The years roll by, seasons change, but Bob Dylan moves ever forward. A true force of nature, his work in the 21st century alone would mark him out of a true great, a future-fixated songwriter of rare lyrical clarity. 2020 album ‘Rough And Rowdy Ways’ was testament to his genius, taking the multi-faceted nature of American songwriting – both past and present – and forging it anew. Taking the record on the road, his staunch refusal to look back presents him very much in the here and now, an uncompromising, still enigmatic auteur who allows his art to do the talking.
CLASH ventures to the Royal Albert Hall in high hopes – we’re here for the second night of his stint at the historic venue, and reviews from the opening evening are ecstatic. By now, Dylan’s stance on live shows – never replicating himself, allowing arrangements to become shifting sands, divorced from the studio text – is well known, so the assembled throng sit in eager expectation.
Eight o’clock on the dot brings the emergence of his band, before Bob Dylan himself arrives onstage. In spite of the rolling years – and a slight limp tonight – he’s still a magnetic personality, and all eyes run towards him. A man of few words onstage, Dylan pushes opener ‘All Along The Watchtower’ to renewed intensity, the band epitomising the tight-but-loose feeling so many musicians strive for, but fall short of reaching. Amid a mesh of notes his voice resounds once more, easing into a stately ‘It Ain’t Me Babe’ before leaving the classics behind.
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On record, ‘Rough And Rowdy Ways’ is a torrent of ideas – live, it takes on another, equally imposing character. ‘I Contain Multitudes’ feels ageless, as though some lost Whitman text was set to music. ‘False Prophet’ leers with energy, while ‘Black Rider’ adds something ominous to the storied venue.
While Dylan’s voice may lack the bombastic force he once had, in its place he’s mastered something measured, and understated. ‘To Be Alone With You’ is divine, while ‘Crossing The Rubicon’ has a playful sense of adventure.
There are still, however, the odd concession to the past. Witness a gorgeous arrangement for ‘Desolation Row’ – the song’s torrent of words pinned neatly against his modern guise, emphasising patterns of continuation within Dylan’s work. The piano arrangement of ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue’ is sumptuous, a tender and true rendition of a song marked by wisdom – all the more remarkable, then, that it was written 60 years ago.
For all his reputation as a mysterious live force, there’s a playful side to Bob Dylan’s nature this evening. It’s there in his performance, a feeling as though he’s relishing every second – occasionally picking up the guitar, more readily seated at the piano, he’s every inch the master of ceremonies.
It’s not faultless – for all the desire to ascribe Monk-esque flavours to his chording, in reality some of those are bum notes. Even then, though, that comment feels churlish: who else but Dylan would attempt this at the age of 83? More than 100 minutes of music, with the tightest of bands, and songwriting that feels as crips as this morning’s newspaper.
‘Goodbye Jimmy Reed’ digs into his blues and R&B roots, before a finale of ‘Every Grain Of Sand’ closes with a delighted Dylan honouring the crowd. As the final notes fall, the patience of the seated audience runs out, the first dozen or so rows rush from their seats, an impromptu movement of recognition. A wonderful performance, from a true master.
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Words: Robin Murray
