Last weekend, my daughter and I travelled from two opposite corners of our beautiful island to converge in Liverpool to see Bob Dylan in concert.
We had been looking forward to this day for months, seeing it as probably the biggest musical event of the year, bar my daughter’s own summer gig at the Bread&Roses, Clapham, naturally.
We both had a brilliant weekend in Liverpool. Royal Albert Dock had everything we could wish for, the evening light show, the Sunday Market, the waffles and ice-cream at the Pumphouse, what’s not to like.
The Beatles open top bus tour was excellent. James, our guide spoke and sang throughout, we took selfies at Penny Lane, saw the barber’s shop and the bank on the corner from the song, we were treated to endless anecdotes about how the four local lads became the Fab Four. The veracity of the stories might be difficult to verify, but they were fun to listen to nevertheless.
Later on, the sirloin at Miller&Carter was dreamy.
Oh, yes, Bob.
The event was advertised as phone free.
I looked up how this was going to be enforced, and found some unlikely reddit responses how every single phone was going to be put into a pouch, locked magnetically for the duration, and then released on exit. Yeah right. There was no way they were going to give out 10,000 pouches. They did. They really did.
No photos, no recording inside the M&S Bank Arena. No selfies of the two of us wriggling in eager anticipation in our seats.
Oh well, it will be worth it, we thought. It wasn’t.
There was no opening act and Bob came on bang on time at 7.30. He stayed behind his piano for 98 out the 100 minutes of the concert. He got up twice only to return quickly to the piano, grabbing onto its side as if to relieve a momentary sciatica flare-up. I am being unkind.
He looked and sounded same as ever, old and raspy.
A number of fans wore brown leather jackets. Bob opted for a glittery blazer.
The set consisted entirely of obscure, unknown, un-catchy songs from his 2020 album. For the first half hour everybody was on his side. He was Bob Dylan after all. Surely, he would include a few of his greatest hits somewhere there. He didn’t. Not one.
After 100 minutes on the dot, he did his final harmonica piece and lights went up. No encore. No ‘Hello Liverpool, how are you doing’, no hello at all.
His detachment from the reality of his own legend and from what his fans wanted to hear was so complete, he could have been a politician. Of course, at 83, he still has plenty of time to run for president of the country he hails from.
My daughter and I left the venue as underwhelmed as everybody else in the near capacity crowd.
As we stepped outside, our mobile phones were released from lockdown with one swift click of a magnet. Perfect timing as it happened, because moments later we experienced the first thing worth recording.
Outside the arena, Frankie, bless him, was doing exactly what we had all been waiting for all night. He sang Bob’s greatest hits, the guitar and harmonica at the ready.
Tambourine man, Blowin’ in the wind, the times they are a-changin, the lot. The crowd around Frankie thickened by the minute, smiling, swaying, singing along. I overheard one lady of suitably advanced years, say ‘this is so much better than the shite in there!’
We stayed as long as we needed to get the Bob Dylan fix we came to Liverpool for. Thank you Frankie!
Ania Heasley 