I saw Bob Dylan from the third row the other night. It actually didn’t suck. In fact, it was a pretty good experience, overall.
As you may know, The American School Foundation is the one of the most expensive private schools in Mexico City. More than double many others. As such, our classrooms and hallways are filled with the who’s who of the rich and famous of Mexico City. The Katie Couric of Mexico, Adele Micha, her son was in my class last semester. I’ve been told that the two young children of the Mexican Michael Bolton, Luis Miguel, attend our elementary school. The Corona family sends their kids there; the Mexican negotiator of NAFTA, his son went there. These are just the few examples I can think of off the top of my head. The front of our school is crowded all day long with chauffeurs, nannies and body guards. For vacations, my students ski in Vail and hunt big game in Africa.
As such, many ASF students have access to advance issue concert tickets. Primo stuff. One such student is a recent graduate named Rennie who remains a friend of Tom, an English teacher whom with I work. Through that channel I was given the opportunity to see Bob Dylan, in the third row of the National Auditorium.
The back story: I am not a Dylan fan. In fact, it is probably more accurate to say I am hostile to him. As with Eric “God” Clapton, I find it extremely annoying that these two guys who are generally pretty good as musical artists go, in my opinion, receive such cult like adulation. And with Dylan, despite a few good tunes and some admittedly hip lyrics, he has made a lot of poorly produced albums rife with annoying unintelligible singing. I’ve tried to figure out what all the hype is about, but I just don’t get it. I’ve seen Dylan twice already. It wasn’t on purpose. I saw him once with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and another time with the Grateful Dead. Both shows were similar, interspersing Dylan’s sets between the other bands’, using the other band as a surrogate back-up group. Both times I found the Dylan sets droll interruptions to otherwise enjoyable concerts. Regardless, this ticket represented generous offer from my good friend Will, and a chance to see a internationally famous musician in a Mexico City venue I had yet to visit. So, I went. Did I mention the seats were in the third row?
After starting the evening with few drinks and a bite to eat at a local Cantina (literally a brightly lit bar/restaurant where food is usually free with a minimum of drinks) at which we watched a gaggle of middle aged women line dance away their Tuesday evening at an apparent birthday party, we took the bus (2 pesos or, less than 20 friggin’ cents) to the auditorium a few miles down the road. It’s a pretty impressive place, holding about 10,000 people. There are bigger venues in town, but not as nice and with lesser sound quality. After a quick stop at the Auditorium bar for a hit of Jack Daniels, we headed into the show and took our seats. (Third row!) Dylan and the band appeared, dressed in suits that looked like the outfits worn by the members of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy in the in the movie Swingers, complete with hats. Dylan wore a particularly large rimmed cream colored number. The stage was lit in a sterile white light that changed only in intensity throughout. Dylan started off with a raucous version of Everybody Must Get Stoned that got the crowd, me included, into the show immediately. After a few more songs he shifted to the organ, where he stayed the remainder of the evening, save the encore.
One major difference between my previous experiences with Mr. Zimmerman and this night was the band. These guys were clean and tight, adding a level of sophistication to Dylan missing from much of his music with which I am familiar. The drummer, bassist and lead guitarist were first class. I spent much of my time focusing on them. If I had seen them in a bar I would be raving about them as this really cool jazzy, rockabilly band I’d stumbled upon. Strangely, they played not a bit to the crowd, simply standing (practically) still the entire time, transfixed on Dylan himself. In turn he acknowledged them not at all, singing in his own world with a closed eye look of grimaced constipation. That Dylan is not aging gracefully and of Jewish origin is no secret, but let me say that from 25 feet away, he truly looks like a crotchety Hassidic elder disguised as Bob Dylan. One weird thing I noticed, he looked like he was pulling his hair up the back of his head under his hat, sort of a reverse back to front comb over. Why one can only guess; it is not a good look.
The show was like a concert in Spanish for me. Not because it was in Mexico, but because I spent the evening listening to songs that were lyrically only 25% comprehensible to me. He wasn’t doing the straining moose call he does when trying to rock out too hard. A style he was never very good at, even before he turned sixty three. Instead he sang well within himself and the steady mid-tempo music, keeping the nasally moaning within a reasonable level and allowed the songs to breath and flow. Musically, it sounded very good. Admittedly, I didn’t know most of the songs, and I imagined them to be from recent albums I haven’t heard. But I found myself thinking more than once, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind listening to this at home.” The songs I have heard before, I recognized only faintly, because they had been so radically rearranged to fit this new smooth and fresh style. In fact, they were half-way through the closer, Blowin’ in the Wind, before I even realized what it was!
