This was not the Dylan in black of last year's tour. Resplendent in red satin jacket and gold lamé pants on the Palace stage, he returned to his own past (rather than the American traditional songs that fill his two most recent albums), playing two hours of mostly '60s material.
The five-piece band crashed into "Down in the Flood." Bob picked up the guitar for the crowd-pleasing "All Along the Watchtower" then slid into "Shelter from the Storm," the first verse spoken-sung achingly soft, with a single pedal-steel line for accompaniment.
Dissastified dancing in my balcony seat and wanting to see what he looked like, I headed downstairs during "Silvio" and into the orchestra section, down the left-side aisle, Dylan's face growing actual-sized. Looking right at me. Bouncing away from a tense woman asking "Ticket?", I slid into an empty seat next to a man aged 20-40, stoned, and dancing only with his hands through the acoustic set: "Mr. Tambourine Man," "To Ramona," and "Masters of War."
Electric again and they finally let us rush to the front, to dance and sing along to a fiery "Maggie's Farm" and a joyfully rocking "Highway 61," Dylan trading brilliantly repetitive lead lines with his guitarist, who was smiling through a cloud of smoke as he looked out into the first rows of the audience. More than once I made eye contact with him, even briefly with Bob before averting my eyes. They seemed to be laughing at my purple velvet vest, exchanging comments while soloing. (I imagined being stopped leaving the concert and informed that Mr. Dylan was interested in my vest-but what would I ask for in return?)
"He's coming back out, man," a large, doughy twentysomething told me forcefully, with a touching tinge of doubt, as the show was ending. Bob points his index fingers at the audience a final time and stumbles backstage. Most turn to go. The vultures remain, who want set lists, guitar picks, any paraphernalia that the roadies will give them. And I was passively part of this group, almost too dazed to say anything, but hoping for some treasure. They had almost completely packed up when someone asked "Any guitar picks?" The answer was a cross between "No, there aren't" and "No, you're not getting one."
I couldn't stay quiet. "How about that water glass?" I had been eyeing it, sitting on an amplifier, about an inch of liquid left in a clear, clean-looking plastic glass-so obviously hallowed, so different from the greyish cigarette-butt cup left by one of us on the near rim of the stage. "Come on, man, don't be sick. Don't be a psycho," came the response. Self-conscious again, I couldn't quite believe the head roadie was passing judgement on my passion, drawing a line that left me obviously, embarrassingly, on the other side. "I'll pretend you didn't say that." I'll try to too.
Copyright 1996, The Yale Herald, Inc. All rights reserved.
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