How do you feel?
written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this postIt started out with lies.
No, it wasn't the writers' group meeting I had in the morning. No, it wasn't my friend Naomi who was supposed to be in Iowa last weekend but had a change of plans and was convinced to "just ride along to Fargo" with me.
It was the Rugby tourism brochure. We stopped at a rest area, and on my way out I took a few North Dakota tourism brochures. I just can't stand to walk by free literature without taking some. We spent the next 20 miles aghast at the language the brochure used to describe Rugby. When you find yourself talking about tasting, fine dining experiences and then listing the Dairy Queen, the Pizza Hut, and the Cenex station in the list of where to find that, it's time to find a new angle. Naomi and I were crying with laughter by the time she'd read the entire brochure.
Brochure, by the way, is a fun word to say.
In Grand Forks, we filled up the tank. A handy little gas war meant gas was at $2.21. We also went through a car wash which would have been a lot better if the back window of the Jeep (read: Chrysler product) hadn't popped open on the road unbeknownst to me. Dampness prevailed.
Before leaving town, Naomi purchased lunch for herself at Qdoba which seemed to be a ten-pound brick of rice, while I ran into Starbucks and got a hot chocolate and a copy of Dylan's Modern Times CD. At $49.50 a ticket for the Dylan concert, I wasn't pouring near enough money into his pocket. I figured I'd help out as much as I could.
Naomi, incidentally, had been convinced that she'd like to attend the concert. Finangling ensued. For someone like me who can fret for hours on how to best line up the cups holding pens on my desk, I can be prone to flying by the seat of my pants.
"Oh, just go to the concert. It'll be a blast."
"W-e-e-e-l-l..."
"Just go. If we can get tickets. Go."
"OK."
In Fargo, we arrived at my friend Molly's house. Once greetings were out of the way, we took our stuff downstairs to the room we'd be using. Molly had an air mattress for me, while Naomi had brought an air mattress that, conveniently, had a non-working pump.
"It doesn't blow up?"
"I thought maybe we could figure something out. Or buy a new pump."
"When exactly did you want to run out and buy a new pump?"
"W-e-e-e-l-l..."
The exhilarating highlight to this part of the story ends, much later, as you may well have guessed, with me sleeping on the air mattress sans air and Naomi on Molly's. I could certainly milk this for a great deal of sympathy but honestly? I didn't care. It doesn't bother me to sleep on the floor. I don't have back or neck problems and it doesn't affect me at all. (So Naomi, you can relax in that I'm not going to make you look bad.)
Since Naomi has a violent Caribou Coffee addiction, we had to stop there on the way to Newman Field. My two blog buddies, Jon and Kate, beat us to Newman. It was unfortunate that our method of communicating and locating one another was contingent upon my vintage cell phone, which is actually a fancy electronic paper weight. I realized that, since the phone's sound capabilities died about a month ago, I would never hear it ring if a call came in. Luckily, Naomi had a phone.
We made the necessary phone calls. Naomi was able to get a ticket. My two blog buddies were forced to throw away their candy (a travesty) but managed to sneak a camera in (a triumph). We got situated behind the first-base dugout and spent the time between 6:30 and 9:00 listening to opening acts.
The first opening act had an upright-bass player that I immediately developed a one-night crush on. He had fine hands and forearms. My goodness. I put Jon's binoculars to good use. My goodness. The next opening act (Jimmy Jr.?) looked like Al Gore, had a serious cowboy hat and ten-string guitar, a little guy on a drum (yes, a drum) and left me feeling like I'd bought a ticket to a honky-tonk. I didn't mind it so much at all.
The third opening act was Jimmie Vaughan, cranking out Austin blues. It was pretty good the first 15 minutes, though I have to admit agreeing with Kate when she commented that the blues were fine and there were a lot of blues songs, but the problem was there was actually just one blues song. Jon noted that blues guitar players don't seem to have a capo on their guitars. I know nothing about the blues, beyond my own perpetual depression. The capo connection, perhaps, fits in with the "all are one song" theory. I liked Vaughan well enough. But when I went away to use the restroom and then stop by the concession stand and whatever else for ten minutes, I came back to what sounded the same as when I left. It made me blue.
