But Bob, how does it feel


He should be at home, impregnating a supermodel. Instead, at 59, 
Bob Dylan is on tour for the zillionth time, playing all the old songs - 
though not so you'd recognise them. What is he up to?

 Germany still boasts more moustaches per capita than any country 
in the free world, so it was no surprise to find them out in force and
 twitching expectantly last week for the second day of the latest European 
leg of Bob Dylan's never-ending mission to visit every town on the planet, 
a tour that has famously been ongoing since records of blond facial 
hair began.

Last year he was out there playing 120 shows. This man will be 59 next 
week. He should be at home getting supermodels pregnant. Whatever
 happened to the old reclusive, unavailable Dylan?

I remember desperately queuing halfway round London all night to buy 
a ticket for one of his 1978 shows - the first in the UK since his
 notorious 1966 stopover when the duffel coat police sent him home 
with a flea in both ears for playing an electric guitar. What excitement 
it was to have him back! He packed Earl's Court six times - I couldn't 
believe my luck at actually being there, four miles from the stage, 
standing on my seat holding a cigarette lighter in the air, and... yes, 
OK, sporting a junior moustache of my own.

But who, back then, could have guessed that for the next 20 years 
Bob would be turning up on the world's doorstep every five minutes like 
a milkman with amnesia. Having said that, no UK dates have been set 
for this year, though some are expected to be announced in the autumn. 
Hence, hello Stuttgart, a city striking for the craftsmanship of its roofing contractors.

Dylan comes shambling on stage like a man wandering into a Las 
Vegas wedding reception: white suit, cowboy boots, suspicion of a perm 
(long-gone is the unruly, gravity-defying beehive of Don't Look Back ).
 The band - a pared-down unit of acoustic guitars, drums, stand-up 
bass - strap themselves in and roar off with a hootin' country song no 
one normal has remotely heard of about gamblin', rovin' and 
skirt-chasin' before plunging into an enthusiastic 'reworking' of 
The Times They Are A-Changin, which gets a roar of approval once 
the audience realises what on earth it is. A handful of early classics 
follow in lightning succession - Desolation Row, Tangled Up In Blue, 
Gates Of Eden,'Girl From The North Country.

It's an efficient, crowd-pleasing set, consisting almost wholly of old 
faves, which won't harm sales of his latest 'best of' album, out this 
week, though it's a pity Bob finds room for only three songs from 
his last studio release, the bluesily atmospheric Time Out Of 
Mind (1997), trumpeted by all as his finest since Blood On The Tracks  
in the mid-Seventies - which admittedly says as much about the poverty 
of his output in the intervening period as anything else. But songs 
such as Love Sick and Not Dark Yet were strong evidence of a
 return to form, as is the pounding acoustic Things Have Changed, a
track written for the forthcoming Michael Douglas film "Wonder Boys", 
and included on the new compilation - though Dylan doesn't sing that 
tonight either.

His voice is in good shape, despite the tendency to Waitsian 
gruffness that he's developed down the years. His stage presence, 
meanwhile... well, it hasn't got any worse. He prowls around, 
crouching a bit, waggling his foot occasionally, lurching sideways as 
if to tease some sign of life from the band, who seem content to spend 
the evening looking at each other's shoes.

The venue doesn't help - an ugly 6,000-seater velodrome shaped like 
a set of lower dentures. A lot of people have drifted out of their seats, 
leaving huge cavities around the rear molar area, to join the crowd in 
front of the stage and creating the impression of a very popular car boot 
sale. Still, you don't come to a Bob Dylan concert for drama - though we 
are quick to show our appreciation when any unsought-for excitement 
comes our way: a ripple of applause every time the curtains change 
colour, a thunderous cheer for Bob's harmonica, which is as barmy as 
ever. Even uninteresting guitar solos are greeted with the kind of 
enthusiasm usually reserved for ice-dancers executing a difficult jump.

Bob doesn't play any of his stuff from the Eighties, which in itself is 
enough to get my vote. One of his less smart career moves as a rock 
legend was to come out as a born-again Christian and devote himself 
to God, who returned the compliment by removing his talent and making 
him write Slow Train Coming and the execrable Saved. I don't mind if 
a chap wants to go to church in his spare time, but you don't need forensic knowledge of Cliff Richard to realise that religion is to rock' n'roll what
 a bucket of cold water is to sex.

But ultimately how much you can get from a Dylan concert these days
 depends on how much you mind him boiling down the original 
melodies to an extemporised version using fewer notes and less time to 
sing them in; whether it bothers you to hear him rattling through your 
favourite lines like a cattle auctioneer late for an appointment; whether 
having to identify songs from the chords is such a terrible thing or 
all part of the fun; whether the pump still works when the vandals take 
the handles.

Granted, you might not be disappointed if you'd never heard a Dylan 
song in your life and had just to come and see the great man in the 
flesh. And the band rocks through the set, nicely balanced between 
acoustic and electric - even the lead guitarist eventually manages to
 make proper use of his long hair, obligingly turning into vintage 
Bon Jovi during Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat. And the bar is open 
throughout for jugs of beer and those giant varnished pretzel 
things made of sawdust.

But if one of the highlights of your personal pop history is having the
hairs on the back of your neck stand up every time you hear the swirl 
of organ and the words How does it feel...' from Like A Rolling Stone  
then all you can do is sit here and count the number of times Dylan 
fails to deliver the genuine article. What is he up to? Maybe the old 
tunes have wandered out of his vocal range, though that seems unlikely. 
Perhaps he just doesn't want to go through life jumping through 
hoops of his own making. Whatever, I can't believe I'm the only one 
who feels like leaping on stage and singing the bloody thing myself.

So in the end I don't stand on my chair, though I do my share of 
drinking too much beer and whooping. There is no encore to speak 
of - Dylan divides his set into 12 songs, followed by a bonus six, 
and then gets someone to turn the lights on to stop us clamouring for 
more. Not that anybody does. Perhaps we are pleasantly surprised that 
there is still some evening left to catch a spot of late supper, followed
by a stroll and a lap-dancing show. Dylan, of course, has already left the
 building and is on the bus to Oberhausen - keeping on keeping on, as
 he used to say.