This wheel’s on fire
It could’ve sold out several times over. Bournemouth’s 2,000-seater International Centre was heaving like the Dorset Tea Dance Championships.
Expectantly we waited, my son Josh and I, surrounded by blokes who looked like retired police officers and women who were probably deputy heads of local schools. Mark Knopfler and Bob Dylan were about to command the stage at this humble south coast venue. It was ‘humble’ for these rock giants, who are more used to playing the arena circuit.
IRISH TOUCH
First on was the Geordie guitar god. Newcastle’s finest opened in typical style with Why Aye Man: ’Economic refugees/On the run to Germany/We had the back of Maggie’s hand/Times were tough in Geordieland’. Knopfler chatted with the audience, telling us about the days when he slept rough in the toilets on Bournemouth seafront. He advised us against it.
There was a chance to hear some new material. He’d clearly been reading up on his history, with references to soldiers, sailors and privateers. World class flute player Mike McGoldrick added an Irish touch with his Uilleann pipes. This part of the evening offered a rich Celtic flavour. Quite magical.
To dissuade the die-hard fans from throwing their ration books and Stanley Gibbons stamp albums at him, Knopfler kept us all happy with the Dire Straits classics Brothers In Arms and So Far Away.
The crowd loved it. But he’d run over time. Roadies raced around like flatulent locusts, preparing the stage for Dylan and his band. Finally, the master of Minnesota emerged from the darkness, and with his musicians delivered a high-octane version of Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat, followed by a ferocious This Wheel’s On Fire: ‘If your mem’ry serves you well/I was goin’ to confiscate your lace/And wrap it up in a sailor’s knot/And hide it in your case’.
BUS PASS
Dylan had restyled himself as a lounge bar bluesman, dressed in posh suit and hat – yet snarling and growling his way through Thunder On The Mountain, Desolation Row and Ballad Of A Thin Man. He fumbled a little between songs, retreating to the side of the stage where he kept either the set list or a bottle of scotch – or both. Who could blame him?
Despite having recently celebrated his 70th birthday, he still stood throughout the set and his voice was in fine fettle. That thin, rasping tone had gone, and the vocal delivery was gritty, fat and loud. He did a beautiful version of Make You Feel My Love, which was covered recently by Adele.
Knopfler came on for just one song. Incredible. Dylan could’ve given us the strongest tracks off Slow Train Coming, which the Geordie boy had adorned with his atmospheric playing. Why they didn’t do any of that material is just beyond me. Flummoxed.
For part of the proceedings, an over-zealous fan sang every word of Dylan’s classic songs like Tangled Up In Blue, right into my left ear. This provided an unusual backing vocal. Eventually the guy got fed up with his own discordant performance and stopped.
‘Thank you, my friends,’ was the only thing Dylan said to us the entire evening. We knew then he was about to close the show. Like A Rolling Stone was the final curtain. There was no encore. But my watch said ten minutes to 11. So he hadn’t done too badly for a man who could’ve had his bus pass for a good few years already.
BIG FIGHT
Josh and I walked into the night, with a few items of merch. A drunken bloke asked us where the nearest pub was – even though we were in a seaside town crammed with hotel bars. A big fight broke out by the seafront. We retreated to our hotel, to let the memories settle with a glass of Guinness.
In the lobby, a couple of much older ladies sat next to my son and chatted him up. He gets all the breaks. (Photos: Clive Price)
