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Bobby D (in short), the "old" Bob comes to town to play. And I, eager like a mosquito in search of blood, rush to the Palamalaguti because I will never allow him to enter and pass so close to me without me seeing him.
He shows up 10 minutes late, dressed in a beautiful black suit, accompanied by his elegant full band: two guitarists, a bassist (who will also rotate the double bass in his hands), drums, steel guitar, violin, and he himself on the keyboard (piano), vocals, and harmonica. He needs neither choirs to harmonize his voice, because he sings with such intensity and with a timbre so unique that anything more would spoil the delight, so much so that in the general mix, his voice and the electric guitars stand out the most, nor any other artifices. The scenography is neat but decidedly sparse, which suggests a concert stripped of those characteristics that have now become a cliché of every respectable concert: "special effects". None of that. Bob Dylan descends from the space of the '60s, lands in any city on the planet (I don't think it makes any difference to him whether he's in Bologna or Tokyo), plays, and departs like an extraterrestrial who came in peace.
I had already seen Dylan a year ago in Benidorm, Spain. But this time the concert was slightly more generous. The setlist included songs that, though arranged in a completely different way, sometimes in antithesis to the original, made history and embarrassed thousands of singer-songwriters. "I Ain't Gonna Work On Maggie's Farm No More", "Love Minus Zero", "Highway 61", "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)", "Like A Rolling Stone" to name a few. Dylan will never be clear to me. And besides, I don't wish to understand him. But between one song and another (during a Bob Dylan concert there is always time to think), I wondered more than once what it means today, as an icon and as a musician, to be an artist like him. The Palamalaguti was half full (thus also half empty). I'm not surprised, in fact, no one was surprised by this. Even the Churches are now all half empty on Sundays (many, to tell the truth, are deserted). But Dylan's consistency in carrying forward his sacred music, original in the most literal sense of the term, meaning staying true to his choices, and why not, his presumptions, is extraordinary when you consider that this person has perhaps contributed more than anyone else to the development of popular music, and that at his age he could hang up that wonderful black jacket and stay home writing jokes. Instead, he named his tour "Neverending Tour." Dylan has repeatedly stated his need to return to tradition, and that’s how he carries on his circus. In the most traditional way possible, wherever he is, whatever audience has paid to hear or see him. Rock ‘n’ roll, blues, country, without any concession, without any compromise. Because it's obvious, and hearing him unfold rhymes and sharp refrains, one quickly realizes that it is the word, the poetry, which makes one of his concerts a firework of emotions.
He is convincing, romantic, sometimes aggressive, sometimes desolate, as he places his lips on the microphone. His movements are sinuous and sometimes even sexy (!!!!), as he drags the songs through refined passages, always and anyway classic, and for this honest, as he guides his harmonica and makes it speak. Bobby D convinces you without winking, without giving you anything, in fact, (unfortunately), taking a lot away. He strips his songs of what men have made of them and reproposes them as a second Gospel, strips an event of that ostentation of lights and sounds typical of our days, giving you in exchange the charm of his myth, the eternal elegance of the past, of his white hair, his tired smiles, and his gaze that seems clouded, but the more it is clouded, the wiser it is. So much so that during the concert, he sings in a stunning way. His timbre is, as Richard Benson would say, infernal yet at the same time human like few others. The variations he allows himself to make to the melodic lines are often repetitive, as if to say, "Songs do not exist, there is only one, universal song." Perhaps a slightly mystical concept, but real in Dylan's case, who remains for me a fundamental point of reference, to which I am convinced people will increasingly turn in the future. Because he may also be "old", but he is made of reinforced concrete.
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