Bob Dylan

Just before half past nine, a distinguished middle-aged man dressed like a politician climbs onto the small stage in Paestum: "Ladies and gentlemen, a Legend in the Land of the Gods. A truly Spectacular Antiquity." Poor old Bob Dylan, compared to a bygone Greek temple.

Many people actually wonder why Dylan chose to embark on this kind of tour, with such frequent shows often held in small theaters. But anyone who knows him well, and above all anyone who has truly grasped the message of his music over the past forty years, knows he wants nothing else. Carole Childs once said: "He'll keep going as long as he can. He does his job. It's his work. It's his art. His troubadour soul. That's what troubadours and vaudeville performers did. And variety artists too. That is, entertain the audience."

At 65 years of age, perhaps, Bob Dylan is starting to struggle, hunched over his organ because he can no longer manage to hold a guitar.

A booming voice announces: "Please turn off your cell phones, and above all your cameras, or the concert will not begin."

The "Legend in the Land of the Gods" appears in silence, positioning himself in profile to the audience, so much so that at times you can barely see him. Perhaps he can no longer bear the blinding flash of a camera.

Some in the audience mutter: "What a boor! He didn't even say hello." In truth, many of them are here just to see a "Spectacular Antiquity," without even knowing that Bob Dylan doesn't speak, except through his immortal songs.

Who is this man today, in a pale blue suit and cowboy hat, standing silent and withdrawn in front of a splendid temple framed by maritime pines and cypresses tinged a warm violet? Who is Bob Dylan today? The wayward disciple of Woody Guthrie, or the protest singer-songwriter? The father and family man, or the "born-again Christian"?

All of these things at once, and probably none of them. Today, Bob Dylan is the one and only tour guide to the museum of himself. And, mind you, the best possible tour guide there is.

His unmistakable nasal voice is the only audio guide you need to relive, in two hours of concert, a piece of the history of American popular music.

Today, just as thirty years ago, Dylan has taken the wheel of a "Rolling Thunder Revue revisited," a cheerful band of top-notch musicians all dressed alike, looking as if they'd stepped out of an Altman film. The "Bob Dylan" circus caravan is back in town.

There's barely time for a round of applause before things get underway. The sound inside the arena isn't the best, and the rhythm section suffers most for it, but the "electric" version of "Maggie's Farm" bites, overwhelming. Dylan croaks a little, but it's just a matter of warming up, since his voice will improve song after song as the show goes on.

Right away, though, many in the audience notice something: the songs aren't exactly as they remember them. One shivering woman needs to hear the chorus before realizing that Bob is playing a particularly jittery version of "The Times They Are A-Changin'."

The parallel with the distant 1978 is obvious, when Bob surprised everyone (once again) by radically overhauling his classics at the Budokan in Tokyo.

Dylan charges ahead, and the first feet start moving to the wild western-rockabilly of "Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum." But tonight's show is steeped in the 60s, and the bard from Minnesota decides to dust off some of his legendary melodic treasures. "Mr. Tambourine Man" bends into a version bordering on hard rock, while "It's All Right Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" and "Just Like a Woman" flow by amid tears and stadium-style singalongs.

After the schizoid blues of "Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again," it's time for one of Dylan's absolute masterpieces, "Desolation Row," which unfortunately loses much of its acoustic, visionary charm in a less-than-convincing electric arrangement.

Bob's vocal performance, however, ultimately proves to be one of the best of the last five years.

Dylan chases himself between the rock-blues surges of "Highway 61 Revisited" and "Watching the River Flow" and the melancholy elegies of "Every Grain of Sand" and "Girl from the North Country." The disorienting versions, however, don't fully convince, so much so that it takes the Sun Records rockabilly of "Summer Days" to get everyone dancing in front of the stage.

The concert seems to be over, and some lights come on. One spectator nearly bursts into tears: "But isn't he going to play 'Like a Rolling Stone'?"

It's only a matter of moments, because the "Bob Dylan show" comes back on stage for an encore that alone is enough to lift everyone's spirits. The old mercurial sound seems to come back to life in the opening of the "most famous song in history," while "All Along the Watchtower" rings out as powerfully as Jimi Hendrix's version.

Last chord, last farewell left unsaid. Bob Dylan has vanished behind Doric and Corinthian columns. Who knows what the two spectacular antiquities said to each other.

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