“You think I’m over the hill.
You think I’m past my prime
Let’s see what you got.
We can have a whoppin’ good time.”

He was over the hill - close to the bottom of the far side - but I still couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Bob Dylan stared me down, standing squarely behind his keyboard ready to pull a pistol from a holster that would have matched his costume.

I went to the Fox last night expecting something else. In the last year I’ve played No Direction Home over and over and sat through it as many times on PBS. I went to the Fox last night looking for the Bob Dylan who turns to the band and yells, “Play it fucking loud!” before blasting into the epic Royal Albert Hall version of “Like a Rolling Stone.”

That Dylan is dead - down with the count after a motorcycle crash - forgotten about through the seventies and eighties. Last night Bob Dylan was a cowboy on the prowl. He stood ready for a gunfight behind his keyboard. Except, I don’t think he could have won. Without the keyboard I’m not sure he would have been able to stand all night. Maybe that prowl was more of a lean. Dylan was old. He was a character I hadn’t seen yet. I knew all along that the1966 Dylan was gone for good, but I did expect the Dylan from the interviews of No Direction Home. That was still too optimistic. Dylan was so old - his eyes drooped, face sagged like a long-loved leather couch, hair fuzzy like an old dog. His lyrics were jarble for the first 3 songs.

He does this every time, though. Bob Dylan is fiction. He is not real. He may be the best actor stage has ever supported. Think about it. When was the last time Dylan backed up anything on stage with action in real life? Everything from his narrating voice to his stage presence is an act, and rightly so. How else could he be so successful through all the years and please so many people? Dylan has always capitalized on pleasing his audience. Before folk dyed, he turned to rock and intrigued all those who hated this change by leading them on with a new character. He disappeared in the late sixties and then emerged to appearances with former Beatles, The Band, and The Grateful Dead. And he’s been back strong since 1996 as a dying, gun-toting, born-again cowboy who scowls out every line like it is more ironic than the last.

Dylan keeps us all gaping and grasping for more by refusing to give us what we want (the old Dylan) and leading us on with a new Dylan. By the time we’re ready for the new Dylan, he’s on to the next character.

Next time you see him, take a look on top of his Leslie organ speaker and notice a small bronze statue. If you look closer, you’ll notice who it is. It’s Oscar - the only testament to anything real about Bob Dylan.