Monday, October 11, 2010
Oh For Christ's Sake
Well, I took pictures with my phone but I can't find my little tiny chip-delivery system. Wait. Let me go look again.
Nope. Can't find it.
Okay. Bob started almost exactly at 7:30. No opening act. He's old. So was almost everyone there at the Civic Center, including us.
The stage lights came on and the band came on and so did Bob. He didn't say a word but settled in behind what to me looked like an old Farfissa keyboard. Maybe three octaves worth of keyboard on a tripod arrangement. He was wearing a black suit with a stripe down his pant's legs and a gray (maybe?) hat. Extremely pointy and shiny boots. They began to play.
I couldn't understand a damn word he sang.
He did play a few songs that brought tears to my eyes. "Just Like A Woman," and that was amazing. That I could understand.
The stage set was simple. Bob on the keyboard, a drummer, a guy who played fiddle and pedal steel and some tiny guitar thing, two other guitar players, a bass player. Done.
Bob did not pick up a guitar all evening.
He did play a bit of harmonica and he was terrific at that.
He never said one word to the audience.
Did I dance?
It took me longer to get ready to go to the concert with my grandson in the bathroom with me (Oh honey- give me that!) than it did to watch the concert. Two hours. Done.
Yes. It was Bob Fucking Dylan. But I felt like he was doing what he was doing because that's all he knows how to do. Which, of course, is plenty. He stood wide-stanced behind the Farfissa, and his shadow played with him on the curtain behind him. He groaned into the microphone and I did not get the feeling that he cared a great deal.
Oh well. It was Bob Dylan. Fucking Bob Dylan. We went out. We had dinner beforehand and drinks, too. It was a date. I wore lipstick and a bra. And earrings and a necklace and bracelets. It was a nice evening.
Was it cosmic? Oh hell no. Was it profound?
Sort of. Maybe.
Was it Bob Dylan?
Yes. Of course. Unless of course it wasn't.
Oh well. We're old. And I hope that Bob is enjoying his post-concert moments, eating yogurt and prunes or consulting with the cosmos or whatever it is that Bob does after concerts. Before the house lights came on there was a myriad of stage crew, breaking down the set and getting ready to pack it up and we all filed out, having been given some interesting chords played on a keyboard, a few excellent harmonica licks, and the chance to sing along to "Like A Rolling Stone."
There you go.
I'm going to bed. I have not been changed or healed or transfixed or transmuted or transgendered.
(I just said that last thing to see if y0u were paying attention.)
I still love you.
But do you love me?
Just as much as you ever did and you don't owe me squat.
And that's my review of the evening.
And then I went over to Kathleen's blog and read what she had to say about what happened to her today and I realize that it is not people like Bob Dylan who inspire and give my life shape and meaning these days. It is my friends and my family.
Lily apologized and apologized to me the other day because Owen needs to come here on Wednesday morning at five-thirty and she said, "Your life is not what is was two years ago and it's all upset because of my schedule!"
And I said, "Honey- whose life IS what it was two years ago and besides that, taking care of Owen IS my life."
And I wore sparkly eye shadow. And didn't wash the dishes.
So thank-you, Bob. You served your purpose in my life today.
I hope you sleep well.