A line of people of who one can only assume were at best pensioners were waiting outside of the Bournemouth International Centre. The rain was coming down fast, combined with a bitter coastal wind and the faint sound of fireworks echoing the celebrations of Bonfire Night. And yet there was palpable excitement in the air. A crowd who unfortunately shared one passion that had undoubtedly caused their families to tease and ostracise them. They were all there to see one man. A man who lives in myth, a monument to music. A titan of the industry. Robert Zimmerman. Better known as Bob Dylan.
    Bob Dylan is a name which has echoed across the 20th Century. Coming from a Jewish family in Minnesota, he like many musicians springing up at the time tried to copy the styles of those before him, people he had idolised from childhood. Most notably he tried to emulate the stylings of Woodie Guthrie. But what made him so much more popular than those around him? What made him successful? Unlike the Beatles he’s not kind or charming. Anyone who’s seen footage of Dylan’s interviews will immediatley note the harsh and sardonic nature of the star. He is curt although dryly witty. It is a personality befitting of him and only him. Perhaps it is for this very reason that yesterday’s youths found him so attractive in the first place. Smart and realistic, he represented the demand for truth, honesty and freedom that sparked in post-war America. His style in performance is calm yet powerful as his persona fails to fall in line with others of the day. They’re not lively or attractive. During his career the beginnings of real rock music would spring up with lively and energetic performances that captivated the youth of the 60’s and 70’s. But Dylan remains irreproachable. He plays soulfully and certainly passionately but lacks any sort of wild antics or wow factor. Again, one can only assume that this is part of his attraction, it is what draws people in. A certain rawness to the performance eschewed by many of Dylan’s peers.
    I sat in the theatre waiting for him to appear. Slowly, the crowd of pensioners dribbled in, each seemingly unified with another over what they were about to witness. And yet I could not help but imagine that I was there to watch a lecture series. It was an inert atmousphere that made me afraid for what I was about to hear. He was late. It is a sad fact that is widely shared amongst anyone who frequents concerts that the main act is always late. However, this concert was different. There was no starting act and no finishing act either. There was no standing area. And there were no phones allowed. There was only silence. Then the house lights went dark and the silhouettes of a few men were cut across the stage. Despite his age, it was undeniably him, hunched, hidden behind his piano. But all the same it was undoubtedly him.
    Most cite his lyrics as being his most favourable attribute. It can hardly be the tune themselves, comprising of simple chords that usually repeat in his typical folksy way. But his lyrics have remained strong and powerful throughout the 20th and 21st Century. His most famous work told stories of the marginalised, those without a voice in the world. He was applauded for his political views and his work, bringing awareness to many stories of injustice. However, this praise and acclaim seemed news to him as he wasn’t budding for a spot as a political musician. But his work continued to be just as punchy as ever, it was topical and slotted in perfectly with the human rights movement of the 60’s and 70’s. Some might say that his work remained unique and unparalleled because no one else was able to grasp the same kind of grip on the lyrics as he ever could. But during the performance his songs were long and samey. They were not the poignant cries for help which I had fallen in love with. They were instead tedious and unimaginative. Over the years his songs turned from stories of other people’s injustices and problems, to his own. His work became solely about himself, an isolated hero of man. It was difficult to listen to. It was difficult to understand why he would change like this. He deigned the audience with one well known song from his past, distorted so much, that it was hardly recognisable at all. No one stood, no one sung along. Everyone listened. Everyone was quiet. Everyone was captivated. I felt that this was how it was supposed to be. But I was terribly out of place there.
    Perhaps the problem was me. I wasn’t exactly an outsider. But I was unable to understand why he would change so much. This is not the first time he changed styles dramatically, switching to the hot and popular electric guitar during the 80’s. Back then it was a change not entirely welcomed; however, it was one that everyone came to accept, if only because he showed no sign of turning back. And the 80’s began you could begin to see the changes in the man. He was growing tired of his old repertoire. To everyone he was a hero. To himself he was dammed, unable to grow or change or move away from who he used to be. Perhaps it was brave for him to branch out or perhaps it was stupid. It certainly upset a lot of people but from looking around the theatre that night you wouldn’t have known it. He spoke not a word the whole night. Each song flowed on from each other, seamlessly and tiringly. He remained poised at his piano, fixed to it. Abandoning the guitar of which the world was so used to seeing him fixed to. But at the end of the night, he took to his harmonica. 
This simple act perked me up greatly. I have never found the harmonica a particularly flattering noise. It is, in my mind, akin to the bagpipes. However, it was nothing short of thrilling. I could’ve been back in time looking at something young and beautiful and full of life. In the end he spoke, short words, thanking his band and wishing the audience well. It ended slowly and sadly. But that was after all the kind of affect that he had on people. My father and I walked back through the dark of Bournemouth. Each of us thinking vastly different thoughts.