Bob Dylan – with Patti Smith at the Orpheum – Review

Bob Dylan

with Patti Smith at the Orpheum
by Celeste Haven

“There are all these pockets of time when everything just sparkles and everything is done because people believe in things.” – Patti Smith

Bob Dylan and Patti Smith came from the New York underground, although over a decade apart; Dylan in the early ’60s, Smith in the ’70s. Dylan seems to have forgotten the whys of what he’s doing. Having left the music habitrail to bring up her children, Patti Smith, Godmother of punk rock, returns, integrity intact. On stage, the wizened sprite took over dancing – yes, barefoot – like a teenager. She raised her arms in an embrace of the audience and rocked the hell out. Her voice broke with emotion during some of the more earnest songs. Like magma lava, Patti’s already full sound was further delivered by the guitar licks (ooh!) of former Television guitarist/singer Tom Verlaine. Founding member of the Patti Smith Group, guitarist Lenny Kaye, welded it all together and provided the voice of reason during improvised material. Audience members starboard and aft asked aloud, “Wow! Who is she?”

Smith sang all the songs I wanted to hear including a ballad written for/to her husband and bandmate, Fred “Sonic” Smith, who died earlier this year. A song of hope and beauty, it made me break down and cry. Smith’s interesting cover tune list was fortified by the Buddy Holly song, “Not Fade Away,” which she dedicated to Jerry Garcia. Although not a big fan of the dead drug addict, I appreciated her sweet sentiment.

John the Baptist (my ticket provider) informed me that Dylan was more effusive than usual during this performance. This wasn’t saying much. Dylan, the Icon, Inc.’s set was also a House o’ Hits. Audience members were able to sing along like hausfraus in a beer hall, swigging their $4 Spuds (and since when is Bob Dylan’s middle name “fucking”? What were his parents thinking?). The backing band were a tight enough bunch. I would even go so far as to say they were inspired at times, but even the ‘beeahs’ couldn’t remove the dust in my mouth from the boring Mr. Dylan, the Icon.

Some revelations for your review:
1. Dylan cannot sing. No surprise.
2. Dylan can passably wheeze through a harmonica, but not so well without a guitar (picture a flopping mackerel).
3. His guitar playing isn’t spectacular.
4. Dylan is not a great performer. May I be struck with hundreds of voodoo pins for saying so, but Dylan, the Icon, Inc. has not progressed. He can write a good lyric, but that’s about it.

Part of the staleness was the shiny back up band sounding very much bought and paid for. John the B. liked ’em enough; he thought they were a good match for The Icon. I waited all night for Bob and Patti to pair up. I was dying to see Tom Verlaine whack a guitar volley into the soup, but it didn’t happen. In contrast to Smith’s choice for the drug casualty tribute, Dylan chose the insipid Grateful Dead song, “Alabama Getaway.” As if that weren’t bad enough, he followed with his own tome to chemical exploits, “Everybody Must Get Stoned.” Had he looked beyond his aura, he might have chosen otherwise if he’d seen the fist pumping, “Yeah! Bobby!” of the misguided faithful. At one point in Patti Smith’s set, she wiped the stage apologizing “to Bob for getting his floor wet.” She needn’t have bothered; the dried-up hippie might have sprouted some life from Patti’s reality juice.