Monday night, I saw Bob Dylan perform for the first time.
What I expected was for him to not say much of anything between songs; for him to not introduce his band; for him to not play guitar (apparently he hasn’t done so in concert for years); and for him to be pretty much unintelligible.
When he took the stage a little after 8 p.m., he wore an off-white suit with a matching stiff-brimmed hat and brown shoes. I’d almost rehearsed what my thought process would be upon seeing him for the first time. Bobby Zimmerman, from Hibbing, Minn., who had grown tired of the prospect of following his father’s footsteps into the furniture business, who had tried to hack it before the college crowds in Duluth before making his way from his hometown to mine, arriving in the cold winter of ’61, trekking the Greenwich Village streets and playing the basket houses as he slept on floors and couches and tracked down his idol, Woody Guthrie.
Then, with his obsession with American legends and the stories that made up the backbone of our nation, Dylan became one in his own rite.
Read the rest of this story on my Dylan blog, Don’t Think Twice.