SPRINGFIELD, MO —My wife and I got tickets to see music legend Bob Dylan in concert March 28, 2025 at the Juanita K. Hammons Hall for the Performing Arts.
Bob Dylan is 83 and began his music career in 1961. He’s written more than 6,000 songs and recorded 38 albums.
He’s a legend, a mystical, eccentric musical genius who kept his long, curly hair even now that he’s the age of my father-in-law, who lost his hair years ago.
We drove to the only free parking space near the concert venue, the new Wendy’s on National and Cherry.
Walked to the concert hall past Missouri State University’s “Greek Row” in the cool, beautiful evening. I had changed into my brightest Rooster Shirt. Andrea looked classy with her recently done purple hair, her “Old Money” nails, and checkered tight pants. Though she forgot her pink heeled boots to match her pink sweater, she looked perfectly darling.
We got in line and got “wanded” at the entrance. “Do you have a cell phone on you?” the security asked. “No,” I said, hoping my Rooster Shirt was long enough to cover the phone poking out of my back pocket. Once inside, a girl asked the same thing. She was putting cell phone into private containers. I’ve heard they have a strict policy at Dylan concerts about no phone use.
“No,” I lied again. It’s easier the second time.
We found Row L but the guy on the end of our row was the size of Kung Fu Panda after a dumpling festival. The usher noticed our plight and politely suggested we walk to the other entrance at the opposite end of the balcony and try our seat assignment quest from the normal sized people’s side of the long row.
We scooted past dozens of people in the long, long, narrow, narrow row. Our seats were smack dab in the middle, number L 33 and L 34. I tripped over someone’s foot and literally dropped into my seat from a near stumble. The young girl next to me was not impressed.
Bob Dylan’s band was on the stage. In the semi darkness, with lights on in the audience and some background makeshift lighting on stage making it look like a rehearsal jam session, I realized the concert had indeed started, sans introduction, sans warm up band, and the dark mass of curls above the dark piano was, indeed, the icon BD.
It’s a weird feeling to share a room with a musical legend, even if you can’t see him well.
No spot light. No banter with the audience. No setting up the next song. It was like the man was on a mission to steadily plod through his collection of folk, with the relentless help from a dedicated tribe of guys on drums, guitars, and bass who looked uninvited to have an opinion or a thought. They stood and played the endless row of songs, as the Master sat or stood at the piano at will, banging out incredible chord combinations in a bluesy, breezy, jazzy wave matching his whimsical trademark vocals. When Bob Dylan sings, I can’t understand 90 percent of his lyrics. When he speaks, which is super rare, I can’t understand 98 percent of his words.
He’s a real different breed. We were on a different journey, listening in.
On the second song, I realized he wasn’t going to be there for us. We were there for him, and all we, the packed house audience, could do, without cell phones (legally anyway) was to scootch forward and strain to see the guy. I mean it when I said no spot lights. It’s almost like we were dreaming an unfamiliar Dylan croon fest.
The guy still has his voice, his talent, his timing, his memory. It was flawless. He even seems to add lib and vary his long standing tunes to tailer to his moment mood without his band knowing what to expect, or the audience, for that matter.
Dylan gives no impact statements or accents. He plods steadily along, and the audience can take it or leave it. It wasn’t riveting, or even entertaining, but it was an experience I’ll not forget. I was hearing, firsthand, a musical legend doing what he wanted, twisting his songs to suit the magic in the moment never to be repeated the same way.
I felt like I was listening in on a jam session in his living room, only he didn’t want to make suggestions to his band mates. I felt somewhat sorry for them, these musical robots, following their mad maestro.
The dude didn’t shell out even one hit song. No “Blowing in the Wind,” “Tambourine Man,” “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” or “Like a Rolling Stone.” The man who got the attention of Johnny Cash and Elvis, defined a culture, and transformed folk into muse rock for longer than my lifespan didn’t even crack a single recognizable tune to me. He has a brilliant life story movie about himself that just blew up the box office and he didn’t do a song from the movie. Click here for the movie.
He didn’t talk about anything. Missed opportunity, anyone? We wanted to connect with him. Yet Dylan was a blank slate, dishing out his music in his own time without thought of us. No stopping, just turning the page from one song to the next.
In the murky darkness, he finally stood and walked toward the back of the stage. The show was over? Uh, I think so. We stood and cheered, but no encore. No announcement. We wandered off, wondering what the last hour and 40 minutes had done to us. No one will ever know.
It was still cool, but we definitely didn’t get entertained. We were voyeurs to a piece of history. At 83, the guy still looks like he can be as methodical and matter-of-fact as he wants. He may outlive Willie. Speaking of, Dylan and Willie Nelson are in concert in June in nearby Branson. Wanna go? Click here for more.
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