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.
Showing posts with label Bob Dylan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bob Dylan. Show all posts
Friday, 25 November 2011
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Rock n' roll and the great outdoors
Some weeks ago, Big-J asked me if I fancied the Hop Farm Music festival. “No” I said. I thought that was pretty clear. He wanted to know why not and just like that, I cited ten good reasons: it might be raining, it might be too hot, it might be too cold, I didn’t want to sit in a field all day, my hay fever was bound to flare up, we’d have to leave home too early, we’d get home too late, I had stuff I needed to do, I couldn’t face portaloos and I’m just too bloody old to go to a festival. (I’d never even been to one in my ‘yoof’ and I wasn’t keen on starting now.) Those were just the reasons I came up with off the top of my head. Given time, I feel sure I could have thought up at least 97 more.
“But Bob’s topping the bill” he said in a sort of plaintive tone, “and there’s Ray Davis and Pete Docherty – whoever he is” he continued. “It’ll be a lovely day out” he persisted. “And I’ll owe you big time” he added, by way of an incentive.
I told him that I absolutely wasn’t going and that was final.
So last Saturday at midday, we found ourselves driving down to somewhere near Sevenoaks to said festival after the customary discussion as to whether to drive through town or take the very much longer route around the car park they call the M25. I opted for the M25, he wanted to drive through town but because I was very grumpy, I won and I was wrong. It happens occasionally. The journey, which took barely an hour and twenty on the way back, took over three hours on the way there, the last half an hour spent queuing from two miles away to get into Hop Farm.
It was a scorchingly hot day. Parking our car miles away, we trudged through fields and fields to reach the festival entrance. We needed to find a pitch so that we could eat our picnic. We got as near to the stage as we could – which was pretty far away but at least we could see the action on the two huge screens on either side. There was no shade, we had nothing to sit on but we soon bought a couple of brilliant collapsible chairs and sat eating our smoked salmon beigals in the sunshine, surrounded by thousands of lookie-likies, to the strains of the very unmemorable Pete Docherty who managed a few notes in-between foul-mouthed rants about something or other. We were, at this point, the oldest in a massive crowd that would have made my 21 year old feel like a bit of pensioner. It was incredibly hot and the wafts of weed-laden smoke all around us were already making me feel quite high. I didn’t want to drink too much as the first inevitable visit to a portaloo loomed large but after smoked salmon and in 30 degree heat with public announcements every half an hour or so to take care, slap on the sunscreen and drink plenty of water, I really had no choice. At one point, Big-J decided to investigate whether we could get nearer to the stage. “Wait here” he said, “I’ll be back in a moment”. Some half an hour later, he eventually found his way back to me – panicked, sweating and panting - a picture of relief. The crowd was so huge that even with his A grade Geography A’ Level, he had become disorientated. We tearfully reunited vowing not to lose sight of each other for the rest of the day, too scary.
The phenomenon that is Seasick Steve was next up. He played a short set on his homemade three-string geet-aar. What an entertainer and how amazing to be discovered just at the age when the rest of us get our Freedom Pass. He was great fun and I’m glad I saw him live. Now I know what my son’s been banging on about these last few years.
Nothing much else happened for a while other than we went in search of a portaloo where there wasn’t a 40-minute queue. We eventually found one in the car park field. Have you ever used a non-flushing portaloo after thousands of other people? No? Well I don’t recommend it but at least I’ve discovered just how long I can hold my breath for. Amazing what one can do in adversity. I’ll move swiftly on so as not to make you feel bilious.
We missed most of J Mumford and Sons, another band we’d never heard of but apparently very popular with the young people of today. Then came Ray Davis, he of the Kinks fame. His set was good, he really got the crowd going, yeah, he really got them now, he got them so they can’t sleep at night. He spoiled it a bit by starting 20 minutes late then refusing to cut his set short (whilst swearing horribly at someone off-stage) meaning that ‘His Bobness’ would inevitably be kept waiting along with the Bob-heads in the crowd. Big-J was outraged, “how rude” he said, “how very inconsiderate” and it quite put him off Ray which was a shame because, his old stuff at least, really was rather good.
