STRICTLY BOB DANCING

I was all of a dither. Should I miss Strictly Come Dancing to see Mark Knopfler and Bob Dylan at Hammersmith on Saturday night? And not just any old Strictly I’ll have you know – this was the gala coming from Wembley Arena. Strictly – Bob; Bob – Strictly. An agonizing choice.

“I don’t know why you want me to come anyway,” I moaned to Big-J. “Why not take someone who cares?” I continued. However much I bleated, he would not be moved. “Look” he said, “here’s the text you sent me when I managed to get Strictly tickets”. Upon inspection I saw that I’d said “Wow, thanks luv. Now I’ll love you forever.” I was well and truly hoist by my own petard. “If you really love me,” said Big-J, “you’ll come along and you’ll enjoy yourself.” Having said “never again” after I saw Bob live in Milan (2009 I think), I found myself being dragged kicking and screaming in a Westerly direction last Saturday night.

Blimey, the Hammersmith Apollo could do with a makeover. In contrast to the showy, sparkly glamour and glitz of the Strictly Come Dancing studio the previous week (and before you ask, you have to know someone really important to get those tickets), this was a real culture shock. I don’t think it’s seen a paintbrush since around 1963. But the Bob-heads didn’t care. They were six deep at the bar stacking up their sherbets in plastic cups. Really quite grubby. I ordered a bottle of water and was told that I could take it into the auditorium if they removed the cap for me. “Can I take it in if I promise not to chuck it?” I asked. The barmaid looked me up and down and clearly felt that a woman of my dress sense and seniority probably wasn’t about to indulge in nefarious activities and so, to my relief, I was given special bottle-top dispensation.

I must admit that I was secretly looking forward to seeing Mark Knopfler. I loved all those hits that were background music to my youth. Money for Nothing, Sultans of Swing, Brothers in Arms, Romeo and Juliet – yeah. Well, he didn’t play any of those. It was a real swizz and left me feeling very underwhelmed. After listening to him for an hour, I was beginning to look forward to Bob. At least I’d know some of his tunes.

Bob and his beige-suited band took to the stage, with Mark Knopfler on board for the first four numbers. Apparently, they're good friends those two and Mark is undoubtedly a genius guitarist. But Bob really must take the prize for being the worst dressed rocker ever to have graced a stage. Where does he get those clothes? A long black jacket with matching trousers featuring white satin or grosgrain facings, silver shoes and the ubiquitous black hat, he looked faintly ridiculous. But … there’s just something mesmerising about the little guy, it’s hard to take your eyes off him whilst he’s on stage. At age 70, he played around fourteen numbers, ten of which I recognised including Highway 61 Revisited, A Hard Rain, Don’t think Twice It’s All Right and Make You Feel My Love – yes, written by Bob and not by Adele. He strummed his gee-tar, he played keyboards, he even indulged in some strange and wondrous dance moves, the like of which I’d never seen before (and frankly, am not in a hurry to see again). The band was very tight, the music was great. Although his voice sounds like razor blades these days, as he growled his way through all those familiar numbers, he never missed a beat or got a word wrong. At least, of the words I could hear – he didn’t get one wrong.

I know that the die-hard fans, comprising around 98% of the audience, will want to see Bob again and again – even when he’s really on his last legs (heaven forfend) and, whilst the man can still fill a decent size venue, I suspect he’ll go on and on ... and on and on and on and on. But I’m afraid that for my money, living legend and voice of a generation that he is, I think the time may have come for a graceful exit stage left.