Other highlights from the show include seeing the famous Lucha Libra fighter, el Hijo del Santo. He sat in the front row, silver glitter mask and all, next to his hot wife. (Or was it his mistress?—after all, he was wearing a mask!) I could see Mr. Santo very clearly, as I was sitting only two seats over and two rows back; me being in the third row and all. All around me sat lots of rich old men and women, several of them nodding off at times. There were also fewer numbers of rich young kids, making use of their primo tickets and wondering, perhaps, what all the fuss was about. Directly behind me sat a young, rich and intoxicated man (who likely did not need to be at a job the next morning—if ever) who shouted out slurred cries for the song, The Hurricane, as well as other random calls such as, “Mr. Dylan, I love your sombrero!” (I too wanted to hear The Hurricane, my favorite Dylan song, and was teased several times at the sight of a violin on stage, only to leave unsatisfied at nights end.) My friend Tom, sitting a few seats away from me, found this spoiled brat more annoying than funny since he was seated directly in front of his verbal ejaculations. One final tid-bit, sitting on the end of his organ amp sat an Oscar statue, presumably the real deal from his Oscar winning song, Things Have Changed, from the movie Wonder Boys.
About an hour into the show, I went to the bathroom for a second time. While I was out there I saw my friend Steve, another co-worker who had traveled to the show with us, and his wife Sally. They were both big Dylan fans who were regrettably watching the show from the nosebleeds. Knowing the show would soon be over, I offered Sally my ticket. She was ecstatic of course, since it was a ticket for the third row. After a few minutes it dawned on me that I had not been asked to show my ticket the first time I returned to my seat. (It is Mexico, after all.) I told Steve to follow me and we managed to walk clear down to the fourteenth row or so before finding two empty seats. It was during this time that Dylan spoke the only words of the evening, simply identifying the band members. A few minutes later, Will came back and let Steve take his seat next to Sally for the last number, something they both appreciated. After they finished the song, the band lined up like they were taking a press photo and then walked off the stage. Finito. No encore. Nada mas.
Afterwards, we headed to a local Cuban bar near my house, Bodeguita del Medio, for a nightcap and reminisced with Tom, Will and Rennie, about the concert. I got home around midnight to Ale who asked, as I crawled into bed, “How was the show?” To which I replied, “It was actually pretty cool, the music was surprisingly good, and after all, I got to see Bob Dylan from the third row!”
As you may know, The American School Foundation is the one of the most expensive private schools in Mexico City. More than double many others. As such, our classrooms and hallways are filled with the who’s who of the rich and famous of Mexico City. The Katie Couric of Mexico, Adele Micha, her son was in my class last semester. I’ve been told that the two young children of the Mexican Michael Bolton, Luis Miguel, attend our elementary school. The Corona family sends their kids there; the Mexican negotiator of NAFTA, his son went there. These are just the few examples I can think of off the top of my head. The front of our school is crowded all day long with chauffeurs, nannies and body guards. For vacations, my students ski in Vail and hunt big game in Africa.
As such, many ASF students have access to advance issue concert tickets. Primo stuff. One such student is a recent graduate named Rennie who remains a friend of Tom, an English teacher whom with I work. Through that channel I was given the opportunity to see Bob Dylan, in the third row of the National Auditorium.
The back story: I am not a Dylan fan. In fact, it is probably more accurate to say I am hostile to him. As with Eric “God” Clapton, I find it extremely annoying that these two guys who are generally pretty good as musical artists go, in my opinion, receive such cult like adulation. And with Dylan, despite a few good tunes and some admittedly hip lyrics, he has made a lot of poorly produced albums rife with annoying unintelligible singing. I’ve tried to figure out what all the hype is about, but I just don’t get it. I’ve seen Dylan twice already. It wasn’t on purpose. I saw him once with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and another time with the Grateful Dead. Both shows were similar, interspersing Dylan’s sets between the other bands’, using the other band as a surrogate back-up group. Both times I found the Dylan sets droll interruptions to otherwise enjoyable concerts. Regardless, this ticket represented generous offer from my good friend Will, and a chance to see a internationally famous musician in a Mexico City venue I had yet to visit. So, I went. Did I mention the seats were in the third row?
After starting the evening with few drinks and a bite to eat at a local Cantina (literally a brightly lit bar/restaurant where food is usually free with a minimum of drinks) at which we watched a gaggle of middle aged women line dance away their Tuesday evening at an apparent birthday party, we took the bus (2 pesos or, less than 20 friggin’ cents) to the auditorium a few miles down the road. It’s a pretty impressive place, holding about 10,000 people. There are bigger venues in town, but not as nice and with lesser sound quality. After a quick stop at the Auditorium bar for a hit of Jack Daniels, we headed into the show and took our seats. (Third row!) Dylan and the band appeared, dressed in suits that looked like the outfits worn by the members of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy in the in the movie Swingers, complete with hats. Dylan wore a particularly large rimmed cream colored number. The stage was lit in a sterile white light that changed only in intensity throughout. Dylan started off with a raucous version of Everybody Must Get Stoned that got the crowd, me included, into the show immediately. After a few more songs he shifted to the organ, where he stayed the remainder of the evening, save the encore.
