London provides a frequent stomping ground for new iterations of Bob Dylan. Whether it was reinventing his sound or cementing the few flickers of style which remain in his modern swing, the Royal Albert Hall has played host to a passage of time for the legendary songwriter. Supreme quality is found in this, Royal Albert Hall 1966, ripped from the bountiful The 1966 Live Recordings. Breaking these performances down into their sections is the only way to tackle them – they make for such wonderful ways to pass an evening. Live Dylan has the sleight of hand, the little intricacies, which make them such a standout to the studio material. Some will repeat the same tempo and tenacity of their recorded efforts, remaking it on stage as close to the source as they can, and then there is Dylan. Royal Albert Hall 1966 is a legendary piece of work and how lucky we are to hear it in this quality.
Despite this feeling of infinite live recordings and performances, we shall eventually scrape through the barrel. Nothing more to gain, nothing new to hear. After diving into the 1990s and modern-day tours there is sometimes a need to head back to the source. Dive back into the earliest peak, the clarity of his stage presence and the fresh additions made to contemporary material which is now shrouded in legend. The one-man and his guitar approach of these early showcases is all you need. All Dylan needed to keep the songs interesting and relevant not just to an audience but to himself. No wonder he is content to play around with the grand piano strokes applied to the likes of It Ain’t Me, Babe and All Along the Watchtower. It is as much about subversion as it is about keeping the contemporary light burning. “This is not a drugs song,” he says before Visions of Johanna.
Such is the case of British press understandings, as early as The Beatles and as late as today. Dylan challenges the audience and the press of the time – a bold move if he does not have the topics to back it up. He has more than enough in this acoustic beauty, the passage of time completely removed and unnoticed as you lean back into this Dylan masterclass. A well-timed and masterful song which benefits more from the acoustic simplicity than anything else. But nothing about what Dylan does is simple. Even those strumming styles which make up the bed of instrumental warmth for Visions of Johanna is complex in its way. Shifting and shimmering as it does, it marks one of many real highlights for this set. A flash of genuine perfection here, a moment where the fundamentals of the song are unchanged but the slight infliction of a new tempo, a change only aware to those who have sifted through the rubble of live recordings, can be heard.
Dylan maintains a constant and daring experience for his audience here which hears him play to the very best of his abilities. This is as close as you can get to a greatest hits performance, the very thing so many passive fans are wanting from him now. But those moments of perfection, of looking back at the best works, happened on their initial release. Royal Albert Hall 1966 is where it took place. That first side of acoustics is masterful – a little slower in spots than were to be expected with Just Like a Woman but the second set of electric wonder is a staggering, inevitable change of pace. Stunning acoustic works like Mr. Tambourine Man feel like a passing of the torch, a chance for Dylan to play out these essentials of his set before storming into fresh electric material. The switch is flipped. The second side is a booming and rebellious electric flurry which still holds this shock momentum.
Opening this electric set with Tell Me, Momma, certainly helps. A track which cannot be labelled a classic of the discography but certainly one worth its weight in rockabilly style, in punchy bass numbers and a vocally charged performance which announces the start of a new creative period. Dylan preaches love and refuses to fight the audience on their feelings about this new step. He does not take the bait of discussion not because they mean nothing to him but because they are not part of the creative process. His long spiel before I Don’t Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Have Met) cements this carefree attitude, something which would guide Dylan to higher levels of quality compared to his contemporaries at this time. A monumental performance this is, and the electric set and attitude of Dylan shine on through.
His slow drawl and out-of-it sound ahead of Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues is fascinating. He tells his audience they are talking to the wrong person. That Dylan does not have the answer to their rage, their confusion. If he had the answers to their disinterest, long passed now given what he did with the rest of his career, then he would have given them. But he did not then and does not now. Royal Albert Hall 1966 is a feisty appearance from the legend of the stage who swears, several times, that this will be his final appearance at the Royal Albert Hall. He marked the end of the Rough and Rowdy Ways tour, fifty-eight years later, on the very stage he swore off. It feels like a welcome, full-circle moment, and the conclusion of a titan-like career. What next?
Discover more from Cult Following
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
