Raspy Bob gets his inflection and gathers no moss.

I saw Dylan live on Thursday night at the Burswood Dome.
Now, before I get going, there's a couple of things you need to face up to before you make your entry into a Dylan concert.

First, you're seeing one of the living legends and great poets of our time doing his thing. And, second: Bob's thing is Bob's thing.

There's a few more things you should know about a Dylan concert. Unless you make some serendipitous stumble of the highest order, you're probably going to be seeing him in a venue way larger than ideal. This was certainly true of the Burswood Dome (as it was when I saw him in 2002 at the Perth Entertainment Centre).

The next thing you need to understand is that you're not going to see a display of breathtaking pyrotechnics and laser lights. Nor will you see electrifying dance moves (although that seemingly rubber left leg can be kind of cute). Indeed, a slick stage is unlikely too—it's not often you see gear on stage at a big show these days, but you could spot Vox amplifiers from a mile off.

You're not coming to see some backing dancers in tight clothes gyrating behind the front man as he 'gets the audience jumpin', jumpin' either. And I realised some way in to the show that being able to do laid back from a position of absolute authenticity is way different to the disinterested charade paraded by some of the generations of artists that have followed in Bob's footsteps.

You shouldn't expect to develop a personal relationship with Bob either. Back in 2002, the extent of his conversing with the audience was a simple 'hello' (or complex? it was hard to tell by the intonation) after about the 10th song. During the day at work, we'd taken punts on the likely word count for Bob. One punter suggested an outrageous 23 words. I was optimistically rooting for 8.

And—final disclaimer—you're not coming to hear dulcet and supple vocal techniques paraded for your aural satisfaction.

But, let's face it, you signed up to see a Bob Dylan concert...you never expected to see or hear any of that stuff.

So, with that out the way, on to the concert.

As Brad, Sherri and I walked across the park from where I work in Burswood to join the others we were Dylan-ing with, I commented that this would be a lousy concert to lay down the ultimatum that 'he better do such-and-such-a-song'. Let's just say the back catalogue is extensive.

We had tidy seats. Silver seats apparently. Beige buckets seats in reality, but well-positioned. I'm pretty sure that someone had lit up incense near our seats. Part of the territory I guess. It was a gentle reminder of Bob's roots and longevity.

He was announced in a similar way to a heavy-weight boxer making his entry into the ring to defend his title. The pre-recorded announcer skimmed Bob's life with intro something like 'Welcome to the stage a poet laureate of the ages. A man who defined the folk era of the 60s, who lost the 70s through substance abuse, who found Jesus in the 80s and reinvented himself in the 90s...'. There he was: 66-year old Raspy Bob inflecting away with a sensational ensemble of players who could well and truly cut it.

And we were off.

Bob and his band carved there way through a swag of songs with only enough time in between to remind themselves what was coming next. You get the feeling with Bob that the words and music are loosely connected at best. Depending on your take, Bob is either a sublime phraser of vocal lines...or he has scant regard for phrasing altogether. I'm not sure which.

It's a little tricky reeling off the set list for Bob. He can play a song that you heard for the first time when you were 10 years old (and many times since) yet you can be half way through the tune before you recognise it. I'm not sure whether every night is different, but there's a fresh interpretation both musically and vocally to so many tunes that you can find yourself mesmerised by the artistic convolution.

What I can tell you is that he and his band effortlessly sauntered through Tangled up in Blue, Lay, Lady, Lay; Don't Think Twice, Highway 61, A Hard Rain's A-Gonna fall, It Ain't Me, Babe. And I can tell you that one of the two encore songs was Like a Rolling Stone.

For the most part though, I found myself sitting there knowing that I was watching an artist who'd had a profound impact on the landscape of music for over 40 years. And that Bob had not only wandered through the wilderness in that time, but seen glimpses of the promised land. Occasionally I asked myself the question; 'why does someone come along to a Bob Dylan concert?'. Sure, the songs have stood the test of time and and the rich texture of his work has not wavered in decades (meandered, sure...but still remained textural!). I think the answer lies in the fact that people recognise greatness above hyperbole.

For the record Bob said three words on Thursday night (if we exclude his introduction of the players of the band). During the encore I was joking with Alsie (Brad's uncle) about the word count betting ring we had going at work. He told me that there were reports that in an earlier concert in the tour he had fixed on 'Thank you friends'. That's what we got—a three word count. It was plenty.