I caught the final concert of the autumn tour last night at the Chicago Theatre. Elvis Costello opened (as did Amos Lee but I’m afraid I missed that part) and he was political, acoustic, and intense. I am a big Elvis fan from way back, mostly through my sister. When I hear him live or otherwise I always think of her and I am taken back to summers in North Hatley, covered in sand, munching popsicles, and listening to John Colapinto bang out “Watching the Detectives” and “Girls Talk.”
However Bob is a taste I have acquired in my old age, along with olives, JRR Tolkien, and men with beards. In my pathetically minute experience (compared with real Bob fans), last night’s concert was the best one I had ever attended. He started out strong and got better and better all night. But, as someone else remarked in a review of an earlier concert on this tour, no matter how carried away I was by the music and the experience, there was a moment when I paused and just thought, “Oh my God, that’s Bob Dylan up there. That’s really Bob Dylan and here I am, in the same room.”