A couple of months ago, this septuagenarian went to see an octogenarian in concert in Brooklyn. I try to see Bob Dylan whenever he comes to town. Once again I bought only one ticket. It had been my practice, for various early Dylan manifestations, to bring my wife or a kid or a friend. But eventually I realized that the pleasure of their company was outweighed by the annoyance of their complaints – about his unwillingness to play familiar songs in familiar arrangements, about the unprettiness of his voice. (I recommend the recently released, Complete Budokan 1971, if you want live versions of the songs you know – sung, if not the way he originally sung them, at least the-way-he-originally-sung-them adjacent.) 

Dylan, of course, served as an advance scout for many of us in the 1960s and 1970s. Initially he mostly championed the downtrodden, but left politics did not contain him for long and he moved on to an examination of the pleasures and torments of a life lived, you might say, “with one hand waving free.” His sentences, his perspectives quickly overflowed the boundaries of popular song – and by so doing expanded them. He modeled reinvention – like a good modernist. But then he reinvented himself as a model of anti-modern, front-porch traditionalism. And that – kicking your shoes off – proved to be a trip, too.

  Most of us failed to follow Dylan into a revival-tent Christianity – a belief system whose boundaries he seems not to have challenged. I – having eventually published a book on atheism – certainly was unpersuaded. But I caught up with the songs, some of which have real power. I concluded that this guy had earned the right to see what he thinks he sees and know what he feels he knows.

  The sermons mostly ended. But it is also true that most of the subsequent albums – with the exception of two that benefited from a strong producer, Daniel Lanois – each featured only a few songs that might bear comparison with his earlier work. Still, this fellow has written more interesting songs than anyone else.

  In Brooklyn, the old man sang and played for an hour and three-quarters. I thought he was in particularly good voice. (My editor wanted me to add “…for Dylan.”) Uncharacteristically Dylan took – on piano – a large share of the solos. The band cooked. The arrangements were dynamic, interesting. Many of the songs were from his latest album, Rough and Rowdy Ways, which mostly does not touch on religion. He did play some sort-of hits, like “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” and “When I Paint My Masterpiece,” He did not play “Like a Rolling Stone” or “Blowing in the Wind.” He hasn’t in a while. (Can you imagine the Stones daring not to play “Satisfaction” and “Jumping Jack Flash”?) He crooned – ever unpredictable — “That Old Black Magic.”

  The evening’s final song – Dylan seems to have abandoned the encore game – was “Every Grain of Sand.” It is very much a religious song.  It exudes faith and awe.  I let it. I don’t regret it.