Mumble, mumble

I braced for impact.

Norm and I were driving the 150, on our way to the Dylan concert at the Santa Barbara Bowl. It was just after 5 and the sun played peekaboo as 71-year-old Norm steered his five-year-old Lexus around the curves of the two-lane highway that I mostly avoided. It was otherwise idyllic but for the speeding on-coming traffic carrying impatient people home at the end of a long day.

We rounded a curve. The oncoming leather clad biker, head down, went out of his lane and passed the car in front of him like it was standing still. I thought, He’s never going to make it back to his lane. We’re gonna hit him.

A month ago, Norm called me. “You a Dylan fan? He’ll be at the Santa Barbara Bowl on June 22.”

He had invited Jackie earlier in the day, probably because she’s a lot prettier than me. Her work schedule stopped her from taking Norm up on his offer, but she told him that I might like to go.

I thought for a few seconds, about Dylan, about Mister Tambourine Man, and Blowin’ in the Wind. And then I remembered Don’t Think Twice-It’s All Right.  Sure, “I’ll go if you drive. My eyesight is for shit when the sun goes down.”

The tickets were $130 each. A reasonable price I thought to see a legend. I didn’t even ask where the seats were. In the Bowl, I hoped.

I had only seen Dylan once, twenty-five years ago at the Hollywood Bowl, on stage with Paul Simon. We sat about half-way up the Bowl and got a pretty good view of what was happening. Paul Simon was classical, with his easy music, and lyrics that made sense the first time you heard them. I heard everything clearly.

I don’t remember what Dylan sang back then. I heard the music, but I didn’t understand anything he said. He might as well have been singing in Hungarian. He mumbled. He held his guitar and stomped around the stage, in that ragdoll fashion that made him clearly recognizable even if you were looking at the show from the moon. He was one of those unique people who could be a star just by showing up.

On that night 25 years ago, Leonard Nimoy, the big eared Mister Spock of Star Trek fame, was sitting near us. At intermission I wandered over to him. “Excuse me, Mister Nimoy, my son Steven is a big fan of yours. I wonder if you could give him your autograph. He’ll go crazy.”

Nimoy looked at me like Mr. Spock would and said nothing. I’m sure he thought I wanted it for me. He held out his hand and I gave him the program. He signed. Steven kept it for years. When Steven died, it too disappeared.

We survived our Highway 150 encounter with the delinquent biker and got to Santa Barbara two hours before showtime. Parking was a couple of blocks away at the high school. I hoped that Norm would remember the car’s location since it escaped my brain as soon as I closed my door.

I’d never been to the bowl in Santa Barbara, so everything was new to me. It’s nestled in the hills along with homes worth millions.

I looked at the people waiting in line at the entrance. I was no longer the oldest person at the party. Gray hair, no hair, and walking sticks were the costumes of choice. And why not? Dylan was 81. It reminded me of people walking to Lourdes for the cure.

The Bowl holds over 4,500 people, nearly five times the size of the bowl in Ojai. There’s an uphill trek required from the entrance to the base of the bowl. A shuttle is available for those whose trekking days are limited to one that goes from the couch to the refrigerator.

We made it up the hill under our own power and, given the absence of pot, got a couple of glasses of wine to numb our senses. I promptly spilled several dollars’ worth as we climbed the remaining steps to the seating area.

Our seats were seven rows from the stage and an army of frightening loudspeakers were arranged in vertical rows before us. Hearing aids would be unnecessary. The stage was littered with instruments. Norm pointed to the stand-up keyboard, “That’s where Dylan will be. We’re lucky, we’ve got a straight-line view of him.”

We sat and exchanged pleasantries with our neighbors. Two women and a man in their early seventies. Norm is in the music business and has a Wikipedia mind full of musical trivia. Our neighbors next to us exhibited similar knowledge, and soon were talking about concerts from the Dark Ages and beyond. I, with little more than memories of a few Dylan songs, was left in the dirt. I sat back, tried to meditate away their conversation, and waited for Dylan to make an entrance.

It was getting dark, and I wondered how I’d make it down the steps in total darkness at the end of the show, while avoiding 4,000 people who didn’t know that I was vision challenged. I also shuddered to think about needing to pee while the show was in progress; I did not want to become part of the concert by performing cartwheels down the ramp while singing Simple Twist of Fate.

The show began. Dylan came out and made his way to the keyboard. I could only make out the top of his head with his signature flyaway hair, still curly after 25 years. He would leave the keyboard only three times during the concert, each time seeming uncertain of his balance and in need of a mic stand to steady himself. He was doing what 81-year-olds do.

I closed my eyes, thought about 25 years ago, and listened to the first song. I didn’t recognize it; it was from his latest album Rough and Rowdy Days, but it didn’t matter. I just listened. His voice was less sweet and a little scratchier, like a reformed smoker. The song ended and everyone stood up and clapped, yelled, and whistled, including me.

I listened to the second song. Same reaction.

And then I realized that I hadn’t understood anything he said. He was mumbling, just like the last time.

I was quiet during the rest of the two-hour performance. He didn’t sing anything I recognized. No Like a Rolling Stone, no Lay Lady Lay, no Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door. I felt betrayed.

The show ended. Norm loved it, and the guy next to me said, “Wasn’t that great?”

I wanted to say no. But I just mumbled.