Bob Dylan played in San Diego for two hours last night. Backed by two eighteen-wheelers worth of gear, a full metal band, he stood behind the electric keyboard and croaked his lines into the mic. His voice was strained, grating, broken -- a collision between old sand and a rusty tin roof in a dry wind. A bullfrog chewing gravel and shouting. He sounded as though he were speaking Estonian after an exhausting long night in a damp cold forest.

He was backed by brilliant guitar players -- several -- and an enthusiastic drummer who played with skill, speed, volume and all the oomph of a major rock band.

He contributed, himself, the keyboard punctuation, the occasional harp solo, and the...strange Ukrainian-sounding vocals.

Every now and then, through the coarse scraping of rocks and steel, he would hit a note that might be deemed musical and the old Dylan would shine through. Once in a while a section of the lyrics were intelligible and the magic of his phrases would restore your spirits.

For the most part, though, I heard deep and long fatigue supported by loud electrical sound, unforgiving drums, and brilliant lyrics only intermittently escaping to remind us of a poet we once knew.

Amos Jessup
San Diego