Bob Dylan at Royal Albert Hall

★★★★

Folks know that when you go to a Bob Dylan show these days, it’s not for the hits. If you want Mr Tambourine Man or Like a Rolling Stone, you can hang out in nearby South Kensington’s subway or outside the venue, where buskers strum the big numbers. Fans are wise to expect songs reworked to such a degree that they are unrecognisable from their original incarnations; but as for which version you might get is the surprise. And there are no encores.

He may do things his own way, but Dylan last night flexed his usual punctuality to allow the crowd, many of whom were stuck outside queuing due to a ticket-printing issue, to take their seats.

Sitting faced away from the audience for the opener, playing guitar and forming a close circle comprising his four musicians, instantly set the tone for intimate bar-room blues. What a thrill for the crowd when the soft lighting revealed the world’s greatest songwriter himself, resplendent in sparkling black jacket and shirt, as he turned to perform the rest of All Along the Watchtower at the baby grand piano and gave his all.

Bob Dylan performing aged 69 at the Bluesfest music festival near Byron Bay in 2011 (Photo: Torsten Blackwood/AFP via Getty Images)

That song provided the evening’s first reinvention, and, later, on My Own Version of You, I could have sworn he changed the lyrics to “I want to create my own version of the blues”. Delivered in a speak-sing rasp, the poet and philosopher’s incomparable lyrics drew especial appreciation when they could be deciphered; his reference to Anne Frank, alongside Indiana Jones, on I Contain Multitudes a case in point.

Now 83, Dylan – born Robert Allen Zimmerman – first played the Royal Albert Hall in 1965, and this first of three nights is the culmination of a three-year world tour in support of his most recent, 2020 album Rough and Rowdy Ways. Much of tonight’s 17-song set is from that excellent LP (only its 17-minute Murder Most Foul was excluded), as well as tracks spanning his career.

He found his stride a couple of songs in. On the menacing blues number False Prophet he leant over the piano, growling “put them six feet under and I pray for their souls” with gusto into the mic, before hammering the keys in a cacophonous instrumental. At other times, he strode out from behind the piano to deliver vocals, then stood holding on. The first blast of harmonica, on a rhythmic When I Paint My Masterpiece, drew an ecstatic response from the crowd.

A sped-up 1965 masterpiece Desolation Row showed his vocals at their sharpest. It ended with a piano section, when he pounded ripples of dissonance with such passion and enthusiasm that his band had to race to catch up. So often was Dylan immersed in in-the-moment creativity, that his band – renowned session musicians including drummer Jim Keltner and guitarist Bob Britt – gathered round him keenly seeking guidance on when to close a song. Every one of his shows is a one-off, and it felt a privilege to be there.

There was much emotion, too. Cheers for the opening line of It's All Over Now, Baby Blue quickly evaporated to a reverent silence for Dylan’s tender vocals, keys and harmonica against light guitar accompaniment. That it was obligatory for mobile phones to be sealed in pouches helped to keep the audience rapt in the moment. 

Featuring lyrics such as “then onward in my journey I come to understand/ That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand”, Every Grain of Sand, from Dylan’s Christian era, was a particularly poignant finale. On the one hand, many will have wondered if this would be their last time seeing this legend perform. What Dylan has planned next is anyone’s guess, but it’s clear that the finale’s imagery of “decay” and “dying” could not be further from this artist’s ever-shifting music – the embodiment of living breathing art.