Review by Graham Anderson
I had smoked a joint and downed a few rocket fuel lagers before arriving and
felt great and full of anticipation: everything settled down nicely when we
stepped into the arena and took our seats. Good seats. It tickles me how
thrilled I felt as Bob and the band of shadowy bounty hunters took to the
stage. The show kicked off with I'll Be Your Baby Tonight, the roadhouse
blues of the band all skeletal rattles and wire on wood, Bob's piano stomping
block chords and driving the tune, kicking up dust. Not for the first time I
notice Bob and the drummer exchange glances, pushing and pulling the music
together. The voice is strong and high in the mix: he sounds incredible. One
song in and I'm thinking: fucking masterclass. Melodies and vocal lines are
fired out or stretched at will, Bob seemingly developing the phrasing as he
goes. The same goes for the music: songs are reimagined, re-sculpted, not
just different arrangements but a tonal switch. A radical example of this
was My Own Version of You which became a genius of mystery and atmospheric
noir, and along with a re-worked When I Paint my Masterpiece, had a Cuban
feel with Bob playing bass heavy piano riffs, evoking a fantastic dark rhumba.
The blues numbers from RARW sound dynamite, the band cooking in their stew of
Love & Theft era raspy grind, distorted guitars and whacked snares. Tonight's
band digs into the juke joint voodoo, allowing Bob to do his 21st century
eternal bluesman thang, caterwauling and howling at the state of things.
'You don't know me, darling', he states on False Prophet (profit?). A theme
that runs through all of Dylan's career: can anyone really know anyone? You
can try, ask questions, but you're unlikely to get to anywhere resembling
truth, no matter who, or how often you ask. Mid-set there's a commotion from
behind, some bunch all pissed up and calling out the audience for being
zombies. Superb, I'm glad I was nowhere near them. I laugh as I hear a guy
shout 'I contain multitudes? Get tae fuck!' as he leaves early. For the most
part Bob sits at and plays a baby grand piano, soloing, improvising,
occasionally laughing, standing up at the end of numbers, tinkling and
twinkling away. He sings and plays It's All Over Now (Baby Blue) like he
wrote it yesterday. The kid's got a lot of heart. On 3 or 4 songs - still
sat on his piano stool - he plays electric guitar, pumping away with the
band, vamping some mean licks. When he plays harmonica the emotion is
elevated to something wondrous - a deep sense of something worthwhile,
celebrating the impermanence of it all. The stately harmonica sound swirls
round the arena like a medieval psychedelic experience, snaking through the
air, never resolving, building, painting intoxicating spirals of time and
sound, all from a little old tin harp! The crowd whoops with delight and
cheer when Bob does some proper 'Bob' singing, honking and chewing the words
like only he can. The music and the energy pulses and vibrates, you can feel
the mystery. Black Rider is an abstract foretelling, a prophecy to be
reckoned with, draped in a dark atonal cloak. Key West offers something in
the way of hope, but not without peril. The set concludes with an ornate
Every Grain of Sand. When the song ends the band stand in a line to take the
applause and Bob makes an Erich Heckel's Roquairo gesture.
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