Tweed-blazer-donning mathematicians, tie-dyed carpenter's wives, furiously dancing babies and dope-smoking undergrads: The eclectic crowd at Sunday night's Bob Dylan show came to see an icon nearly five decades in the making, and the something-for-everyone bill the former Mr. Zimmerman lined up for the nearly four-hour extravaganza seemed to satisfy all.
Elana James and the Continental Two (plus one) tore through a pleasant set of Bob Wills-inspired country swing to kick the night off in high style. The group's considerable instrumental prowess was on display from its introductory notes and didn't let up through its half-hour stint onstage. James' sweetly husky voice proved a bit thin for some of the group's more rollicking numbers, but the band's good-natured gusto more than made up for any minor vocal shortcomings.
Yet it was Junior Brown's raucous, relentless set that brought the night alive. Brown, with his white-hot guitar picking and rumbling baritone, wasted no time breaking into such favorites as "Broke Down South of Dallas" and "My Wife Thinks You're Dead." Brown's self-styled, dual-necked guilt-steel and Johnny-Cash-on-fast-forward sound caused a few scratched heads at first, but after his blistering, near-epic take on "I Hung It Up," one couldn't help but take notice.
Jimmie Vaughan's overlong set of ultra-sanitized boogie proved that the benefits of Texas nepotism aren't just for the DeLays. The older brother of the late, occasionally great Stevie Ray Vaughan lacks much of the fire of his departed sibling, and he'd long since run out of Albert Collins licks to steal before he exited the stage. I overheard a couple of middle-aged gentlemen behind me, obviously as excited to see Vaughan as they were Dylan, remark, "He can play!" Perhaps; but does he do it well?
By and large, though, it was Dylan the people wanted, and Dylan they got: Running through a 14-song set chock full of classics, Dylan gave us 90 minutes as occasionally frustrating but frequently gratifying as his career at large.
Since his back catalog stretches 4 1/2 decades, Dylan constantly reinterprets past glories. His current band brings the same country shuffle to tunes such as "Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again" and "Highway 61 Revisited" as they have to recent albums. It generally works, although the extra room "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" in particular was given to breathe rendered the airtight gem a bit interminable.
Dylan's finesse behind a microphone -- never his strong suit -- has all but dried up, and live, he doesn't so much sing his songs as bark them like a carnie. One cannot croon along to "Like a Rolling Stone" (the favorite Dylan song of at least half of Sunday night's attendees, I'd wager) when rock 'n' roll's greatest lyricist spits out eight words in two-second bursts in this manner. And I'm not sure what causes Dylan to literally turn his back on roughly half his audience when a 90-degree turn of his keyboard would allow all ticket holders a chance to watch his lips flap. Nor is it clear why the once-chatty Dylan acknowledges his crowd only when introducing his band or flicking sweat on their heads while exiting the stage. And why Dylan completely ignored his stellar new album Modern Times but chose to open with the forgettable "Cat's in the Well" escapes me. One does not argue with the bard, I suspect.
Still, it's impossible to argue with a set featuring opulent takes on "Lay Lady Lay," "Tangled Up in Blue" and the unparalleled "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll." One does not leave a Dylan concert feeling as though he's witnessed a sad shell of some former greatness; rough edges and all, he still holds an audience rapt, and Sunday's energetic set proved ultimately satisfying. At 65, Bob Dylan is in constant flux, the last remaining hero of the most hero-laden time in rock 'n' roll and still deserving of every bit of praise one can throw at him.
