Bob Dylan & Mark Knopfler

There's no denying it: when the announcement broke that Bob Dylan and Mark Knopfler would be touring together, it was inevitable to picture, if only for a moment, that historic Eighties pairing reunited on stage, ready to breathe new life into milestones like "Jokerman" or "Blind Willie McTell"... But then, it only took recalling Mr. Zimmerman's crusty scowl to keep expectations in check: even during the tour with Paul Simon in 1999, the two shared the stage only to the strict minimum needed to avoid ticket refund requests...

The skeptics' doubts, as one might expect, were duly confirmed: contrary to expectations, the tour unfolded as two rigorously separate sets, with not the slightest interaction between the two headliners. Milan's audience, if nothing else, was luckier: on the final dates, Dylan finally resigned himself to inviting Knopfler on stage for at least a few songs. Better than nothing, in other words. But compared to the initial dreams, it's still a meager consolation.

Mark Knopfler thus opens the show with a measured, elegant set as expected, ranging across his entire solo career. Collector's-item guitars, impeccable flourishes and Celtic-flavored dances: but in the end it all sounds a bit too polished, too calligraphic.

What lingers most are the cadences of the unreleased "Privateering" and the blues of "Song For Sonny Liston", on which Knopfler's deep timbre conjures up gripping storytelling. "Donegan's Gone", dedicated to the king of skiffle Lonnie Donegan, takes on the tone of an old nursery rhyme, while the tribute to auto racing in "Speedway At Nazareth" seems to bear the mark of the recent death of English driver Dan Wheldon, a tragic accident victim on one of the very American speedways Knopfler sings about.

The crowd's ovation, predictably, is reserved for the only two forays into the Dire Straits catalogue: a faithful rendition of "Brothers In Arms" and a closing "So Far Away" that perhaps deserved more daring in its folk-tinged arrangement.

When the lights dim again, Dylan and Knopfler find themselves facing off beneath the giant eye watching over the stage. The guest of honor's presence seems to galvanize Dylan, who immediately delivers an unusually vigorous vocal performance over the resolute rolling groove of "Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat". And while "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue" slides by without much of a thrill, "Things Have Changed" alone is worth the price of admission: the rhythm turns as menacing as a march for judgment day, the harmonica cuts through the air, and Knopfler's guitar seems capable of turning the song into an impossible outtake from "Infidels".

The spell, however, vanishes in the blink of an eye when Knopfler leaves the stage (naturally without so much as a word of thanks from the host...). The band switches to autopilot on the notes of "Spirit On The Water", rolling out the usual retro lounge-orchestra atmospheres. Dylan retreats once more behind his notorious keyboard, only occasionally managing to seize the moments he's so restlessly chasing. The setlist, for that matter, is stingy with surprises, favoring songs from "Modern Times" over those from the more recent "Together Through Life", entirely ignored on this occasion.

It's no coincidence, then, that the most convincing moments are precisely those in which Dylan steps away from the keyboards to pick up a guitar or grip his microphone like an old-school crooner. That's when a sturdy "Tangled Up In Blue" and a "Simple Twist Of Fate", more than ever inclined toward the soft tones of the ballad, spring back to life from the pages of "Blood On The Tracks". Reinvigorated by Charlie Sexton's guitar, the band goes chiefly for energy: "Honest With Me" and "Highway 61 Revisited" pound away relentlessly, while "Thunder On The Mountain" carries the crowd along with its brisk rockabilly drive.

But before signing off with the lackluster reprises of "All Along The Watchtower" and "Like A Rolling Stone", Dylan still has one of his moments of grace in store. He steps to the center of the stage, adjusts the dark brim of his ever-present cowboy hat, grips the microphone between his fingers. And with his mephistophelian growl he begins to declaim a merciless "Ballad Of A Thin Man", amid a chase of echoes that seem to rise from the gates of hell. Every gesture carries theatrical emphasis, every line has a hoarse, Waits-like inflection. Then time slowly begins to flow again and the ordinary takes back over. The crowd calls out to him; he merely raises his arms, a sly look in his eyes. "Don't get up gentlemen, I'm only passing through".

A footnote on Milanese affairs: after years of waiting, early 2011 finally saw the opening of the subway link to the Forum in Assago. "A great boost for events and concerts", they said. Too bad that Milanese fans who decided to leave the car at home and reach the Forum by subway ran into a small hitch: by the time the concert ended, the last train had already left. The result: anyone reckless enough to rely on public transport (paying the surcharge fare) found themselves in the middle of the fog trying to figure out how to get home… Hadn't the wind changed?

(18/11/2011)

Photo by Paolo Brillo

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