time is like a jet plane, it moves too fast

So I went to see one Mr. Bob Dylan play last night. Yes, I waffled a lot on whether it was worth it to attend. But the tickets ended up being a lovely birthday gift from Lance, so that was it, we were going! And I was really excited. I’m a big admirer of his art, his storytelling, his longevity, his dignity in irreverence. You see, he’s discovered a way to say the stuff that all of us have known. He earned a Pulitzer for his "profound impact on popular music and American culture, marked by lyrical compositions of extraordinary poetic power." The guy’s a damn poet.

It’s with that said that I declare his live performance last night, at almost 70 years old, to be … eh, shoulder shrug. The thing is, he can’t sing. His voice is shredded, more gravelly than it’s ever been, incapable of sustaining extended notes. Pinch-nosed talking has always kinda been part of his singing style, so it wasn’t that big of a deal. I did miss hearing him belting some shit out, though. “Lay Lady Lay,” for instance—you can’t just talk through that. It needs a little more finesse. “Like A Rolling Stone,” however, you can squawkingly spoken-word that one. Whatever, though, I wasn’t even there for the performance. I was there to be in the presence of a legend and a strange genius. And on that count, last night was 100-percent success.

P.S. My mom just informed me via telephone that have actually seen this man play before. I was four or five, and they took me to Denver to see the Moody Blues play. I don't remember Dylan, but I do remember  wondering why grown up stuff is always so damn boring, and I remember falling asleep in my seat.