Almost exactly two years after his previous Paris appearances, Bob Dylan returned for a three-night residency at the Grand Rex. Few artists have undergone as many transformations as Dylan. Over the decades he has been a protest singer, folk troubadour, rock star, country gentleman, evangelical preacher, beat poet and elder statesman. The version currently travelling the world is something else again: a weathered, late-night crooner, wandering through the American songbook like a character from a David Lynch film, finding beauty, humour and melancholy in equal measure.
For much of the Never Ending Tour, unpredictability was one of Dylan's defining traits. Setlists changed constantly, arrangements evolved from night to night and familiar songs often emerged in radically altered forms. That approach has largely given way to something more structured. The setlist now remains relatively fixed, while the repertoire has been reshaped to fit the jazz, swing and country-inflected aesthetic that emerged from his recent explorations of the Great American Songbook. In doing so, Dylan seems to have placed himself within that tradition, not as an outsider looking in, but as one of its principal custodians. It is a role he has more than earned. Few living artists can claim to have altered the cultural landscape to the degree that Dylan has. Fewer still remain active while their influence continues to be felt everywhere.
On this final evening of the Paris residency, the eighty-year-old icon was in remarkably good form. Dylan has always operated according to his own vocal standards, and it would be unfair to judge him by the criteria applied to traditional singers. Yet there is a sense that he has grown back into his voice in recent years. The gentler arrangements suit him perfectly, transforming what was once a limitation into an expressive tool. His phrasing is measured, intimate and often surprisingly tender. If there is one weak point, it remains his piano playing. As has been the case for years, he spends most of the concert seated behind the keyboard while Charlie Sexton and Donnie Herron handle the guitar work. His piano style is functional at best and occasionally clumsy. Fortunately, the emotional weight of the performance renders such concerns largely irrelevant.
These songs have become cultural artefacts. Their author was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature and his work is analysed with a seriousness usually reserved for novelists and poets. Yet amid all the reverence, it is easy to overlook a simple truth: these songs are also entertaining. They were written to be sung, played and enjoyed. Throughout the evening, Dylan seemed keenly aware of that fact. Beneath the gravity of the material, beneath the mythology and the historical significance, there was a sense of playfulness. More than once, the famously inscrutable performer appeared to be enjoying himself. More than once, he even smiled. The audience certainly did.
