It’s 6:20 p.m. at the south entrance of the Tsongas Center. I’ve been here nine hours. In 10 minutes, the doors will open, and I will body check a 65-year-old woman. I’m here to see Bob.
The show starts at 8, and the general admission line is a couple hundred deep. Our floor tickets promise not only admittance, but opportunity. If you put in the work to get in line early, you can stand at Bob’s feet. And if you really commit yourself, you can stand close enough to admire the glare off his black cowboy boots.
I’m seventh in line and arrived around 9. The wind swirled all day, and we sat exposed, huddled with sleeping bags and crossword puzzles. When the sun finally reached us, it was already falling, leaving pink and orange streaks across the November sky. It was lovely.
But it seems long ago. We are minutes away, and I’m cold and dehydrated. All day I’ve limited myself to occasional sips of water to avoid eventual bathroom trips that could jeopardize my spot on the floor inside. Everyone’s anxious, and rumors circulate about the course ahead. It is well established that, upon entry, we’ll climb a flight of stairs to the concourse and then descend to the floor level. But where we’ll descend is unclear. Wherever it is, it will all happen fast.
Alliances form. I agree to be a “runner” and hold a place for the woman in front of me, a 65-year-old Head Start supervisor and former Andover schoolteacher. Though she’s only my mother’s age, I feel a grandchild’s affection toward her, and I’m flattered when she requests my assistance.
She grew up in New York City when Bob was cutting his teeth in Greenwich Village. She was a classical music fan and paid him little regard — an indifference that continued into adulthood. It was only while watching Scorsese’s 2005 Dylan documentary that something clicked. She became fascinated by the man, and then mildly obsessed. And at the tender age of 60 she plunged head first into her Dylan Phase. Thirty concerts later, her husband thinks she’s crazy.
Photos by Adrien Bisson
My wife thinks I’m crazy. We met in 2001, at the height of my Dylan Phase — a courtship that also coincided with the emergence of digital file sharing, of which I understood nothing. Ashlee understood everything. So I would research set lists and rare interviews, and e-mail their links from my Back Bay cube to her South End cube, where she’d magically turn them into CDs. She was amazing. And three years later we wore fancy clothes and danced to “Never Say Goodbye” off “Planet Waves.”
Moments before 6:30, security approaches the glass doors and the line creeps forward, packing us tighter. I’m nervous about the kids behind me. They’re in their early 20s and use the word “legit” the way most people use “like.” It’s, legit, their first time seeing Bob, and they’re determined to, legit, use whatever means necessary to secure a prime spot. They’ve smoked 600 cigarettes since this morning, but they have young legs. I’m sure they’ll be at the head of the pack.
When the doors open, we surge toward the stairwell, which winds upward, 10 or so steps at a time. On the first turn I nearly knock down my grandmother while jockeying for the inside lane. I expect her to let me pass, and when she doesn’t, I charge forward anyhow. There’s no looking back.
In less than 10 seconds I’ve reached the concourse with the elite runners. We all temporarily freeze, unsure of which way to turn. I break right, but in that moment of indecision one of the chain smokers passes me and is now setting the pace. He sprints the concourse and bolts down an aisle toward the floor, as I nip at his heels. I draft him for at least 50 steps, hurdling two at a time. The power and agility in my legs surprises me. Years of scrambling for trains at North Station has made them commuter strong.
We race the length of the floor to the stage. And though youth prevails, we both grab precious front-row spots in front of Bob’s microphone. I clutch the stage barrier and stand wide to claim my territory. And a minute later, my adorable, disheveled grandmother joins me, laughing. She accepts blame for the stairway confusion and confides that she nearly peed herself in the bustle and excitement.
But none of that matters now. We’ve made it. We’ve arrived at ground zero Bob.
As an abstraction, his presence has been constant in our lives. His voice has become as familiar as that of our parents. And though he occupies a rare space in American culture, to call him “icon” or “legend” misses the point. He is more than that to us. He is Bob.
So after another hour wait, it’s a profound thrill to see him shuffle onstage. I study each hard-earned wrinkle on his face, each mischievous smile and subtle cue to the band as he leans into his keyboard and growls out the show opener “Gonna Change My Way of Thinking.” Bob the abstraction recedes for the evening, replaced by actual, real-time, present-day Bob.
This inevitably disappoints some. They want the 23-year-old Bob with the acoustic guitar and the protest songs. Or the 34-year-old Bob who played Lowell in ’75 and sat with Allen Ginsberg at Kerouac’s grave. I can’t understand him! they say. His voice sounds terrible!
And it does in spots. He misses a note here and there. He misses several. At times he sounds like he might just retch into the microphone. But even this is to be cherished — the honest, ragged voice of a 69-year-old man who declines to be someone he’s not.
In large part, that’s why I sat in the cold all day: to watch an old man gracefully get older while doing something he loves. To watch an undisputed master wrestle with his craft and not care what we think about it. That is art. That is dignity. It’s every bit as inspiring as hitting all the right notes, and it’s certainly worth spending a day in the cold.
He closes the show, as always, with “Like A Rolling Stone.” At each chorus, the spotlights turn their focus toward the crowd, and I see the uplifted faces of people I’ve met in line today from Italy and San Francisco and Philadelphia. How does it feel?
They each have their individual reasons for being here and their own connections with Bob’s music. But they all appear transformed by this final epic selection. We’ve listened to the song our entire lives, with the same question taunting us over and over. How does it feel? How does it feel?
The difference tonight is that the inquisitor stands directly before us, stabbing away at his keyboard and peering out from under the brim of his “Boss of the Plains” hat. How does it feel?
