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Show Monday • September 8, 2008 ^ : £ ; & ? ^ .- T.J.'J --,.'-' ; t ^ •-%ifi ; ' . *.- J."'.'.-^. -.."--7- 'J..JL. - ^ : - ¥ . - He was here &i Jennie Nicholls Editor at large rowing up, I listened to my father play Bob Dylan on his guitar; it became my lullaby, the soundtrack of my time with my ultimate hero: dad. The opportunity to see the legend himself fell into my lap, and I felt obliged to take it. Sunday proved to be a beautiful afternoon and beautiful weather for an outdoor concert: overcast, just like I like it. Unfortunately, the clouds darkened as my group of Dylan enthusiasts reached Park City. Not planning for rain, we all had minimal clothing and brought light jackets — if we brought jackets at all. Sprinkles of rain pattered on the windows even before the gates at Deer Valley Resort opened. The rain gained as we took our place among the Bob fans in the queue. My meager jacket was soaked through by the time we reached the opening gates, as were the jackets of my friends. Once we were inside, the rain really began to come down. Each time the rain seemed to lighten up, the crowd cheered and Mother. Nature mocked1 our enthusiasm with another thunderous bang, and even harder falling drops consumed us-. Hail pounded my bare hands and my little ballerina fiats filled with the icy water. I was standing in these conditions just to wait for B.ob Dylan, only a small source of my childhood nostalgia, yet another hour? But so it was. Miraculously, it seemed, the rain lightened about ten minutes before show time. Considering that Deer Valley has a rain or shine policy on its outdoor concerts, the lightening of the rain was hopeful, at best, for some time. I was utterly soaked and the chill air of the Park City mountains haunted my spirit once the music began. Playing only a few songs I recognized, Dylan endured the weather for the rest of the crowd hungry for his gift. My friends' excitement when their favorite songs were played helped fuel my desire to stomach the cold. Trying not to be a party pooper, I danced, I swayed, but mostly I tried to forget about the freezing cold I was experiencing. Finally, the show was over. We threw in the towel once the rain, again, began to scour the night sky. I was soaked, freezing, and dissatisfied. The experience I was expecting was a nostalgic one, filled with Bob Dylan, the American icon, doing what he does best. Instead, it was a wet, miserable affair, best suited for the die-hard — among whom I am not, nor did I have the stamina to become one during the experience. { Park City, Utah Deer fyalley Resort: August 31,2008 Illusttalicm by Aoron Anderson/ UVU Review Bob Dylan performed in Park City Sat. Aug. 3 1 , 2008 at the Deer Valley Resort. 1. Rainy Day Womeriv 9. She Belongs To Me #12&35 /'•'• 10. Honest With Me 2. When I Paint My, .11. Simple Twist Of Masterpiece "^ Fate 3. Stuck Inside Of '*; 12. Highway 61 Mobile With The .) Revisited Memphis Blues Again" 13. Queen Jane 4. Not Dark Yet-,.' ", ' Approximately 5. Don't Think Twice, 14. Thunder On The It's All Right Mountain r 6. Million Miles . 7. Desolation Row (encore) 8. The Levee's Gonna • Break , 15. Like A Rolling Stone Dylan paints his masterpiece at Deer Valley Mathew A. Jonassaint Assistant Life editor ' 'm in Park City standing in a line that's nearly one-third of a mile barks like wood: "Well, they'll stone ya when from the entrance to Deer Valley Resort. I'm in a T-shirt and flip- you're tryin' a-be so good / They'll stone ya just like they said they would!" People raise flops, and I realize that this is pretty poor planning when the rain their beer cans and cheer. begins to pour. Before long my friends Jack, Jennie, Errin, Vegor Hearing Bob Dylan in concert is often a and I are all soaked. The thunder tears in the sky like a giant paper gamble; for a man with a smoking habit and bag shredding and rumbles the ground under our feet. There's no nearly seventy years along, it sure comes through in his voice. He will either sound obvious reason to be standing here. great or he will sound terrible in concert. It But I'm going to a Bob Dylan concert. When the tour dates were announced more than two months ago, I scrimped and saved until I had enough to buy an auctioned ticket (since the tickets were sold out in literally a matter of days) for $ 170.1 felt the dire effects this last week as I went without a couple of class textbooks and roughly a meal a day. Needless to say, I'm pretty hungry. The line begins to snail forward as our faces keep flashing with lightning from the east, and for a moment I wonder if it's really hidden paparazzi, scouring the crowd for Dylan. We climb up the hill as the rain and wind continue to pelt us. My right ear is filled with water as if I just got out of a bathtub. Jack holds Jennie tight inside his wet jacket. Her knuckles are bare white. I'm covered only in a blanket Jennie made, and my toes are nearly numb. We watch people in the crowd take shelter underneath tarps while some open Coors and Coronas. I stand next to Vegor, both our bare feet marked with grass blades, as .we watch the stage — waiting for half ah hour. The rain suddenly stops as if it never came. Men pour single file onto the stage and the lights go up. The last man on stage is dressed in black with gold trim along his jeans and wears a white Amish hat. He ascends the keyboard, and with a flourish, the stage erupts with a rock V roll arranged beginning riff to "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35." Bob Dylan howls into the microphone with a voice that just depends. Even to ears seasoned by the Dylan catalog, it can be difficult to distinguish the lyrics to "Not Dark Yet" from a Russian rendition of "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." I don't recognize "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right." the fifth song, until the band is halfway through. But part of this is due to a complete rearrangement of the music; this song that has helped me through heartbreak and tears is toe-tapping folk rock tonight as some punch the air when Bob sings with a raw voice of that anonymous lover who wasted his precious time. This song won't be heard the same way ever again. But I'm at a Bob Dylan concert. The sky is dark and the visceral taste of rain, dirt, and alcohol mingle in the air. The crowd cheers to "Desolation Row," and many are bouncing their hips to Dylan's harmonica solos. He plays the keyboard with fingers as wrinkled as ours as we stand in the cold wind, still wet. I wipe my runny nose as rain begins to fall again. I hear the band play an upbeat opening, and with a start I recognize one of my favorite 3ob Dylan songs, "Simple Twist of Fate." Dylan twists his left foot on his toe with the beat as he crouches down to the keyboard and sings. I sing along, but mostly to myself, since how Dylan will sing the next line is completely arbitrary. I can't get the smile off my face. Dylan ends with an encore, performing "Like A Rolling Stone," and it's time to go home. We make a perilous journey down the now muddy hill. My left sandal gets so stuck that the strap snaps off. The street is filled with water as we peel away from Deer Valley. We all feel a bit dazed. In two days I'll go back to working and going to classes, completely dry and probably bored,_as I fall back into an ail-too-familiar daily routine. But 1 went to a Bob Dylan concert. |