You could infer a lot from the way Bob Dylan’s backing band arrange themselves on stage. They form a kind of huddle around their leader, who these days performs mostly at a grand piano centre stage: sometimes seated, more often standing, occasionally not playing it all, but leaning against it, elbows on the lid, as he sings or plays harmonica. Perhaps there’s something protective about this formation. After all, Dylan is now 83; quite an age to be on the ninth leg of a three-year world tour. But even as an octogenarian, Dylan very much gives off the air of someone who can look after himself, thank you.
It seems more likely their position speaks of a state of high alert. These are musicians for whom the term seasoned professional was invented – longstanding crack sessioneers, men whose collective CV encompasses everyone from Paul Simon to Steely Dan to sundry former Beatles – and yet you somehow get the impression that even they aren’t quite certain exactly what’s going to happen next. An artist who pronounced himself freewheelin’ in 1963 seems no more inclined to keep to any script 61 years on. Best to stick close to the guy in charge and keep your eyes peeled for clues as to where he’s headed. As they hawkishly follow his unpredictable vocal phrasing and a piano style that’s simultaneously florid and ragged – Art Tatum by way of Les Dawson – he’s still capable of wrongfooting them: there are moments when you could swear the band start building to a climax or slowing to a conclusion, only to discover their leader has other ideas.