There was a very tall man down in the front of the stage who seemed very joyful the entire time of the opening act. He always had a full cup of beer in his hand. He stood a full head above everyone else. He danced and swayed to the music. And he also did this during the set changes when there was no music.
That man was sniper bait.
Minutes before Dylan came on stage, the dramatic backdrops in place and lighting cued up, Aaron Copeland's Rodeo blasted out in startling clarity. Dylan likes Copeland. What was funny was that, the very moment the part of Rodeo that had been used in those "Beef: It's what's for dinner" TV commercials of yore sounded out, I heard, behind me in the packed stands:
"Beef."
"Hey. Beef."
"It's what's for dinner. Ha ha."
"It's that Beef music."
It was as if a flock of beef birds had started chirping behind me. Advertising has turned America into a giant Pavlovian experiment. I confess to turning to Naomi, unable to control myself, and say "beef." I confess that to you.
Now picture the moment, the purpose of this post. The lights go down. The air is crisp, clear. Above me is Cassiopiea. Flocks of geese have been winging their way across the sky from dusk into dark. The field is packed with people. I'm sitting next to friends. The hair on my arms is standing up from both the cold and the expectation. There's an energy in the air.
And then the lights go up and there he is. Bob Dylan, white coat. Band, maroon coats. The crowd roars as Dylan heads directly into Cat's In The Well. He played a traditional, but excellent, setlist, (love the sound Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum, love Don't Think Twice, It's All Right); he also sang Lay, Lady, Lay. The Fargo setlist was slightly different from other setlists on this tour. The guitars and drums and violin were rich, and even though I admit to not making out all of Dylan's singing (yes, get your stupid jokes in now), is that really an issue? I knew the words. There is nothing like hearing him live, hearing the different arrangements, seeing him up on the stage, cold and dark night all around, watching the musicians support him, hearing him on the harmonica first and then watching him sway as he played the piano he stood in front of, the sound wafting out from the speakers, hearing the start of a favorite song and turning to a friend and just smiling a huge grin.
This was no scarecrow, no dead leaves. This was the writer singing his own words, his own message. No dancers or extravagant lighting to cover over an otherwise weak song. This was raw and real.
Then the set was over and the encore had to be earned. The crowd roared and stomped and clapped and screamed and I did it, too. I put good use to what I call my "horse" whistle, the one I used to use to bring the horses in from the far side of the pasture. We waited, and the minutes passed. We clapped louder. And waited. All around me, behind me, I could hear people talking and laughing and mimicking Dylan's most famous lyric, mimicking not to make fun, but because they knew what they wanted.
"HOW DO YOU FE-E-E-E-E-L?!!"
I felt great. And I felt even better when the stage came back to life and Dylan told us about a Rolling Stone, golden lights flashing across the crowd in front of the stage.
The encore ended.
"Thanks, my friends" I think he said. He introduced the band and then the lights went down and we left, a mass of people, my head buzzing. Now that was a concert. You can make fun of how Dylan sounds and looks - believe me, I heard enough of it when I was trying to find someone to go with me - but the man goes beyond just singing songs and tells you something you never knew you understood.
He ain't talkin'. Just walking. And, for a few hours, he let us walk a little with him. But don't take my word for it. Others were there. Others have seen Dylan on this tour.
tag: bob dylan
Copyright (c) Julie R. Neidlinger 9/12/2006 10:32:00 PM
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2 Comments:
If your night was a beautiful as the night before when I heard him for the brief time it took us to walk to our car in SD, it was worth it. You and Chrysler products. I am sorry, but right now I can not help but LAUGH!!
By 
Jacqui, at
13/9/06 14:35
Oh, Julie. Beef birds. Rugby tourism. Charlie and I LAUGHED. What a splendid blog of your experiences. Come visit us!
By 
, at
14/9/06 08:01
