument swaps propelled what is fundamentally a perfectly tuned rock-and-roll band into blues, Americana and even hints of gospel. The incredible versatility of Herron seemed to be the key to giving Dylan’s set its personality. While Bob turned “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll” into a spoken word romp, his plugged-in mandolin lent it a considerably more rocking feel versus the bleak folk of the original.
The completely aloof Dylan fi nally acknowledged the crowd with a round of band introductions before playing the evening’s only piece that could remotely be considered a protest song. He took center stage with his mouth harp in hand and played a quietly powerful “Ballad of a Thin Man” to scant accompaniment. Like the opener, his encore remained static as he grumbled though “Jolene” and “Like A Rolling Stone,” though he left off “All Along the Watchtower,” unlike the Charlotte set two nights before.
Dylan’s vocal shortcomings and detached stage persona aside, seeing Bob Dylan in concert still feels like a special indulgence. That’s the enigma of Bob Dylan: No matter how mediocre of a show it might be, you’re still seeing Bob Dylan in concert. It’s the same man who penned Blonde on Blonde and Blood on the Tracks, along with one of the most expansive and shaping song catalogs of anyone. Like his friend and the only photographer in his inner circle Ken Regan said, “It doesn’t matter if he’s playing for 600 people or 5,000 or 50,000. He just wants to play.”
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