The Muso of Folk. The prime-time Boxer of revolution and change in the turbulent Sixties. The freakin' Governor. Though last Saturday night, Dylan showed England how to shit all over that legacy.'8:00pm prompt' is what it reads on each and every ticket. Which is a bit wanky, but come on Bob; if you're not even going to show up until twenty minutes past eight, shut your beardy little yapper. When the lights finally go down, a brief moment of excitement is shattered when they launch into possibly the worst mixed performance I've seen in my life. It's firstly not loud enough, secondly the drum cymbals sound like they're under the fucking Thames outside the O2, and thirdly... actually, absolutely everything is awful. And this opening number, Maggie's Farm, could be saved by the picture everyone has of Dylan: a whimsical little sprite, with a world-worn wisdom and passionate voice. Unfortunately, that image is defunct. Utterly. The man on stage I see (barely, thanks to the production team for providing zero screens) is a decrepid, unmoving hermit, not once talking to the crowd who paid fifty big ones to be here tonight. And even all this could be forgiven, if he put any effort into his singing. His vocals sound like Bright Eyes covering Bob Dylan covering Bright Eyes, covering Scooby Doo. No shit. His voicebox sounds like the inside of a cement mixer. You can hear Shaggy making an embarassed 'zoinks' somewhere in the stalls.
After this, a ruinous version of The Times They Are A-Changin' confirms tonight is going to be shambolic from beginning to end. Bob Dylan and 'His Band' ('cause no-one else will fucking want them) rattle through th
e turgid set, which includes obscurer tracks among more well-known numbers like Highway 61 and... actually, I can't remember anything else. It was that boring.There is no stage set-up: in all seriousness, I had a better set up for my college showcase. Even better lights. So there's nothing to look at while my brain slowly melts out of my ears. Having said all this, Dylan is nearly seventy after all; but don't go on the road if you can't bring the goods. You're obviously doing it for the money, there is no interest for you at all doing this. You are now an antithesis for everything you stand for. Cough - sorry, used to stand for.
Another cack-covered rendition of a huge song, Like A Rolling Stone, is the point where I decide to walk out. Oh, how I wish I had a sniper rifle to take out the engineer down on the mixing desk. I barely stay for the 'encore' that is a muddy All Along The Watchtower, and entirely missing the usual closer Blowin' In The Wind. At least I can get home a little earlier. The only reason this gets a rating of two and not a one, is because it's still mothereffin' Bob Dylan. And considering his current state, that's being generous.
Overall - 2 / 10
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