It was a cold November night when Bob Dylan returned to Charleston, West Virginia. The buzz was palpable, and the energy in the streets was more akin to what one might expect upon the arrival of the pope than of a singer most remembered for songs from a bygone era.
The Nobel Prize winner took to the road in early November on the back of his 39th studio album, Rough and Rowdy Ways, which was released just a year earlier. The album brought the songwriting legend his first Billboard number one song in the form of “Murder Most Foul,” a nearly 17 minute rumination on the assasination of US President John F. Kennedy, which topped the Rock Digital Song Sales Chart when it was released as the album’s first single. Prior to the song’s release, Dylan’s highest charting single as a lead artist was his revolutionary single “Like a Rolling Stone” which reached number two on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1965.
As if there were ever any doubt, it was clear upon entering the building that this was to be no regular rock show. Upon inspection for any dangerous materials, guests were informed that there was to be no use of electronics during the performance, and that those who refused to abide would be escorted from the premises. Inside, staff sported signs cautioning against the use of cell phones during the show, while overhead speakers issued recurrent reiterations of the warning. Dylan clearly wanted the music itself to be the focal point of the evening, a fair sentiment.
Rather than take up residence in the Charleston Coliseum & Convention Center, Dylan opted for the more intimate backdrop of the Charleston Municipal Auditorium. First erected in 1939, the structure stands as the largest theater in the state. In 1952, Hank Williams had been scheduled for a New Year’s Eve show at the venue, but the event saw cancellation due to weather conditions. Williams would pass away the following day in Oak Hill, West Virginia.
Once seated, the configuration of the stage commanded immediate attention. The lights were up and there were plenty more seats to be filled, but the stage curtains were not drawn. There, right in the open, lay what unmistakably must have been the setup for Dylan’s approaching performance. The implication here was that there would be no opening act, a realization which aroused only moderate surprise given the singer’s extensive history of subverting audience expectations.
The organization of the instruments on stage more closely resembled the setup for a jam amongst friends than for a concert from one of the most highly regarded artists in the history of music. Rather than bring up the rear, the drums were positioned on the left of the stage from the audience’s perspective, and faced inward, as did most of the instrumentation. The instruments almost seemed to circle the upright piano which presumably would serve as a performative home base of sorts for the man of the hour.
The lights went down to uproarious applause, and when the stage lights buzzed to life the band had assumed their positions. Among the figures which stood before the audience, at an upright piano center stage, sat the man himself. Shoulders slumped and head down, his figure cast a silhouette nearly indistinguishable from that of his 25 year old self hammering “Ballad of a Thin Man” out on the keys during his 1966 world tour on which he was supported by The Band. That infamous run of shows, which followed Dylan’s then-recent and highly controversial embrace of electric instrumentation in his music, saw the folk icon regularly heckled by members of his audience, many of whom rejected the shift in stylistic direction. That energy was nowhere to be seen on this night, as onlookers observed the troubadour with a sort of subdued reverence.
Every person in attendance seemed either to understand what they were in for, or picked up on it quickly. Bob Dylan’s history of changing arrangements and lyrics to well-known (and not-so-well-known) songs on the fly is well documented, as are his generally obstinate demeanor and outright rejection of all things perceived to be fraudulent. The theatrical element of live performance has long since departed Dylan’s mind, and that’s assuming it was ever there to begin with. As such, most were aware that this performance would not merely be a placid run-through of old favorites.
The evening was set in motion with early 70s single “Watching the River Flow,” followed by a rollicking rendition of “Most Likely You’ll Go Your Way (and I’ll Go Mine)” from Blonde on Blonde, which saw release the same year that the aforementioned world tour took place. Dylan’s singing voice has long been a subject of debate and, like the man himself, has gone through a litany of permutations over the decades. The singer, who celebrated his 80th birthday in May, was in fine form on this night, faithfully replicating the gnarled growl ever-present throughout his latest work, as well as handily snaring a number of unexpected high and extended notes.
The setlist made ample utilization of the Rough and Rowdy Ways track list, with eight of the album’s ten songs making the cut. While, as could be expected, there was no “Blowin’ In the Wind,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” or “It Ain’t Me, Babe,” a number of classic tunes found their way into the performance, including “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight,” as well as a rocked-out take on Dylan’s gospel-era single “Gotta Serve Somebody.”
The cream of the performance, however, lay in the newer numbers. Dylan rose from the piano for the first time in anticipation of the third song of the evening, – and the opening song on Rough and Rowdy Ways – “I Contain Multitudes.” Dylan never approached the front of the stage, remaining flanked in solidarity by his exceptional band to the left of the piano. The singer donned a black and white nudie suit, giving the appearance of the late Little Jimmy Dickens or a time-weathered Gram Parson. As the air filled with the song’s opening lyrics and the song’s sparse instrumentation, one could have heard a pin drop,
“Today and tomorrow, and yesterday too. The flowers are dying, as all things do,” the singer crooned in perfect pitch.
Dylan was in his element during the performances of these new songs, and gave the appearance not of a man entertaining a room full of strangers, but of a man grappling with his own mortality, exercising and executing demons in a public forum as has become customary practice for the wordsmith. Eerie, haunting renditions of cuts such as “Black Rider,” and “Mother of Muses” evoked similar awe from spectators, while more hopeful proclamations in the form of “I’ve Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You” and “Key West (Philosopher Pirate)” drew eruptive applause as if the songs had been hits for 40 years.
Despite the number of darker songs relayed, including a masterful rendition of “Melancholy Mood,” – a track popularized by Frank Sinatra in the late 1930s – the dust was never given time to settle as Dylan led his band through thunderous renditions of bluesy cuts like “False Profit” and “Goodbye Jimmy Reed.” The latter, which features the phrase ‘down in Virginia,’ provided a perfect opportunity for inclusion of the word “west” as a catalyst for a guaranteed pop from the hometown crowd. Never one to aim for cheap applause, Dylan disregarded this coincidence and recited the lyric as it was written – the crowd popped anyway.
Dylan’s time at the mic between songs was brief but undoubtedly effective. Aside from a few brief but sincere “thank you”s, the legendary songwriter said little to nothing through the entire night. Those who bore witness hung on his every word.
Following the introduction of his band, Dylan returned to the piano a final time for a moving rendition of his early 80s deep cut “Every Grain of Sand” which prompted an extended standing ovation from the audience. Dylan rose once more, standing in line with the band and staring down the audience as if in anticipation of a duel which might occur in the world depicted in the Rough and Rowdy Ways album artwork. The lights went down, and the musicians exited the stage. The lights shone again soon after, fully illuminating the room and indicating that, just as there had been no opener, there would be no encore.
Laying eyes upon the person who is likely the greatest songwriter to have ever lived is not without its novelty. In fact, it is this sense of novelty which serves as the primary source of substance for the shows of many legacy acts who are more or less phoning it in at this stage. But Bob Dylan is no mere legacy act. One of the most fascinating figures in popular music, Dylan is an artist first and foremost, and one that continues to evolve even in the later stages of his career. The unwillingness to pander to the public is indicative of a diligent appreciation of and respect for his own craft. All these years, Bob Dylan has been playing the long game. Now comes the time for the enigmatic songsmith to reap his rewards, and one could conceive of few more deserving of such good fortune.