By now the crowd had swelled to around 70 million and even in our mid-arena position, we were squashed like sardines with no hope for a shortie like me of breathing out let alone glimpsing the stage. I was ever so slightly scared that we’d get squashed in any sort of stage-rush or if a fire broke out or if we were invaded by aliens but as it was, other than being barged a few times, it was bearable. It was a beautiful, warm and starry night and the mood in the arena was chilled and friendly – and stoned.
And suddenly, there was Bob. Resplendent in a black suit with diamante seams, a bright magenta shirt and a trademark white cowboy hat. At least I think it was Bob. The camera crew had clearly been instructed that no close-ups were allowed so even on the big screen, it was difficult to make him out. He’s only a little fella after all. That was a shame, it would have been good to have seen his expression as we all drowned him out singing along to Like a Rolling Stone.
“Sing Maggie’s fucking farm Bob” screamed a bloke next to us, repeatedly and then again for good measure. Bob never did sing Maggie’s Farm that night. Good, it’s one of my least favourites. He did lots of old stuff and a few tracks from Modern Times. He growled and rasped his way through with that interesting upswing phrasing which he uses when he can’t hit the note anymore. I’ve since heard that a lot of the kids didn’t like it at all. Well, they couldn’t possibly ‘get it’ could they? How could they be expected to appreciate that they were privileged just to be in the presence of a living legend, the voice of their parents' generation? The man can still pull an impressive crowd which is why he keeps performing I suppose although I’m always in two minds about whether it’s really a good idea to keep on keepin’ on at his age n’ all. Big-J was a very happy man, for him it was all worth it. He’d had a lovely time and that, I figured, is what it was all about.
When Bob exited stage right, we raced back to our car, which we’d cleverly re-parked right next to the one exit provided for the 350,000 cars. But then we sat and we sat and we sat and we sat some more. Nothing moved and no one really knew what the problem was. At this point, I could describe the next two and a half hours in minute detail, outlining for you the complete Radio 4 nighttime schedule, but I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, it took a very, very long time to get out onto the open road but then barely an hour and twenty to get home by 2.30am. I was thrilled. I’d get a good five hours quality kip before having to prepare lunch the next day for six guests.
So was it worth it? For me? Honestly? No. I won’t go into how many of my fears came to fruition that day in the field but I’ll chalk it up to experience, an experience I fervently hope never to repeat. For him though, it couldn’t have been more worth it. He’s always worried that if he doesn’t take the opportunity to see Bob, he might just miss the last show ever. But even Big-J has admitted (quietly to me, in a weak moment) that he won’t be rushing along to the next outdoor festival.
“But Bob’s topping the bill” he said in a sort of plaintive tone, “and there’s Ray Davis and Pete Docherty – whoever he is” he continued. “It’ll be a lovely day out” he persisted. “And I’ll owe you big time” he added, by way of an incentive.
I told him that I absolutely wasn’t going and that was final.
So last Saturday at midday, we found ourselves driving down to somewhere near Sevenoaks to said festival after the customary discussion as to whether to drive through town or take the very much longer route around the car park they call the M25. I opted for the M25, he wanted to drive through town but because I was very grumpy, I won and I was wrong. It happens occasionally. The journey, which took barely an hour and twenty on the way back, took over three hours on the way there, the last half an hour spent queuing from two miles away to get into Hop Farm.
It was a scorchingly hot day. Parking our car miles away, we trudged through fields and fields to reach the festival entrance. We needed to find a pitch so that we could eat our picnic. We got as near to the stage as we could – which was pretty far away but at least we could see the action on the two huge screens on either side. There was no shade, we had nothing to sit on but we soon bought a couple of brilliant collapsible chairs and sat eating our smoked salmon beigals in the sunshine, surrounded by thousands of lookie-likies, to the strains of the very unmemorable Pete Docherty who managed a few notes in-between foul-mouthed rants about something or other. We were, at this point, the oldest in a massive crowd that would have made my 21 year old feel like a bit of pensioner. It was incredibly hot and the wafts of weed-laden smoke all around us were already making me feel quite high. I didn’t want to drink too much as the first inevitable visit to a portaloo loomed large but after smoked salmon and in 30 degree heat with public announcements every half an hour or so to take care, slap on the sunscreen and drink plenty of water, I really had no choice. At one point, Big-J decided to investigate whether we could get nearer to the stage. “Wait here” he said, “I’ll be back in a moment”. Some half an hour later, he eventually found his way back to me – panicked, sweating and panting - a picture of relief. The crowd was so huge that even with his A grade Geography A’ Level, he had become disorientated. We tearfully reunited vowing not to lose sight of each other for the rest of the day, too scary.
