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August eighth, 2008...080808, a line of symbols of the infinite, a series of circles without beginnings or ends.

My Sweetheart and I went to Philly with our friend Gregg to see Bob Dylan at the Electric Factory, a grand old rock&roll dump on Spring Garden street. It was the club's 40th birthday.

The conversation on the way to the cradle of liberty revolved around the Founding Fathers, Gregg arguing the Federalist case while I stood with Tom Jefferson on the high ground. The word "egalitarian" was bandied about. Jefferson, Adams, old Ben Franklin - this is the stock from which America sprang. They would all die of apoplectic rage, we decided, if they knew what a mess had been made of their grand experiment. Thank god they’ve all long since turned to dust.

Traffic started sucking at City Line Avenue. Gregg used to live in Philly, and retains the bloodthirsty skills required to drive there, so he proved an able pilot. Continuing our conversation, we decided that the British hadn’t followed Washington’s army out to Valley Forge because traffic sucked too bad on the Schuykill. After many delays we spied the water tower emblazoned with Ben Franklin’s face, the logo of the club. We parked, made our last-minute preparations, and went through the frisking and metal detection phases of entry.

Hopes of a spot at the rail (like we had for the Pogues last time we were at the Electric Factory) dissolved as we arrived late. The little place was packed. But we found a decent spot with a good line of sight and soon the lights dimmed and Bob took the stage with his cowboy band.

The band were all in grey suits and sported fedoras and pork-pies (except young Donnie Herron who was allowed to subvert the dress code.) Dylan himself was dressed tonight as a riverboat gambler, with a handsome black widebrimmed hat and a black suit. His Oscar gleamed behind him atop his organ’s leslie cabinet.

I've seen Dylan a lot, maybe twenty times or so, starting in '85 and including the Dylan tribute at Madison Square Garden. I thought this show stood with the best I've seen. The band started strong with "Cats in the Well", rocking hard and steady. Tony Garnier and George Recile anchored the sound, the various stringed instruments fell in layers overtop, and Bob provided a carnival atmosphere throughout with his Dr. Phibes organ. His singing was strong and adventurous, sometimes veering off into gutteral Tom Waits territory, sometimes rising to hit higher registers I didn't know he could still access.

The guitarists, Stu Kimball and Denny Freeman, provided a few highlights, especially Freeman who went off at some strange angles in his sporadic solos, but my Sweetheart and I saw the Larry Campbell/Charlie Sexton band too many times to not long for the old days, guitar-wise. Kimball drew the ire of the bandleader in “Summer Days” when Dylan left his keyboard to give him some face-to-face instructions, evidently about his volume level. Later, when Dylan introduced the band, he said “Stu Kimball on guitar…at least I think that’s Stu Kimball…”

Donnie Herron, formerly with BR-549, is the band’s multi-instrumentalist, adding violin, mandolin, pedal steel, and banjo as needed. A perfect sideman, he shone throughout without ever dominating the mix.

This version of the band, although in some ways not as strong as previous incarnations, has the versatility to switch from genre to genre at the bandleader’s whim. They shifted gears from gutbucket blues to turn-of-the-century parlor songs easily, letting Dylan’s high mercury roller-rink organ come to the fore for “Moonlight”, “Spirit on the Water” and “Beyond The Horizon” from Modern Times.

There were no real surprises in the setlist, which drew heavily on Dylan’s most recent work. It can’t really count as a surprise that Dylan re-arranged his best-known songs drastically, as this has been his modus operandi since the Never-Ending Tour began. It was a bit of a surprise to me that all of the latest re-arrangements worked so well. I really liked the latest versions of “Tangled Up In Blue” and “It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)”, even though I venerate the originals and have heard him play several other good arrangements over the last twenty-three years.

The Philly crowd hooted and cheered loud and long after each song. A guy behind me asked what the statuette on the cabinet behind Dylan was, and I told him it was his Oscar. The next song was “Things Have Changed”, so I said “And he won it for this song.” It was a great performance. At my prompting, Gregg bellowed “You deserved that Oscar!” as the applause died down.

Sometimes Dylan shows are roller coaster rides, with some weak moments and some peaks of amazing transcendence. This show rocked from the gate and kicked up a few notches in the home stretch. “Nettie Moore” was really wonderful, with Dylan’s organ doubling Donnie’s viola to create the illusion of a string section. “Summer Days” seemed a bit perfunctory until the guitar break in the middle; after correcting Stu’s volume level, Dylan kicked the tempo up by gestures and pointed glances, and when it was rocking as fast as it would go he barreled into the final verse. “Gonna break the roof in - set fire to the place as a parting gift.” Can’t say he didn’t warn us.

“Ballad of a Thin Man” followed, the high point of the evening for me. It was as if he had rearranged this song so many times that he had actually worked his way back around to the original. His organ swooped and hooted like Garth Hudson on a merry-go-round, and his sneer was vintage 1965. I was writing the song down on a piece of paper when he said “you walk into the room/with your pencil in your hand…” Stung, I put the pen and paper in my pocket and hoped nobody thought less of me for it. Dylan took an actual organ solo in the song, and later followed it with a harp solo. It was a strong end to a strong (if fairly unremarkable) set.

Encore was “Thunder On The Mountain” followed by a so-so version of “Blowing In The Wind”. I looked around me, marveling as always at the wonderful cross-section of America you see at a Dylan show. All ages, it seemed, except I didn’t see any babies. And everybody seemed to be having an absolutely wonderful time.

The band did their stare-down at the end. Dylan exchanged hand signals with George Recile and sort of grinned. He seemed in a good mood. I know I was.

I tried to buy a poster of the night’s show, and the last one sold just as I was getting out my credit card. We went out into the clear August night as sirens split the air, and drove to South Street where we had cheese steaks and more beer. We drove past City Hall, Independence Hall, and Ben Franklin’s grave before we steered for home.

I’m surprised others found this show sub-par. It may not have had any startling moments of sheer absolute brilliance, but it was a splendid night of great songs played by a great band, and Dylan’s performance was strong and focused. He played harp in five songs, and was in better voice than I’ve ever heard him. He looked great, sounded great, and gave me every penny’s worth of my ticket price. I was uplifted by the night, happy to be on the same planet with Bob Dylan.