I have no idea why Bob Dylan came to Oxford, but he did, and I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to see him.
The first time I knew who Bob Dylan was, I was 12 years old. Avril Lavigne had just covered Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door, and like most parents hearing covers, my mum immediately started defensively playing Bob Dylan– showing me how it was supposed to be sung.
The Avril Lavigne Era.
I preferred Avril’s version, but as the eyeliner got thinner, so did my admiration for the punk-pop singer, and soon enough, Bob Dylan became more appreciated.
It’s not that I became a die-hard fan of his, but I have played the usual songs; Blowin’ in the Wind, Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right, Like a Rolling Stone – time and time again throughout my life, like they loyal friends that are there for whenever you need backing up.
Poetry Ed came with me (because if you have a friend you refer to as Poetry Ed, then there is nobody else but that friend to go with to a Bob Dylan concert). As we entered the New Theatre on George Street, it became apparent that we were one of the few representing the millennials at this gig.
We settled in our seats on the top circle. Below us, a field of grey and the occasional fedora hat that a man has dusted off.
“We’re going to need at least three loo intervals during this one,” Poetry Ed said, gazing down. At that moment, the lights went off, and the curtains came up, and 81-year-old Bob shuffled onto the stage.
Now, obviously, it’s not the Bob Dylan with the guitar and harmonica, but it was still Bob Dylan jamming out on a piano in front of you, and that was surreal and spectacular – even if you did just want to wrap him up in a blanket.
Now and again, an eccentric auntie got carried away and screamed out his name. At one point, Bob shuffled away from his piano to the centre of the stage and did a little nod, which made some of the crowd go crazy. He shuffled back, safely behind his keys.
I have to give it to the man. He played for nearly two hours without a single break. When the band took their final bow, a woman, we’ll call her Audrey, ran up to the front with a sign that Bob probably couldn’t read and neither could anyone else.
I just hope it was something appropriate for the age range like, “come to my funeral” not “marry me.”
Poetry Ed post-gig pint
It was in the pub afterwards that Ed and I were questiong what would become of us in our music future. I laugh now, but we’re all guilty of digging up our youth with our musical idols. It wasn’t that long ago a bunch of twenty-somethings were dancing to the Spice Girls at Wembley.
I’m sure in 40 years’ time, some young person will join a queue at an Avril Lavigne concert and will snigger at all of us old women wearing ties.
THE QUACK 