Dancing in the Shadows

Like most people of my generation, I spent my early teen years loving The Beatles. Like many, I also embraced the grittier Rolling Stones. Like some, I discovered and identified with Bob Dylan, but that was later in my teens and only after Dylan was electrified and backed by a remarkable band called—well—The Band.
The Band comprised a group of five highly accomplished musicians, four of them Canadian and one from Arkansas. They are mostly known these days for the songs of their lead writer and guitarist, Robbie Robertson—among them: The Weight, The Night They Drove of Dixie Down and Up on Cripple Creek. Theirs was a fusion of rock ‘n roll and roots. Nobody did it better then or have been eclipsed since. Sadly, all but two of the group—Robertson and keyboardist Garth Hudson—are dead now. Dylan lives on—kind of.
Hudson toured New Zealand recently, along with The Band’s producer John Simon. I attended the Auckland concert, promoted as the 40th celebration of The Band’s legendary last concert (with Robertson) The Last Waltz. The Aotea Centre wasn’t full, a last minute change from the original and smaller Civic saw to that. But, there were enough Band devotees there to provide the atmosphere and they were articulate, wise, and expectant.
You see, none of us were there for the music. We had heard it all, many times. All of us had watched The Last Waltz so often we knew every nuance (yes, Clapton did break his guitar strap and, yes, that is cocaine up Neil Young’s nose) and every lyric line. No matter how accomplished the (mainly) New Zealand musicians were, and they were, we were not there for the music. We were there for the man. We were there to see Hudson. To be simply in the same room.
Hudson did perform, beautifully and brilliantly. But in the end that was a bonus. If Hudson had simply shuffled onto the stage, it would likely have been enough. It was enough for him—for us—to be there. It would not happen again. Soon, sadly, there will be of the original Band only Robertson.  And that is little more than a sad sour, slightly bitter, aftertaste.
Bill English is not that. Bill English will do well. I doubt he will be great. He has greatness thrust upon him, but it is not a mantle that fits and will soon be consigned to a plastic dry-cleaning bag in a back wardrobe. Instead, Bill English will do his best in his quiet, mannered manner. He knows he will live in the perpetual shadow of his predecessor, and he knows there is little he can do about that. It is enough, I think he thinks, to be given a second chance, and this time against a comparatively weak opposition. He will take that chance.
English will never be another John Key. He accepts that. We should too. There will also never be another Band. We Band fans know that too.  John Key left us with Bill English. The Band left us with Ronnie Robertson. We now dance among the shadows where there was once so much light…so much light.

A Bob Each Way

In my teens I became aware that the inevitable hierarchical structure of youth culture was driven largely by music—in particular which artist(s) you followed. If you were of what these days is called the nerd persuasion you enjoyed The Beatles; the more rebellious were into The Rolling Stones, and if you were a “beat freak” Bob Dylan was your thang. The truly out there—and there were few enough of these—grooved to Bob Dylan’s backing band The Band. The Band was and is my favourite band of all time. However, I never saw them live and I never will; The Band exists only on record, video and memory, and three of its original five members are dead.

But Bob Dylan is very much alive and I have seen him live. Once. I would not go again. The concert of his I attended at Mt Smart lasted barely 70 minutes, he played most of it with his back to the audience, didn’t even try to structure a rapport or acknowledgement with that audience, and he gifted us only one of his more well-known songs—All Along the Watchtower. He, his concert and his forgettable backing band were worth neither the time nor the money.

So, Hamilton will probably get what it deserves. Bob Dylan plays two shows at Hamilton’s Claudelands Arena in early August. They are the first of a month-long Australasian tour for the aging artist. He may have changed, of course. As he himself wrote, of himself, Times Have Changed (Wonder Boys Soundtrack). However, to me, based on my experience and on the necessity of going to Hamilton of all places to see him, I do not think he is worth the risk.

I was mildly amused, however, by Ticketek’s showcasing of the Hamilton concerts. I received an email from them extolling the virtues of booking early. The subject line of the email is Knocking on Hamilton’s Door. That is either clever of clumsy. I think the latter. Yes, it is a play on words and homage to the Dylan hit Knocking on Heaven’s Door. But is Ticketek not aware that the only thing Heaven and Hamilton have in common is that they both start with H? In all other respects, Hamilton is more akin to Hell than Heaven—at least for those who have committed a career-limiting offence and been sent by their bosses to manage the Hamilton office.

Bob may well be going there of his own volition (and maybe the fact that it is the first of his concerts is significant because Rusty-Rob can’t do any harm in Hamilton) but none of the rest of us do. You hear that knocking on Hamilton’s door, Bob?  Mate, it is people trying to get out, not in.