Among all the humble superstars and legends in Nowlan Park, there was one true icon. Mere celebrities drifted around, both onstage and off, clearly star struck by the occasion. This is the best day of your life, a delirious Glen Hansard informed us. This is Bob day.
It may have been a big wet field, but Woodstock it certainly wasn't. With most of Dylan's disciples seemingly more interested in their Sunday papers than in filter papers, the most intoxicating thing shared was the music. Support guests all pay homage to the joker, in one way or another. Even Elvis Costello's breathless set concludes with a snippet of Subterranean Homesick Blues.
Then, with a rainbow reaching behind the stage and clouds streaking the sky, Bob Dylan took to the stage. Looking uncannily like a southern country gentleman version of Vincent Price, Dylan's croaky croon staggered into Oh Babe, It Ain't No Lie, launching a set that was quintessential Dylan, but far from staid. Vibrant new interpretations of old classics elevated this performance and fleshed out the paradox of a living, breathing icon. A pared down, up-tempo Desolation Row gave the band room to manoeuvre with layers of bluegrass. Later, a perfectly placed Visions of Johanna flourished with Spanish-hued guitars and husky vocals while footlights twinkled at twilight.
Grimacing and growling through crowd favourites Just Like a Woman and Knocking on Heaven's Door, Dylan's singing was often non-committal, but always transfixing. Bob's not as young as he once was. While he used to play harmonica and guitar simultaneously, here Ron Wood covered the strings while Dylan brayed out a fiery tune on the mouth organ. Letting down the dapper ensemble in the fashion department, Wood comes off . . . well, just like a Rolling Stone. Dylan, however, was focused, dignified and taciturn. Icons always are.
