Tonight at the Albert Hall, Bob was in mostly great voice and blew some
fabulous harmonica. His piano playing was good too, in a Bob sort of way.
The show was identical to Wolverhampton of course and quite a few songs
were similar; All Along The Watchtower and It Ain't Me, Babe and I
Contain Multitudes. I thought False Prophet and Crossing The Rubicon were
a little less intense than at Wolverhampton but Black Rider and My Own
Version Of You were more focused; MOVOY had such a fast pace I don't
know if he could have sung it any quicker but I liked it. Desolation Row
was as good as Wolverhampton but then came a surprise; I was hoping for a
Key West as direct and show stopping as I'd seen on Saturday but it had
changed to a very laid back band arrangement that lacked the intensity of
the virtually solo performance at the weekend. It seemed like Jim Kelter
wasn't sure about his drum part as he stopped towards the end and the
song reverted to the 'solo' arrangement for the last verse or so. It
was a shame as it seemed like a experiment that hadn't really worked and
the other version was so good. However, It's All Over Now Baby Blue made
up for that and was probably the best performance of the two shows I've
seen so far. In Wolverhampton there was a bit of a breakdown in the first
verse but tonight it was strong, clear and direct were two harmonica solos
that really lifted it to another level. 

It was a great evening and my seat at the back of the top circle had a
giddy view of the Albert Hall. The lady on my left, studying songwriting
in London, was seeing him for the first time and the lady on my right had
seen him at the Festival Hall in 1964. I think everyone around me enjoyed
the show. There was just one problem with the seat; the lighting was so
dark on stage that we could only just about see Bob; the lighting in
Wolverhampton was brighter than this. Maybe it was the distance but Bob or
Bob's people - if you're reading this - PLEASE turn the lights up!
It's not fair for people who are the furthest away to not even be able
to pick him out the on stage at times. 

With a day of in the tour, I took a train to Liverpool to spend more time
exploring. I saw Strawberry Fields (touristy), John's house (less so,
from the outside at least), and the Eleanor Rigby grave (not touristy at
all). The best part was just wandering Woolten and getting chatted up by
plasterers and lunch vendors, who asked me about school shootings, whether
you could really buy guns pretty much at McDonald's in the states, and
wehther we really had as many car chases in Chicago as it looked like in
the movies.

Best of all was my hotel, Childwall Abbey, which I booked not realizing
that John, Paul, and George had performed there once in 1958. The place
has TVs and QR codes now, but is largely unchanged since then, and was
delightful. I lost a pub quiz there, and a man on the porch told me about
the "Bloody Acre" attached to the graveyard across the way, where
nothing could be built due to curses left by ancient pagans and Civil War
bloodshed, and said that even a man who tried to sleep there to disprove
it was heard screaming and found cut to shreds. He further told me that
down the road was Rose Lane Bridge, where John Lennon had sold his soul to
the devil. He was entirely serious about this, and solemnly told me,
without providing a primary source from before 1980, that the devil had
promised to collect when John was forty. He seemed taken aback when I
asked if the devil was still buying, but I was beginning to see that it
may come to making a deal on Rose Lane Bridge to get a good cup of filter
coffee around here. (Don't worry, I know the trick - you sell your soul
for TWO cups and freeze the second one). 

On the train the next day I dug into old digitized newspapers and solved
the mystery of the Bloody Acre - a century ago there was talk of building
on it, but people worried it would spoil a good view. Some years later the
curse stories began, making it highly likely that someone made up a curse
to scare developers away, just like in Scooby Doo. I wouldn't be
surprised if someone even dressed as a ghost once in a while to scare
people off. So that's that - see it, say it, sorted. Now I don't have
to go back to a country where they bring guns to McDonald's. I'm going
to buy some more tweed, my own filter coffee maker, and start a new career
riding around on trains solving mysteries. I've already sorted that one.
Pay me. 

Why do I ramble so in these? I suppose it's because what happens during
the day, what one sees and how one feels, can change how one experiences a
show. While those of us who go to a lot of shows are generally in
agreement as to whether a show was top tier afterwards, we hear different
things in the songs. And there are so many things to hear in the songs.
They contain multitudes. They always have.  

The gathering spot seemed to be the Queens Arms near the Royal Albert
Hall, where I was joined by Ray Padgett, nearly 20 years after our first
show together (he was a gawky kid then, and I always tease him about it
was the first time -I- wasn't the gawky kid). Bennyboy, Andy, and Stuart
were around the bar already. Soon Chris (whom I knew as Iffypop from
Twitter), Tom, and Meg from Belfast arrived. Laura (Definitely Dylan) came
around the same time. Nightly Moth and Maddy and Nathan. So many friends,
and all of us excited for the same reason. I honestly wish more people in
the 1960s had written about what they did with friends before and after
the shows. It's a part of the experience - for many of us, at a time
when we need community, an important part. 

