The pride of Hibbing, Minnesota, is almost more mirror than man at this point — or maybe he always was. On the cusp of turning 83 (on May 24), the iconic singer-songwriter — listing his innumerable accolades, from Grammys to the Nobel Prize, and detailing his vast, enduring influence would be a novella unto itself — has long served as something of a reflective surface for casual and obsessive fans alike.
You see, hear and feel what you want; you take from him whatever meaning you’re meant to glean. His eclectic, enthralling music, embedded in multiple generations of listeners, remains stubbornly eternal — the visceral snare drum snap, followed by the low punch of kick drum launching “Like a Rolling Stone,” for instance, quickens the heart as easily in the TikTok era as it did the age of rotary phones — and, even half a century later, is as woolly and indefinable as it is moving and important.
To understand that Dylan is one of the indisputable architects of modern popular music makes it no less overwhelming to watch him, alive and in front of you, continue to chase his muse down whatever paths it leads him.
Dylan returned to North Texas and the Music Hall at Fair Park Thursday night, as his Rough and Rowdy Ways tour, ongoing since late 2021, approached its terminus. He’ll wrap this two-and-a-half year, eight-leg stint with a two-night stand in Austin on Friday and Saturday.
He was back in town relatively soon after his last trip through the area, which was also part of the Rough and Rowdy Ways tour, having performed at Irving’s Pavilion at Toyota Music Factory in March 2022. (Thursday’s appearance in Fair Park was Dylan’s first at the venue in almost 34 years, the last coming on Sept. 6, 1990, just five days before the release of Under the Red Sky.)
The lengthy excursion was launched in support of his 2020 LP Rough and Rowdy Ways, a sharp, sprawling late-career masterwork that served as the foundation for Thursday’s roughly 105-minute performance. Attendees were required to seal their devices inside provided Yondr pouches prior to the performance, ensuring the focus was on the stage, not their palms.
Backed by a razor-sharp quintet — guitarists Bob Britt and Doug Lancio, bassist Tony Garnier, drummer Jerry Pentecost and multi-instrumentalist Donnie Herron — Dylan appeared on stage at 8:04 p.m., dressed all in black, and took his seat behind what looked like a baby grand piano.
The Music Hall stage was simply dressed and perfunctorily lighted, with some sheer curtains serving as a backdrop on all sides and some spotlights on stands scattered about the musicians, who formed a loose semicircle behind Dylan.
It gave the odd sensation of watching a band working through a rehearsal, rather than a performance, as the musicians often seemed laser-focused on Dylan’s hands as they jumped across the piano keys, and tried to hang with the mercurial shifts in tempo, tone and phrasing.
That the evening occasionally rose above a steady simmer to approach a rolling boil — “False Prophet” built up a lovely head of steam, full of bluesy menace and bite; “To Be Alone with You" was one of several moments Dylan added a filigree of impassioned harmonica, even engendering some audience participation — was a testament to the prodigious skill of his collaborators.
It cannot be easy, even after all these nights, to step out onto a high wire and hope for magic to materialize. (The geographically specific covers he’s been doling out on the tour didn’t pan out for Dallas: the setlist slot typically devoted to each night’s surprise was given over to Johnny Cash’s “Big River” Thursday.)
Dylan said little more than “Thank you” to those assembled. The room was nearly sold out, but scattered pockets of open seats were visible here and there. His indifference to the occasional standing ovations did little to deter the vocal appreciation he was shown from the moment he stepped on stage.
To step inside a late-period Dylan performance is to confront a handful of truths, which even despite the man’s fondness for the slipperiness of perception and sleight of hand, cannot be denied or ignored.
The most pressing and obvious truth is no matter how invigorated or inspired Dylan may seem when he’s on stage — this time around, largely parked on a piano bench for the duration — the master is much closer to the end of his days than the beginning. As the man once sang, it’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.
Thus, an air of fragility and inevitability haunts the proceedings, giving the evening a heft and depth far beyond a simple Thursday night rock concert. Mortality lingers in the margins of all our lives, artist or no, promising nothing and capable of taking everything in a blink. Is this the last time for him, for us? We just don’t know.
Another truth is Dylan, quite simply, isn’t here to please any of the paying customers. Satisfaction is his alone, and hoping for anything otherwise is a fool’s errand. His records are the starting point for him, a moment in time preserved, and not the model for how he approaches a song of any vintage in his catalog, whether it was cut during the Nixon administration or during Obama's.
Tangled Up in Bob
Show up expecting to hear, say, “All Along the Watchtower,” “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” or “Visions of Johanna” rendered as they were upon first release, and you will be mightily disappointed. He is as indifferent to the known structures, tempos and melodies of songs released less than five years ago as he is those ingrained in the American cultural subconscious.While the privilege of being in the room and watching him work in relative proximity should tide most folks over, it’s amusing to see fans so frothed in comment sections with indignation and entitlement that Dylan won’t give them what they paid for, dammit.
It is also true there is simply no one else like Bob Dylan. To have so thoroughly shifted the planet’s axis, assimilating inspiration from all corners of the American musical diaspora and turning popular music into something of equal weight, force and import, on par with literature or visual art or theater, is a feat no other recording artist can feasibly lay claim to doing.
That Dylan also wears the weight of such accomplishment so lightly — arguably even taking some considerable pleasure in confounding the lofty, impossible expectations befitting an artist of such consequence — is no less of an impressive feat. Where he’s been isn’t where he’s going, and the journey, from his earliest days eking out a living in New York City folk clubs to his twilight, holding court in enormous and intimate venues alike, is of far more importance than any destination.
Holding all those unassailable truths in your mind as you watch the 82-year-old musician move through his set is crucial, as taking the performance on face value can be a gamble.
Sure, his voice has thickened and slurred and pinched and wobbled as the years accumulated — the “thin, wild mercury sound” of his nervy early work is a distant memory now — and, unlike most assiduously polished pop ephemera of the last 50 years, Dylan’s high baritone was and remains an acquired taste.
It is a distinctive instrument built to convey the meaning and mood of the songs at hand, heard and considered. Dylan’s singing, however pleasant or abrasive, yearning or dismissive, was never something that went down as smoothly as the pop and jazz crooners whom he fervently admired.
Shockingly, however, he sounded clear (well, as clear as Dylan gets, anyway) and strong Thursday, as the venue’s sound mix was superb, providing clarity and separation of the instruments and vocals. It was arguably the biggest surprise of the night: an easily heard live performance.
The night was, on balance, an unassuming one, albeit occasionally hypnotic and frequently riveting. Dylan does care, even if it often seems like everything is treated with a diffident shrug. Watching him rise off the piano bench, cupping a harmonica, or leaning into the microphone to enunciate a particular line was to understand how he’s guarded that flame for so very long.
He hasn’t lost the spark. While so much else about Bob Dylan might be a mystery, that much was evident to anyone who cared to look Thursday night.
