CENTER STAGE

CENTER STAGE

GRUMPY MOFO: THE CONCEPT

BOB DYLAN/TOM PETTY & THE HEARTBREAKERS Pine Knob, Clarkston, Ml July 1,1986_

Kevin Knapp

True Confession #1: I have to admit to pretty high expectations for the Dylan/Petty "True Confessions” hootenanny from the very start. Hey, I’m the guy who still has a 4x4 silk-screened banner of Bawb hanging on his bedroom wall after, lo, all these years. Toss in with this hero worship the breathy reports leaking in from hither and yon that this was the show of the summer tour season...and, shucks, why should I doubt them? It seemed indeed a juicy combination: Legendary Bob, with a brand new itch in his saddle, along with second-wave populist hero Tom Petty and backed by a crack (not the drug) supporting unit in the well-rehearsed and rocking Heartbreakers. Preliminary tour reports from the New Zealand/Australia/Japan gigs had confirmed the high value of this alliance.

Ttue Confession #2: Bluntly put, the Bob ’n’ Tom Show is damn near the only ticket of the summer that would have forced me out to a woodsy McDonaldland outdoor concert arena. I parked my hinder on the hill with the partyin’ folks (not in pavilion seating, where wisdom laughingly resides) and was moved to observe with pointed finger the 2-young-2-bin-there kids in tie-dye shirts and—yipesl—Mexican serapes, grooving perhaps on the Grateful Dead’s reflected karma (though indeed the Dead would not rise tonight, as had happened elsewhere on the tour. I did not care.) But it was, all in all, a mixed bunch of nuts here, an unusual blend of concert attendees, with several stratum of Youth Culture (do we still call it that?) present.

And I think at the end of it all, each one of those stratum took home something they’d come for. They got folky Dylan (“Girl From The North Country”), electric Dylan ("Rainy Day Women”), born-again Dylan ("Shot Of Love”), greatest-hits Dylan ("Like A Rolling Stone”) and brand new Dylan (don’t ask me). They got Petty’s hits and the Heartbreakers’ strong delivery. And they got them in doses, together and individually. True to previous reports, the Heartbreakers were a very sympathetic band for Bob; I hadn’t seen Petty live before—an oversight I was happy to correct this eve—but it was the most rocking I’d seen Dylan in the last eight years, i.e., the span of my Dylan concert-going.

The show was well-paced; Petty & Dylan came on first, played, exit Bob— who then reappeared for a solo set, before they all came out for the big windup. Yeah, it was almost scientific, the system these guys had. Dylan, for his part, chose from his vast repertoire and pulled out a few surprises, such as early stuff like "To Ramona.” Some of the stronger moments included "Ballad Of A Thin Man,” "All Along The Watchtower,” the newer "When The Night Comes Falling,” and a sublime version of "Just Like A Woman.”

Petty responded with some choice material of his own. His acoustic-intro version of “The Waiting” gave me the chills, and when the Heartbreakers came in to kick the song into higher gear, the tension released was as electric as the 12-string Rickenbaker in Tomboy’s hands. Hits like “Breakdown” and "Refugee” rode on a fat-bottomed groove that felt thick as the humidity and matched it well. Even so, the set did flag toward the middle, and stuff like "Spike”— despite the crowd’s chant-along—began to taste like non-meat filler.

True Confession #3: After three-fourths of the set, it was clear that something in this dream match was bugging me. This was a legendary show. Everyone here knew it. But something about the way those whipper-snapper kids were shaking their fists in the air in a "How does

it feel?” sing-along...Bob telling this wellheeled crowd about livin’ out on the streets (which around here is only somewhere to drive)...the giddy fans, old and young, line-dancing in the drizzle to the chorus "Ever-body must git stoned!” in this age of designer drugs and bogus revolution. And being patronized by a culture hero was not my idea of a swell time—the sing-along request during "Blowin’ In The Wind” made me think I’d wandered into a nostalgia show by mistake (though, I don’t know, the Monkees are doing pretty good these days). I figure, heck, if these old songs don’t arouse any real sense of purpose or passion in the Tambourine Man anymore, why should we want to hear them? A grumpy mofo I may be, but the currency here has been severely devalued in my book.

True Confession #4: I went and I am still glad, cuz it was an event that would have pained me to miss. But the final analysis says it was less filling than I’d been primed for. There were both hits and surprises, moments of flash and dynamism, the knuckles-down rockin’ we’d been promised. Alas, it didn’t transcend a mere rock concert; the flesh on the stage was willing, but the spirit was often weak. As wise guys will remind you, rock ’n’ roll is not a church (Dylan himself is no slouch at rattling the cages of purists), but it ain’t no puppet show, either.

That banner’s still hanging on my wall, but after the show I’d have been hardpressed to explain to them whippersnappers why it’s been there so long.