Dylanesque
My Rollerblades and I zipped over to the Prospect Park bandshell to catch some of Bob Dylan’s $100-a-ticket sold-out show.
There was a 100-foot-long, eight-foot-high temporary wall put up to block the view of the free-riding crowds — something I haven’t seen at any of the other bandshell performances. But it wasn’t putting a damper on the mood. I had to leave before I got too much of a contact high to skate home.
I saw Dylan at Jazz Fest 2005 and he was a dissappointment. He looked and sounded like a bad imitation of himself. It was much the same tonight. The first riffs of the first song — a very good one, “Rainy Day Women No. 12 & 35” — had me shaking my hips and stripping off my tank top. But then his voice came out, even croakier than usual, and I winced.
If I didn’t know it was Dylan I would have thought it was a Vegas lounge singer who had eight too many whiskeys and a bone to pick with the snarky folk singer that dissed him on the road a few decades ago.
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