Bob Dylan

Sing to me, O Muse, of the secret of the old, strange America. Sing of the fate of heroes and that of the creatures of the forest. Sing of time flowing like a river, toward home.

Dusk falls on Independence Day, and the Wandering American once again invokes his Muse: "Sing your hearts out, all your women of the chorus," he proclaims in his ancient voice over the notes of "Mother Of Muses." The air in Milan, charged with the premonition of a summer storm, seems to echo him with a suspended vibration.

There's no better day than the 4th of July to reopen the pages of Bob Dylan's Great American Novel. On the stage of the Teatro degli Arcimboldi, the red curtain dominating the scene could be that of the Lynchian Black Lodge, and Mr. Zimmerman one of its denizens. Seated at the piano in the half-light, he seems to be searching among the keys for a hidden key, while the rest of the band gathers close around him. The instruments find their accord, and the first chapter in the evening's blues catalogue can take shape: it's "Watching The River Flow," a rough-edged smile watching the world slip away with the current, almost in the manner of Heraclitus.

It's clear right away: Dylan is back in a state of grace. Everyone has succumbed to boredom at some point during his recent runs of shows. But this time things are different, as shown right away by the sinuous groove of "Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine)" (from "Blonde On Blonde"): the voice is firm and piercing, the band backs him with the spirit of a jazz ensemble, bringing out the guitars of Bob Britt and Doug Lancio. Above all, there's no slavish pandering to nostalgia: the songs holding court are those from the latest "Rough And Rowdy Ways", performed practically in full (with the sole exception of "Murder Most Foul"). And the choice proves more fitting than ever, given that it's his most compelling collection of songs in the last twenty years.

It's no coincidence that even the opening line of “I Contain Multitudes” immediately draws applause from the audience: Dylan's variations on Whitman's theme have an immediate evocative power. Among the blues numbers on the setlist, the prize goes (unexpectedly) to the essential, enveloping rendition of “Crossing The Rubicon”, with Tony Garnier's double bass steering the ship, closely followed by a vigorous “False Prophet”.

Compared to the original versions on “Rough And Rowdy Ways”, in fact, only “Key West (Philosopher Pirate)” struggles to find its direction, losing its melodic lightness in an overly monotone delivery. On the other hand, “Black Rider” enchants the audience with an unprecedented noir coloring, which gives shape to the song's visions by cloaking Dylan's voice in reverb, eventually fading into the apocryphal Frankenstein of “My Own Version Of You”. Much of the credit goes to the supple drumming of Jerry Pentecost, formerly of Old Crow Medicine Show, who represents the most significant change in the band's lineup compared to previous Milan shows.

He, the grand old man, stays behind the piano the whole time, standing up every now and then without venturing further into the center of the stage. And yet, despite his advancing years, the impression is of someone more lively and engaged than usual (even capable of a couple of thank-yous in Italian…). Might it also help that the evening was strictly phone-free (phones bagged up at the entrance and unsealed on the way out)? Certainly, if the result is to regain people's attention for the music, the sacrifice seems an acceptable compromise. It brings to mind the words of Cristina Campo: attention, she said, is the only path toward the inexpressible, the only road to mystery…

Even when he looks to the past, Dylan does so with his eyes fixed on the present: five of the evening's forays into his old repertoire also appear on the very recent “Shadow Kingdom” and are performed with renewed inventiveness. While “To Be Alone With You” flaunts its new, imaginative lyrics full of castles and ivory towers, “I'll Be Your Baby Tonight” stretches out lazily, only giving way to a more insistent riff during the instrumental break. The best moment, though, comes from a light, festive “When I Paint My Masterpiece”, dancing arm in arm with Donnie Herron's violin: Dylan allows himself a few more relaxed brushstrokes, playfully drawing out the syllables with a nostalgic inflection (“Someday, everything's gonna be so beauuuuuuuutiful…”).

From the Gospel according to Dylan comes the warning of “Gotta Serve Somebody”, whose muscular traits make it perhaps the episode closest to the by-now familiar style of recent years. Alongside the preacher's fervor, the romantic sweetness of the melody of “I've Made Up My Mind To Give Myself To You” sounds almost like the echo of an old sacred hymn, called upon to bolster the congregation's faith (“If I had the wings of a snow-white dove/ I'd preach the gospel, the gospel of love”).

After rather briskly dispensing with the customary band introductions, there's still room for two covers: one is business as usual (“That Old Black Magic”, the breezy standard already explored on Fallen Angels), but the other is for the history books. Dylan tackles the Grateful Dead's “Brokedown Palace” (whose songbook he has been raiding freely on this latest tour), earning a standing ovation from the hall. In his voice, the rustic melancholy of the original seems to take on a metaphysical weight, the ultimate glance at the ruined palace of earthly life. It thus becomes another stop in the meditation on life and death that runs through the whole concert, right up to the closing lines of “Mother Of Muses” (“I'm travelin' light and I'm slow coming home”), which sound almost like a tribute to late-period Leonard Cohen.

There are no encores, no easy concessions to expectations. There is, however, one of the most intense meditations of his entire career: “Every Grain Of Sand”. Dylan approaches it with solemnity, guiding it along on the notes of the piano and sealing the farewell with a breath of harmonica. The lyrics are those of the song's first draft, not the version included on “Shot Of Love”: “I'm hanging in the balance/ Of a perfect finished plan”, Dylan whispers. It's the distillation of the whole journey: the fragility of existence (“Just like every sparrow falling”, he warns, citing Shakespeare and the Bible) and its mysterious completeness.

The first drops of rain begin to fall outside the theater, with the violence of a summer dream. Every drop is counted, like every grain of sand.

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