A cool wind swept down from the mountains south of Interstate 84, slapped the guard tower of the state penitentiary, crossed the highway and rattled the curtains of the stage in centerfield at Dutchess County Stadium. Tropical gusts and low pressure moved up from the south, into the Hudson Valley and here - just 30 feet from the stage, we stood and watched Bob Dylan and his band swing into Cat's in the Well, our three children standing on their toes to see the man their father always describes as America's greatest living poet.
The rain held off, but the cold wind seemed to animate the band and Dylan - who can be enigmatic in concert, to say the least - really sold the material, stretching his elderly voice, and growling the lyrics in a 14-song set that ran from classic to obscure:
Cat's In The Well
You Ain't Goin' Nowhere
Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum
The Man In Me
Watching The River Flow
Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again
Not Dark Yet
Highway 61 Revisited
Visions Of Johanna
I'll Be Your Baby Tonight
Sugar Baby
Summer Days
(encore)
Like A Rolling Stone
All Along The Watchtower
In truth, the outdoor concert - part of Dylan's now-traditional summer tour of minor league ballparks with a touring cast that included sizzling min-sets by bluesmen Jimmie Vaughn and Junior Brown, and bluegrass star Elana James & The Continental Two - was something of a pilgrimage for our family. Part of their Dad's ongoing scheme for a broader education beyong school walls. My annual "learning can be fund, kids" Griswoldian tour. And a chance to see a living legend in childhood - something they'd always remember. Sometimes it's monuments, sometimes battlefields, sometimes ancient castles - and this time, a wise and ancient poet who, in his mid-60s, retains his sense of humor. In short, a wise-ass. Brilliantly so.
We arrived early, camped out in line, and spread our blankets up front, grabbing cold beers, fried dough, and hotdogs. The kids loved the opening acts, which played short, rambunctious, crowd-pleasing sets. They were tired and the crowd pressed in tightly to our former campsite (the usual drunks) and the 8-year-old fell asleep on the blanket.
Then Dylan was there, and over the next hour the education continued - mine, of course. Oh, the kids won't forget although they complained that they couldn't understand the words. And they didn't understand why Dylan stuck behind his keyboard, juking and twitching like an inspired backwoods preacher. And Kelsey asked why he didn't play Hurricane, his personal fave.
All the way up in the car, we played the new record, just out: the fine Modern Times, to me the best of his latest three-record "comeback" period. (In particular, I've been singing the wonderfully elegeic Workingman's Blues No. 2 over and over again - the record's a marvel and I may have some further thoughts later - Fred's review is here).
The sky was dark and starless, and the wind picked up. Remants of the tropic storm were on the way. And the band fell into the sublime Not Dark Yet. A slow shuffle, very slow. I could hear the words to this one and they stuck. We huddled together, and I closed my eyes and sung along quietly to one of my favorite Dylan masterpieces.
Shadows are falling and I've been here all day
It's too hot to sleep time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal
There's not even room enough to be anywhere
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.
UPDATE: Pete Townshend, departing for his tour, shared some thoughts on the new Dylan record:
I heard some tracks from Bob Dylan’s new CD on BBC radio last night. They are great. Mature just as Bruce Springsteen’s last album was. The critics were favourable about the way Bob Dylan is facing his ageing process and is remaining connected with his ageing audience. It made me think; I believe I have done something like this on some of the songs on the Who album. But on some of them I have borrowed the voices of an imaginary young band of musicians, and allowed them to speak when very young, when young and middle-aged, and then when they are even older than I am today. I wonder why we, the song-writers of today, feel the need to even think about this? Did Cole Porter worry about the creatures of his craft growing old gracefully, bitterly or resolutely? Did Frank and Ella concern themselves about how strange it might be to sing songs about young love, when both of them were in old age?
