Not another Bob Dylan concert

Just because we bought your stuff doesn’t mean we owe you anything.

Flash back: You are at a Bob Dylan concert. And it is awful. It is so awful that you feel like recording it and re-playing it back to him in an attempt to make him appreciate what you are going through. It is so awful that you close your eyes in an attempt to block the thought of all the money you have given him over the years, not to mention the small fortune you’ve spent to be here along with all these other suckers. You try not to think of how far the cost of the ticket would have gone–– grocery for a couple of weeks or more, the tube fare for the month, a (minuscule) part of the down payment on a new flat, even a meaningless bauble for I, me, myself. For you’ve had it up to here subsiding other people’s lifestyle. At the very least you’ll go home and Google ‘Henry Timrod’.

But the hype like an iron clamp will grip your throat and even though people are getting up during the songs to refill their glasses to drown their sorrow, they will give you hard, meaningful glances. As if they’ve identified you as the weakest link. For they’ve worked long and hard on what they’ll put up on facebook along with blurry pictures of Dylan (in the same, white hat always) seen from, what appears to be many, many miles away. (Is he even there?) And no one can take that away from them. Damn it! After this they deserve something. Anything.

Was ‘mumblecore*’ invented to describe the brutality being unleashed on stage? And the eyes turn back towards you; smoldering holes in your back. You have been scarred for life.

But it’s al’right, Ma. I was already bleeding.

Flash forward:

You, “Dylan is playing at Hop Farm this summer.”

Me, “Yeah. Right.”

Both together, “Ha ha ha ha ha.”

Tears of laughter. Over and out.

*Nope. It is a term used to describe low-budget independent American films of early 2000's. Do they have anything in common with Bob Dylan? Answer: Well, you've heard Dylan muttering on stage. Now would you call him a 'slacker'?

London Diary: A year in Music

(All photographs by Anvita Lakhera)

It actually starts in Amsterdam with tickets to two shows: Mark Knopfler and Gogol Bordello. But the move to London coincides with both. A day after we fly out Mr. Knopfler performs at the Heineken Music Hall. Damn! But we manage to catch up with Gogol Bordello in Hammersmith. Good band. Bad venue.

How can you sit and listen to “Start Wearing Purple”? Clearly someone had not heard the music before selecting the venue. A more appropriate setting would have been Victoria Park. Radiohead plays at Victoria Park. It’s a stone’s throw away from home. Love the Park. Love Thom York’s commitment to the cause. Then there is the music…

But next came Leonard Cohen. A man after my heart. A concert that will be remembered for ages. Or at least for as long as all those who attended it walk this earth. The grace. The dignity. The voice. The words. And an atmosphere resonating with all that is good and hope inspiring about the human race.

Naturally when he came back we were there again. And sang along with an audience that broke all age barriers, “It’s time we began to laugh and cry and laugh about it all”.

Then came the big one. What would be considered the biggest event of a musical lifetime. Bob Dylan Live. But we had been amply forewarned. Big venue, moody singer-well prepare to be disappointed. And so we were. Disappointed.

That coupled with the fact that the big screens were covered and so most people didn’t even get a glimpse of the man…much like listening to Dylan at home but with people going out to get another beer every few minutes.

Then Pearl Jam. And what a contrast. What a concert. Everything that one expects from music and musicians. Great songs. Good, solid performance. Interaction with the audience. Love. Humility. Respect. Gratefulness on both sides. And a minor act of protest.

Plus the fact that Eddie Vedder is the coolest man. Ever. And you can't find a better man.