The phenomenon that is Seasick Steve was next up. He played a short set on his homemade three-string geet-aar. What an entertainer and how amazing to be discovered just at the age when the rest of us get our Freedom Pass. He was great fun and I’m glad I saw him live. Now I know what my son’s been banging on about these last few years.
Nothing much else happened for a while other than we went in search of a portaloo where there wasn’t a 40-minute queue. We eventually found one in the car park field. Have you ever used a non-flushing portaloo after thousands of other people? No? Well I don’t recommend it but at least I’ve discovered just how long I can hold my breath for. Amazing what one can do in adversity. I’ll move swiftly on so as not to make you feel bilious.
We missed most of J Mumford and Sons, another band we’d never heard of but apparently very popular with the young people of today. Then came Ray Davis, he of the Kinks fame. His set was good, he really got the crowd going, yeah, he really got them now, he got them so they can’t sleep at night. He spoiled it a bit by starting 20 minutes late then refusing to cut his set short (whilst swearing horribly at someone off-stage) meaning that ‘His Bobness’ would inevitably be kept waiting along with the Bob-heads in the crowd. Big-J was outraged, “how rude” he said, “how very inconsiderate” and it quite put him off Ray which was a shame because, his old stuff at least, really was rather good.
By now the crowd had swelled to around 70 million and even in our mid-arena position, we were squashed like sardines with no hope for a shortie like me of breathing out let alone glimpsing the stage. I was ever so slightly scared that we’d get squashed in any sort of stage-rush or if a fire broke out or if we were invaded by aliens but as it was, other than being barged a few times, it was bearable. It was a beautiful, warm and starry night and the mood in the arena was chilled and friendly – and stoned.
And suddenly, there was Bob. Resplendent in a black suit with diamante seams, a bright magenta shirt and a trademark white cowboy hat. At least I think it was Bob. The camera crew had clearly been instructed that no close-ups were allowed so even on the big screen, it was difficult to make him out. He’s only a little fella after all. That was a shame, it would have been good to have seen his expression as we all drowned him out singing along to Like a Rolling Stone.
“Sing Maggie’s fucking farm Bob” screamed a bloke next to us, repeatedly and then again for good measure. Bob never did sing Maggie’s Farm that night. Good, it’s one of my least favourites. He did lots of old stuff and a few tracks from Modern Times. He growled and rasped his way through with that interesting upswing phrasing which he uses when he can’t hit the note anymore. I’ve since heard that a lot of the kids didn’t like it at all. Well, they couldn’t possibly ‘get it’ could they? How could they be expected to appreciate that they were privileged just to be in the presence of a living legend, the voice of their parents' generation? The man can still pull an impressive crowd which is why he keeps performing I suppose although I’m always in two minds about whether it’s really a good idea to keep on keepin’ on at his age n’ all. Big-J was a very happy man, for him it was all worth it. He’d had a lovely time and that, I figured, is what it was all about.
When Bob exited stage right, we raced back to our car, which we’d cleverly re-parked right next to the one exit provided for the 350,000 cars. But then we sat and we sat and we sat and we sat some more. Nothing moved and no one really knew what the problem was. At this point, I could describe the next two and a half hours in minute detail, outlining for you the complete Radio 4 nighttime schedule, but I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, it took a very, very long time to get out onto the open road but then barely an hour and twenty to get home by 2.30am. I was thrilled. I’d get a good five hours quality kip before having to prepare lunch the next day for six guests.
So was it worth it? For me? Honestly? No. I won’t go into how many of my fears came to fruition that day in the field but I’ll chalk it up to experience, an experience I fervently hope never to repeat. For him though, it couldn’t have been more worth it. He’s always worried that if he doesn’t take the opportunity to see Bob, he might just miss the last show ever. But even Big-J has admitted (quietly to me, in a weak moment) that he won’t be rushing along to the next outdoor festival.
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