By Aimee Plumley

concert
Bob & the Bobsters

"Jesus. Who is this guy? He sounds like shit." ......
"Yeah. Pretty bad." ......
"Totally. I don’t understand how come somebody with the star power of Dylan needs a opener anyway."

They both shook their matty heads and dragged loosely on their cigarettes. Suddenly one guy threw his lanky arm into the air halfheartedly and yelled: "Whoo-hooo!! Dylaaan!"

"Totally," his buddy said. "I’m so fuckin’ excited to see Dylan, dude, you don’t even understand! Ever since I saw that INXS video where they copy the trailer for Don’t Look Back–shit, I was in like fifth grade–I’ve wanted to see fuckin’ Dylan."

"Yeah."

"I can’t wait until he gets onstage, dude, I’m gunna fuckin’ yell, ‘Judas! Judas!’ Won’t that be so fuckin’ cool?"

Most of the hipsters on the floor at MSG on Nov. 11 looked like Dylan copies circa 1968. All heads a-wobble and lips a-tremble under big sunglasses, all necks strained and vascular. This guy was one of these, a tight-bluejeaned Bobster, while his companion was much less enthusiastic, much less Bob, and looking at the two of them I could imagine the scenario: Bobster bought the tickets online at work during pre-sale, tapping his fingers wildly, and without a definite placeholder for the second ticket. He then quickly contacted all of his other Bobster friends to tell them the good news, all busy signals and voicemail, excited messages flung back and forth. And having realized later that afternoon that all of his Bobster friends had indeed tied up their lines calling him to tell him the same good news ("Dude! I got Dylan tickets! Call Me!") he was resigned to taking somebody from work, a non-Bobster, but a hipster nonetheless. This was a noble gesture; he would turn on somebody to Dylan. He would educate his poor friend.

"What?"

"You know, from fucking Live at the Royal Albert Hall?" He tore off his glasses and stamped his cigarette. "C’mon dude! Didn’t you listen to that copy I made for you? Didn’t you read the articles I printed for you? That’s basic rock ’n’ roll history. Dylan switched to electric for the second half of his set for the first time ever. It was madness! People were trying to drag him offstage! Someone yelled, ‘Juuudasss!’ and then BLAM he breaks into ‘Tell Me, Momma.’"

"Wow."

The Bobster pulled his friend close, arms on his shoulders. "That was a pivotal moment in modern music history, I’m tellin’ you. It was like the birth of the Mods. That was the fusion of folk and rock, it was fucking core! I would go so far as to say that is why we are here waiting through this shitty opening act to witness Dylan today."

"What did he mean by Judas anyway?" his friend asked.

"What?" Bobster said.

"You said some guy yelled ‘Judas.’"

"Yeah, he did. It’s on the record, it’s very subtle, almost drowned out, but I’ve listened to it so many times I can hear it very distinctly, it’s well known."

"I believe you, but who is Judas? What’s it supposed to mean?"

"Oh, um." Bobster lit another cigarette and tapped his foot. "Actually, fuck, I can’t remember. I think it’s a reference to some Greek god or something."

"Core."

"Yeah, it’s totally core. But that’s really not the point."

A song ended and the crowd began to rumble and move. "Oh, maybe the opener is done," the Bobster said. "Fuckin’ finally."

Onstage the band bowed and the lead singer mumbled thank-yous and drank from a bottle of water over his keyboard.

"I think I’ve seen that dude in Times Square station singing," Bobster said. "Maybe Dylan was friends with the guy back in the Village. You know he used to live on like MacDougal and Stanton back in the days."

"Yeah, I think I heard that."

"Oh tootally. He probably used to get high with that guy, and I bet when Dylan comes through he puts the dude up in a nice-ass hotel or something. Dylan’s very down-to-earth you know. He’s so fucking core, it’s awesome. I bet they jam together and shit."

"What’s up with the cowboy hat?" Bobster’s friend pointed to the singer.

"Oh, shit, I dunno. Maybe Dylan wanted to dress the guy up for the show. He’s got a very good sense of humor–he’s Jewish, you know."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah–Robert Allen Zimmerman–that’s his given name. Fucking Zimmerman dude! Oh, but he’s a firecracker man, you know that scene in Don’t Look Back where somebody throws a glass of water out the window and Dylan just-fucking-explodes?" Bobster now broke now into a nasally Dylan voice: "‘Who threw the fucking glass out maaan? Just fucking tell me maaan! I’m not joking around maaan! C’mon maaan!’"

"Wow, really?"

"Totally."

They continued commenting on the opening act, who had launched into another set. "What, did Dylan get fuckin’ Wyatt Earp to open up? Look at that fucking mustache. Gawd," said Bobster.

"Yeah. Oh, wait, what is this? This sounds familiar."

"Holy shit!" Bobster said. "I think that’s fucking Neil Young, dude!"

They squinted distantly at the stage. "He’s playing ‘Old Man,’ holy shit. It’s gotta be him."

"No way," said Bobster. "This dude’s voice is too gravelly. Neil Young doesn’t sound like this. This guy sounds like fucking shit."

"Yeah," his friend said. "This guy sucks."

"Totally. I mean, what is this? The fucking Elks Lodge convention? The guy’s playing fucking covers?"

"What is this? Dylan’s bar mitzvah?" They shared a laugh together.

"Actually," Bobster added, "I have seen pictures of that."

Then the band shuffled offstage again and a roar began in the crowd. People started chanting: "Dy-lan! Dy-lan! Dy-lan!" Bobster and his friend began chanting too, and when the same little mustached man returned to the stage, the wave of chanting broke into an incredible roar.

"Thank you," the man said. Then he launched into "Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door," to wild applause.