Mama You've Been On My Mind

The last time I was in Rochester was 1988, on my secret government mission. I don't remember much about that trip. I do remember I brought with me one tape, which was a bootleg Dylan/Petty concert. I was listening one morning to a cover of the old Dizzy song, "that lucky old sun, has nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day" when one of the employees at my destination asked me who was on the tape.

"Bob Dylan," I mumbled.

"Who's he?" she asked. I knew then and there my mission was pointless as well as over.

I'm happy to report my return trip was much more enlightening (or funner as the kids might say). It was definitely the happening place to be on a Sunday night in Rochester. The Civic Center, a large high school auditorium (when is this year's prom dear?) was the venue. The trip down was a gas. Despite the allergic reactions, we knew something special was in the air. And it was. There aren't many I'd travel as far to see. Would I break a leg to go see Bob? Probably not. Would I sprain both my ankles? I'd consider that. It was that good a show.

It was a dark and stormy night... My companion dragged me (didn't touch me) to the side of the stage where we saw Bob squint and sweat. He opened the show with Jokerman and my heart cooed. "Freedom just around the corner from you." He segued into Senor, one of my favorite Dylan tunes, and I muttered to all around, "Cool!" My companion looked at me with her best Ted Koppel stare, and shrugged. She may not have understood, but she appreciated the moment, and even I think, enjoyed it. So be it that Bob left out the best line, "This place don't make sense to me no more, can you tell me what we're waiting for Senor?" You had to wonder if the place has now come to indeed make some kind of sense to the man.

I even tolerated the dirge like performance of one of my least favorite songs of all time, Disease of Conceit. There may have been a whole lot of people suffering that night, but none in that gym. The highlight of the show, like most recent Dylan performances, came in the acoustic portion with the performance of Masters of War. In recent years Bob has stuck to a machine gun, mosquito buzzing arrangement of the song, which never lacked for subtlety in the first place. Bzzzzz. The sledgehammer heaviness of the lyrics competed with the pounding guitars into a Scorpion like epic. This version however was soft and reflective, capturing the angry mood of the recorded version much better. It was sad, poignant and delivered with passion.

It was his usual eclectic show. During the slow bluesy God Knows, you could almost picture young Bobby Z. rocking to a confused Hibbing High School to a cool reception. The most intriguing juxtaposition was backing I and I, a song about searching for self identity with I Believe in You, one of Dylan's most convincing "Jesus" songs. After the show we were buzzed. As the rain exploded, the spirits may have been dampened but the music lingered on.

If there's but one thing I've picked up on my own Never Ending Tour, the September of my years, it is that happiness isn't merely stumbled upon, it's something you have to seek to find. You put yourself in a bad, awkward position, and the end result can be all too predictable. But the opposite can also be true. To connect with others can be worth the risk. There are those that survive rock, roll and life. The longer you last, the better it can be. There's a wonderful now familiar feeling hearing that deep but subtle, anticipated voice that says, "Will you please welcome, Columbia recording artist, Bob Dylan." To share the feeling with another is like lotion on the driest of skin, jumping up and down on the bed springs of life, running to grandma's stark naked to show off new tennies. Maybe the feelings never last, but the experience still counts. Ten of the best nights of my life have been with Bob. And now another. Ten more than most.