It should be quite obvious how I feel. My knees ache, and the bladder is ready to burst. But I got to see Bob. And that feels fantastic.
How Does it Feel? My Pilgrimage to See Dylan
It’s 6:20 p.m. at the south entrance of the Tsongas Center. I’ve been here nine hours. In 10 minutes, the doors will open, and I will body check a 65-year-old woman. I’m here to see Bob.
I’m seventh in line and arrived around 9. The wind swirled all day, and we sat exposed, huddled with sleeping bags and crossword puzzles. When the sun finally reached us, it was already falling, leaving pink and orange streaks across the November sky. It was lovely.
But it seems long ago. We are minutes away, and I’m cold and dehydrated. All day I’ve limited myself to occasional sips of water to avoid eventual bathroom trips that could jeopardize my spot on the floor inside. Everyone’s anxious, and rumors circulate about the course ahead. It is well established that, upon entry, we’ll climb a flight of stairs to the concourse and then descend to the floor level. But where we’ll descend is unclear. Wherever it is, it will all happen fast.
Alliances form. I agree to be a “runner” and hold a place for the woman in front of me, a 65-year-old Head Start supervisor and former Andover schoolteacher. Though she’s only my mother’s age, I feel a grandchild’s affection toward her, and I’m flattered when she requests my assistance.
She grew up in New York City when Bob was cutting his teeth in Greenwich Village. She was a classical music fan and paid him little regard — an indifference that continued into adulthood. It was only while watching Scorsese’s 2005 Dylan documentary that something clicked. She became fascinated by the man, and then mildly obsessed. And at the tender age of 60 she plunged head first into her Dylan Phase. Thirty concerts later, her husband thinks she’s crazy.
Photos by Adrien Bisson
My wife thinks I’m crazy. We met in 2001, at the height of my Dylan Phase — a courtship that also coincided with the emergence of digital file sharing, of which I understood nothing. Ashlee understood everything. So I would research set lists and rare interviews, and e-mail their links from my Back Bay cube to her South End cube, where she’d magically turn them into CDs. She was amazing. And three years later we wore fancy clothes and danced to “Never Say Goodbye” off “Planet Waves.”
Moments before 6:30, security approaches the glass doors and the line creeps forward, packing us tighter. I’m nervous about the kids behind me. They’re in their early 20s and use the word “legit” the way most people use “like.” It’s, legit, their first time seeing Bob, and they’re determined to, legit, use whatever means necessary to secure a prime spot. They’ve smoked 600 cigarettes since this morning, but they have young legs. I’m sure they’ll be at the head of the pack.
When the doors open, we surge toward the stairwell, which winds upward, 10 or so steps at a time. On the first turn I nearly knock down my grandmother while jockeying for the inside lane. I expect her to let me pass, and when she doesn’t, I charge forward anyhow. There’s no looking back.
In less than 10 seconds I’ve reached the concourse with the elite runners. We all temporarily freeze, unsure of which way to turn. I break right, but in that moment of indecision one of the chain smokers passes me and is now setting the pace. He sprints the concourse and bolts down an aisle toward the floor, as I nip at his heels. I draft him for at least 50 steps, hurdling two at a time. The power and agility in my legs surprises me. Years of scrambling for trains at North Station has made them commuter strong.
We race the length of the floor to the stage. And though youth prevails, we both grab precious front-row spots in front of Bob’s microphone. I clutch the stage barrier and stand wide to claim my territory. And a minute later, my adorable, disheveled grandmother joins me, laughing. She accepts blame for the stairway confusion and confides that she nearly peed herself in the bustle and excitement.
But none of that matters now. We’ve made it. We’ve arrived at ground zero Bob.
As an abstraction, his presence has been constant in our lives. His voice has become as familiar as that of our parents. And though he occupies a rare space in American culture, to call him “icon” or “legend” misses the point. He is more than that to us. He is Bob.
So after another hour wait, it’s a profound thrill to see him shuffle onstage. I study each hard-earned wrinkle on his face, each mischievous smile and subtle cue to the band as he leans into his keyboard and growls out the show opener “Gonna Change My Way of Thinking.” Bob the abstraction recedes for the evening, replaced by actual, real-time, present-day Bob.
This inevitably disappoints some. They want the 23-year-old Bob with the acoustic guitar and the protest songs. Or the 34-year-old Bob who played Lowell in ’75 and sat with Allen Ginsberg at Kerouac’s grave. I can’t understand him! they say. His voice sounds terrible!
And it does in spots. He misses a note here and there. He misses several. At times he sounds like he might just retch into the microphone. But even this is to be cherished — the honest, ragged voice of a 69-year-old man who declines to be someone he’s not.
In large part, that’s why I sat in the cold all day: to watch an old man gracefully get older while doing something he loves. To watch an undisputed master wrestle with his craft and not care what we think about it. That is art. That is dignity. It’s every bit as inspiring as hitting all the right notes, and it’s certainly worth spending a day in the cold.
He closes the show, as always, with “Like A Rolling Stone.” At each chorus, the spotlights turn their focus toward the crowd, and I see the uplifted faces of people I’ve met in line today from Italy and San Francisco and Philadelphia. How does it feel?
They each have their individual reasons for being here and their own connections with Bob’s music. But they all appear transformed by this final epic selection. We’ve listened to the song our entire lives, with the same question taunting us over and over. How does it feel? How does it feel?
The difference tonight is that the inquisitor stands directly before us, stabbing away at his keyboard and peering out from under the brim of his “Boss of the Plains” hat. How does it feel?
It should be quite obvious how I feel. My knees ache, and the bladder is ready to burst. But I got to see Bob. And that feels fantastic.