“I’m a man of contradictions,” sang Bob Dylan at the opening of his three-night stand at the Cadillac Palace Theatre. “And a man of many moods.”
That he is, and on Friday, all points led back to those proclamations during a nuanced, 110-minute performance that found the iconic artist in an engaged, borderline gregarious state of mind. The famously all-business singer-songwriter spoke to express his gratitude on several occasions and even treated the near-capacity crowd to a rare sight: a wide grin underlining his appreciation.
More importantly, Dylan sounded relatively clear, his revitalized voice still free of the congested rasp and cragginess present during countless shows in the aughts. A welcome thing, too, since he framed most arrangements around inventive vocal phrasing and understated piano lines. Wearing shades of black and gray, a capable band followed his lead, largely hanging back in the shadows to better allow songs a chance to insinuate, linger, simmer or strike.
Together, the sharp-dressed Dylan and his support quintet — newly refreshed by the addition of Jerry Pentecost on drums — drew heavily from the 2020 double LP “Rough and Rowdy Ways.” They served as guides through hybrid rockabilly, country and folk landscapes strewn with bloodlust, pain, greed, wrath and power struggles. A longtime wearer of masks, Dylan seldom reveals his overt intent. Yet the connections to contemporary situations and issues were impossible to miss.
For good measure and balance, the Minnesota native threw in a bit of romance. And, specifically for Chicago, a pair of well-chosen blues covers to bookend the proceedings. In particular, “Born in Chicago,” a stark commentary on gun violence originally recorded by Paul Butterfield Blues Band. Members of that group backed Dylan when he plugged in, polarized his fan base and transformed popular music at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival.
At 82, Dylan continues to provoke and shape. He remains a social scholar and master of unpredictability, the equivalent of an analog enthusiast living in a digital era. Fans attending his Chicago dates were mailed physical tickets that look like tear-off stubs saved as souvenirs from events in the late ’80s. No visible barcodes, so small they fit in the palm of a hand. Everyone also placed their phones in sealed pouches upon entrance. So much for any social media posts.
Indeed, in an era in which any promise of astonishment usually gets derailed by the incessant rush to flood channels with information, Dylan stands as an outcast determined to preserve the sanctity of surprise. Years often pass before he issues a new album with scant notice. His most recent LP (“Shadow Kingdom”) aptly sees the veteran reinterpret 13 of his earlier works — a creative method that’s informed his concerts for decades.
Last year, he released a book. Not a sequel to his celebrated “Chronicles: Volume One” (2004) memoir but an homage to songwriting and the practitioners he believes nailed the craft (“The Philosophy of Modern Song”). That document, too, functions as an extension of a mentality that’s witnessed Dylan maintain a busy tour schedule. Staying on the road and refusing to allow age or trends to dictate circumstance, he embraces the same spirit as the bygone blues legends and turn-of-the-century troubadours who inspired him.
That ethos informed even the few well-known cuts Dylan and Co. played, each receiving inside-out treatments that revealed fresh meanings, angles and possibilities. Rather than viewing favorites such as “Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine)” as sacrosanct classics that should be preserved in amber, the singer-pianist treated them as pieces of clay to be molded and tweaked.
“When I Paint My Masterpiece” ventured so far from its original incarnation as to feature a few lyrical twists before conveying the zeal, color and commotion of an outdoor European market. A telltale sign every instance it happened, Dylan shot up from his piano bench and stood to pound the keys, the transition combining with his band’s rhythmic shuffling to conjure the jubilant exchanges of an ensemble woodshedding in a garage or basement. “Gotta Serve Somebody” similarly benefited from an overhaul, its basic truths dispensed amid honky-tonk accents and call-and-response guitar riffs.
His right foot visibly bobbing under the piano, Dylan proved just as commanding and controlled on balladic material. He strolled through “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” sans accompaniment until the midpoint when his band entered and laid down upbeat boogie-woogie grooves. The tune soon resumed its languid pace, the tempo trickery ceding to Dylan’s fine croon and declarative warmth. As for “That Old Black Magic”? Dylan possessed that, too, figuratively as well as on a frisky rendition of the Johnny Mercer staple that adopted the train-whistle cry of a pedal-steel guitar and clatter of railroad cars rolling down a track.
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Save for a stomping, spring-loaded romp through “Goodbye Jimmy Reed,” Dylan opted for a pensive, reflective approach to the wealth of recent material. He relied on his voice, and trusted his band to respond to how he stretched or shrank syllables; emphasized or suspended certain words; snapped at or snuggled against rhymes; and used his cadence as a percussive tool. Dylan struck conversational tones and relayed lyrics in cool, deceptively calm manners. He couldn’t be ruffled, and unlike the strings of notes and off-kilter time signatures that traced zigzag patterns, wouldn’t bend.
Admirable qualities when overseeing tales involving pirates, braggarts, rogues and apparitions. Dylan delivered threats and avowed vengeance with a proverbial smile. He reveled in the exaggeration, absurdity and humor embedded in the intense details, images, symbolism and allusions. Myths or parables, riddles or rhymes: Stripped-back versions of the fever-dream “False Prophet” and epic “Crossing the Rubicon” blended the disciplines, the tenderness of Dylan’s singing seemingly belying the narratives’ implied cruelty and distress.
Or maybe the vocalist was simply coming to terms with the world and his lot, the assuredness an indication of experience, learnedness and the recognition of someone who “can see the history of the whole human race.” Dylan made the latter statement amid the lightly trotting “My Own Version of You,” on which he name-checked Biblical figures, Liberace, Sigmund Freud and Al Pacino among many others.
The black-and-white noir of “I Contain Multitudes” and graceful plea “Mother of Muses” spilled with more references, the songs splitting the middle between good and evil, need and desire. Messy territory, and not for the faint of heart or those lacking fortitude. After more than 60 years of exploring the human condition and winning a Nobel Prize for his efforts, Dylan should know.
The underlying message imparted by his tireless journeys and curious examinations? Keep on keepin’ on.
8 p.m. Oct. 7-8 at the Cadillac Palace Theatre, 151 W. Randolph St.; www.bobdylan.com
Bob Gendron is a freelance critic.
Setlist from the Cadillac Palace Theatre Oct. 6:
“Born in Chicago” (Paul Butterfield Blues Band cover)
“Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine)”
“I Contain Multitudes”
“False Prophet”
“When I Paint My Masterpiece”
“Black Rider”
“My Own Version of You”
“I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight”
“Crossing the Rubicon”
“To Be Alone with You”
“Key West (Philosopher Pirate)”
“Gotta Serve Somebody”
“I’ve Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You”
“That Old Black Magic” (Johnny Mercer cover)
“Mother of Muses”
“Goodbye Jimmy Reed”
“Every Grain of Sand”
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“Forty Days and Forty Nights” (Muddy Waters cover)