One major difference between my previous experiences with Mr. Zimmerman and this night was the band. These guys were clean and tight, adding a level of sophistication to Dylan missing from much of his music with which I am familiar. The drummer, bassist and lead guitarist were first class. I spent much of my time focusing on them. If I had seen them in a bar I would be raving about them as this really cool jazzy, rockabilly band I’d stumbled upon. Strangely, they played not a bit to the crowd, simply standing (practically) still the entire time, transfixed on Dylan himself. In turn he acknowledged them not at all, singing in his own world with a closed eye look of grimaced constipation. That Dylan is not aging gracefully and of Jewish origin is no secret, but let me say that from 25 feet away, he truly looks like a crotchety Hassidic elder disguised as Bob Dylan. One weird thing I noticed, he looked like he was pulling his hair up the back of his head under his hat, sort of a reverse back to front comb over. Why one can only guess; it is not a good look.
The show was like a concert in Spanish for me. Not because it was in Mexico, but because I spent the evening listening to songs that were lyrically only 25% comprehensible to me. He wasn’t doing the straining moose call he does when trying to rock out too hard. A style he was never very good at, even before he turned sixty three. Instead he sang well within himself and the steady mid-tempo music, keeping the nasally moaning within a reasonable level and allowed the songs to breath and flow. Musically, it sounded very good. Admittedly, I didn’t know most of the songs, and I imagined them to be from recent albums I haven’t heard. But I found myself thinking more than once, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind listening to this at home.” The songs I have heard before, I recognized only faintly, because they had been so radically rearranged to fit this new smooth and fresh style. In fact, they were half-way through the closer, Blowin’ in the Wind, before I even realized what it was!
Other highlights from the show include seeing the famous Lucha Libra fighter, el Hijo del Santo. He sat in the front row, silver glitter mask and all, next to his hot wife. (Or was it his mistress?—after all, he was wearing a mask!) I could see Mr. Santo very clearly, as I was sitting only two seats over and two rows back; me being in the third row and all. All around me sat lots of rich old men and women, several of them nodding off at times. There were also fewer numbers of rich young kids, making use of their primo tickets and wondering, perhaps, what all the fuss was about. Directly behind me sat a young, rich and intoxicated man (who likely did not need to be at a job the next morning—if ever) who shouted out slurred cries for the song, The Hurricane, as well as other random calls such as, “Mr. Dylan, I love your sombrero!” (I too wanted to hear The Hurricane, my favorite Dylan song, and was teased several times at the sight of a violin on stage, only to leave unsatisfied at nights end.) My friend Tom, sitting a few seats away from me, found this spoiled brat more annoying than funny since he was seated directly in front of his verbal ejaculations. One final tid-bit, sitting on the end of his organ amp sat an Oscar statue, presumably the real deal from his Oscar winning song, Things Have Changed, from the movie Wonder Boys.
About an hour into the show, I went to the bathroom for a second time. While I was out there I saw my friend Steve, another co-worker who had traveled to the show with us, and his wife Sally. They were both big Dylan fans who were regrettably watching the show from the nosebleeds. Knowing the show would soon be over, I offered Sally my ticket. She was ecstatic of course, since it was a ticket for the third row. After a few minutes it dawned on me that I had not been asked to show my ticket the first time I returned to my seat. (It is Mexico, after all.) I told Steve to follow me and we managed to walk clear down to the fourteenth row or so before finding two empty seats. It was during this time that Dylan spoke the only words of the evening, simply identifying the band members. A few minutes later, Will came back and let Steve take his seat next to Sally for the last number, something they both appreciated. After they finished the song, the band lined up like they were taking a press photo and then walked off the stage. Finito. No encore. Nada mas.
Afterwards, we headed to a local Cuban bar near my house, Bodeguita del Medio, for a nightcap and reminisced with Tom, Will and Rennie, about the concert. I got home around midnight to Ale who asked, as I crawled into bed, “How was the show?” To which I replied, “It was actually pretty cool, the music was surprisingly good, and after all, I got to see Bob Dylan from the third row!”
2 comments:
Sounds like a blast. Then again, I think that after Dylan is dead and gone (and even now), Dylan's genius is his lyrics and songwriting.
Some folks aren't gifted with the full package of talent, but at least people were able to see beyond that enough when he was getting his start for his lyrical talent to show through.
For those who read the blog and not the text of these messages in their email, here is Santo's wikipedia page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Hijo_del_Santo
Here is a picture of Adele Micha
http://usuarios.lycos.es/famosashipnotizadas/rumores6.jpg
Much hotter than Katie Couric. I'd do her if I had the chance. Of course, I'm swearing off latinas for a while (although I think Mexicanas are more sympatico than Boriquas).
- Andreas
Mickey Nutz at a Dylan show... yet the Earth continued rotating about its axis.
It must only get stranger from here.
Post a Comment