Nothing can describe my thrill at walking around the corner and seeing the
venue. The Royal Albert Hall! I would have been thrilled to see it even if
I hadn't seen seeing Bob Dylan there tonight. It was just as thrilling
to see the inside, where Ray, Laura, and I took our seats up in Circle S.
With the choir seats in use, the massive curtain that had been standard on
stage was gone, replaced by a low white wall, under which was a long
string of yellow light. The old spotlights remained.  

After a strong "False Prophet" and a stronger "When I Paint My
Masterpiece," the first bit of drama came at the beginning of "Black
Rider," when the air was rent by a blood curdling scream, which repeated
a couple more times. It sound like someone was seeing a ghost they thought
they'd banished years ago, but now the Black Rider had just returned to
claim their soul.  (A later report from a person nearby said the woman
simply began to screen, and when security arrived she calmly stood and
walked off with them). While one hoped everything was all right, it was
tempting to simply see it as a "Chilling, Thrilling sound of The Haunted
House" sound effect to accompany the spooky tune. 

In any case, things were in high gear from that point on. On "My Own
Version of You," which I believe left behind a hypnotic riff from the
other night and into a slightly new arrangement. In any case, the song
seemed to be telling a different story. Dylan began by singing
coversationally, like he was telling someone what he was plotting to do.
"See, I'll just take a scarface pacino, right, and the Godffather
Brando. Then I'll mix em up in this tank I got at Tesco, and have a
robot commando. Clever huh?"  But as the song progressed and hit a more
staccato groove, the plans became a fever dream. It occurred to me that
the sparse stage set, with its white wall and old spotlights, looked like
an old time operating theater, where an anatomist might demonstrate how to
take limbs, livers, brains, and hearts to make robot commandos.  

And for the first time, I thought "To Be Alone With You" was being
sung TO the creation he'd brought to life in the previous song. (Great
harp solo, too). Far moreso than other nights, I felt that the whole show
was telling a connected story.   

There were some other new arrangement touches in "Crossing the
Rubicon." When you cross the Rubicon, you arrive at "Desolation
Row." When the now-familiar drums started I felt the breath leave my
body. We'd known the song was coming, of course, but it had escaped me
that I was going to be seeing "Desolation Row" at the Royal Albert
Hall. What a moment! And what a version - after a fine harp solo came the
"Einstein" verse with the most forceful, rocked up vocals I'd ever
heard on the song. It was overwhelming.

And, just to keep us on our toes, we got another new arrangement of "Key
West." After the increasingly close to solo piano versions of the song
the past week, a new one featured more prominent breezy guitars and a
persistent drum beat (instead of no drums). Tony still seemed not to be
playing, just standing and holding the bass. It reverted back to piano for
the last verse or so - sort of a reverse of the RARW custom of opening
solo piano before kicking on the band. The stripped down version had been
a highlight nightly, but you know Bob - always searching. I got the sense
that he'd perfected the version of the show he'd been doing on night 2
in Wolverhapton, and had to move on (a far cry from the feeling many had
that he was using Wolverhampton as a sort of rehearsal for London). 

"River Flow" was a bit of a needed break - a moment to relieve the
tension of the last four songs. But "It's All Over Now Baby Blue,"
another holdover from 1966, was sublime, with a harp solo everyone would
be talking about later (and a second harp solo, too!). "Made Up My
Mind" (and every song after) had Laura and I gasping at the line-reads
and vocals over and over. After "Mother of Muses" Bob introduced Jim
Keltner, remembered that he'd already introduced him earlier, then said
"I'll say it twice!"   Don't think twice, Bob, it's all right. 

"Jimmy Reed" swung harder than usual (and it's been swinging
lately), and Laura groaned a bit as "Every Grain of Sand" began,
saying "I don't want this to be over!"  EGOS was a highlight as
always, and I left the hall feeling elated. 

We made our way back to the Queens Arms, greeted the greetable from
before, plus Sergi and the Spanish/Catalan contigent. Nathan introduced me
to Plum Porter. The bar soon kicked us out, several of us made our way to
the Gloucester Arms (Lotta arms in this town - whole octupus, Chris said),
where we ran into Po Trev, and raised a toast to our mutual friend, the
late great Peter Stone Brown, who would have loved this show.  But they
soon closed too (London closes remarkably early), so Moth, Maddy, Nathan
and I tramped our way to a place that was supposed to be open later,
wandered into the wrong door (as has become our habit) and found the
proper one locked. A further hike took us to a fancy cocktail place where
the directions to the toilet were "past the pulpit, behind the taxidermy
giraffe," and the cocktails had "cocoa butter fat washed aberfeldy."
I only remember so much after that. 

I don't know how I'm awake now, except that WiFi at my Agatha Christie
setting of a hotel doesn't seem to work, so I had to sit in this early
morning cafe, where I'm drinking a Christmas Blend filter coffee. I
think I'm near Charles Dickens's house. Peter, Bless us, every one.
I'll see you tonight.