Bob Dylan rocks and mumbles

by Christopher Sanchez

Daily Lobo

Sixty-four years old - still singing, still touring, and most of all, still breathing.

I went to see Bob Dylan perform at Tingley Coliseum on Tuesday, because it was probably going to be the last time any human being watched the man perform.

My friend Alex put it best.

"Surely it's his last concert," he said. "You can see the dust falling off him in interviews."

It's not that 64 is an old age. But, half a century of living in a drug-induced world of euphoria really does a number on someone.

That being said, we prepped ourselves for the epic concert by jamming out to my only Bob Dylan album - his greatest hits, of course.

Songs like "Blowin' in the Wind," "All Along the Watchtower" and "The Times Are A-Changing" blared through my cheap paper speakers in my Suzuki Swift.

Before we knew it, we were at Tingley, sitting in our seats and waiting for the king to arrive.

We sat through a whole hour watching some old-school honky-tonk singer named Merle Haggard. I was really enjoying the music, but this cowgirl in front of us kept shouting "I know what you mean, Merle. I love you so much, baby." Stalker cowgirls are the worst, I thought.

Finally, it was time. The lights turned off and the crowd went wild.

Marching in a line like bedraggled ants, you could see small, shriveled silhouettes making way toward the stage.

And there he was. A small, scruffy, grumpy-looking man standing behind a keyboard onstage.

The drums boomed and the guitars vroomed.

Wow, this is it, I thought.

Mr. Dylan opened his mouth, but he wasn't singing. He was talking, or maybe he was mumbling, or perhaps he was praying. I didn't know, but he wasn't singing.

This went on for an entire three minutes or so, and I realized it was the opening song.

Then the group performed another song. Except this, too, sounded like he was mumbling.

I listened closely and realized the song was "The Times Are A-Changing." It was a bit of a remix, but nonetheless, a Dylan classic, and I was grooving to it.

After that, I sat through about eight songs of disappointment. I didn't recognize any of them, and I don't think anyone else did either.

I almost fell asleep at some points, but a drunken cowboy kept talking to me while his obliterated cowgirl wife was hitting on my friend Rob.

"This guy sounds like he has marbles in his throat," Mr. Cowboy said, yelling in my ear and spilling his beer on my pants.

Actually, Mr. Cowboy, I thought, he sounds like he is gurgling gravel and singing to an old Western hymn.

What was I expecting to hear? He has probably sung all of these songs a million times.

Then I heard it.

"Like a Rolling Stone" rolled off his tongue rather slow and lazy, and that's when I felt it.

Now this - this is how the '60s were.

With a bang, he busted out with "All Along the Watchtower."

Amazing. He was dancing, and singing, and playing harmonica.

I left the coliseum feeling mighty that night. Though I couldn't hear what he was saying during half the show, it was the last songs that made the concert.

For being 64 years old, that man sure knows how to rock 'n' roll.

We left the parking lot in awe, and listened to Bob Dylan all the way home.