Last Night in Darien Lake (by Bruce Eaton)

2025-08-08, Darien Lake Amphitheater, Darien Center, NY

Photo by @philly_kingston

Last night, Dylan played “Masters of War” for the first time since 2016. Maybe even more notably, it was the first time ever it opened his show. The show was outside Buffalo in Darien Lake—the site of Dylan busting out the wrench last year. Bruce Eaton, a retired jazz concert producer and the author of a 33 1/3 book on Big Star’s Radio City, was on the scene and reports in.

---

When did I become a Dylan fan?¹ I can’t pinpoint the exact date but do know that in fall of 1965—as a 12 year-old living in suburban Buffalo, NY—I wrote Bob a fan letter asking for an autograph. I’d previously had success writing my favorite baseball players with similar requests. With a nice personal note attached to a self-addressed stamped postcard, I had a 100% hit ratio with all my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates (thank you, Roberto Clemente).

As rock and roll pushed baseball aside in my adolescent brain, I thought I’d try my autograph strategy on rock stars. All of the British bands across the Atlantic seemed too far away to be real people. Dylan lived in Greenwich Village—as it turned out, just around the corner from my grandmother’s apartment on Washington Square. I could picture him walking underneath her window overlooking the chess boards. In my letter, I complemented the bard on his poetry and asked if he could write out a verse of the recently released “Positively 4th Street,” figuring that by not asking for an obvious choice like “Blowin’ In The Wind” or “Like A Rolling Stone” he’d know that I was a true fan. A few weeks later I got back my envelope and paper with a signature on one sheet. I filed it away for posterity and soon came to understand how highly unlikely it was that Bob Dylan was personally answering his mail. Okay then, but still a good story.²

I could not have possibly imagined back then that sixty years later I’d be taking an 11 mile drive from my home to see Bob for the umpteenth time. As I’ve aged, Bob is the only artist who remains an automatic “go see” for me when he’s in the region, even when that involves going to the Darien Lake Performing Arts Center. While the “PAC” moniker might conjure up an image of symphony orchestras, light opera, and Broadway revues—maybe even a Moody Blues tribute band—in reality it’s yet another soulless concrete pad with a big burnt-out lawn out back, all tacked onto a second-rate amusement park originally known as Darien Lake Fun Country. The outbuildings around the amphitheater give it a real trailer park vibe. Overall, it’s that rare place where you can get a corn dog that’s scorching hot on the outside and frozen solid in the middle (an event that traumatized my then-toddler son for life, or so he claims). In other words, a dump, thirty-some miles east of Buffalo and right down the road from the long-time residence of Mark David Chapman.

The venue presents serious music fans with a hard choice: is it all worth it, knowing full well that the Chainsaw Massacre zombies walking back and forth across your sightline (and back and forth and…where are they going, and do they ever get there?) or the Bud Light-fueled incessant chatterers might awaken previously unknown homicidal impulses? For me, the prime experience of a Dylan performance is catching all the little nuances. The micro-interplay between the players. Bob’s never-the-same-twice vocal interpretations. The ever-shifting arrangements. Bob’s nods and cues, smiles and frowns. These are the things that for me make a Dylan concert unlike few other experiences in our world: spending time in the presence of a genius for the ages who is still creating in the moment, not recreating past glory. An enormo-shed is far from the ideal environment to say the least.

On the other hand, we all have to accept that opportunities to hear Bob live might necessarily soon dwindle and then inevitably come to an end. Father Time remains undefeated, as even Frankie Valli will eventually learn. So, reinforced by great memories of an incendiary performance by Bob at Darien in 1997—one that recharged my interest to an atomic level—I headed down the road.

We arrived midway through the Turnpike Troubadours set (getting in and out of the parking lot at Darien can be a nightmare). No one was on hand to collect the $30 parking fee, but I quickly gave up some of the savings when my I was forced to pay $10 to check my binoculars (Google’s vaunted AI told me they were allowed). We settled into our seats: front row of the second section back, right in line with the left speakers. There’s only one other person in our box seat area and he’s there for Bob, having first see him in 1980. Undoubtedly, he won’t be shouting out requests for “Hurricane.” So far, all is good. The Troubadours’ generic modern country doesn’t exactly fire up the crowd much behind their smattering of fans (in contrast to Plant / Krauss or Mellencamp last year). My thought was that Bob has some heavy lifting to connect with a crowd that seemed more into drinking than listening.

Ray (Padgett, our gracious host) advised me that I needn’t necessarily do a blow-by-blow walk through the setlist but despite having another framework in mind going in, the performance almost dictated me doing so. This was by far the best Outlaw set I’ve witnessed and it hit peak level right out the gate, firing on all cylinders. No perfunctory warm-up songs. Solid gold from the get-go.

As usual, the band takes the stage with no fanfare. My ears are perked for “4th Street” but someone hits a dramatic minor chord while the band plugged in that sounded like “Ballad of a Thin Man” was first up. Wrong. A few muffled lines in and it hits: “Masters of War!” I’ve already read a few conjectures online that this was a nod to the anniversary of Hiroshima. But if you want to draw lines, I could be convinced by the downright ferocity of the performance that it was a nod to the recently departed Ozzy Osbourne (“War Pigs”). Unlikely, but the band has a heavier sound than usual and they are in mid-set form. Bob Britt is right out front playing a memorable counterpoint line with some real bite to Bob’s vocals during the verses. An early observation is that Dylan has let Britt off the leash a bit: sharing a lot more of the solos and letting him flash a bit. It’s a sharp contrast to the Outlaw show I saw last year where J.D. McPherson (Plant / Krauss) made me wish that Dylan would let Britt step out. He can most certainly play, but I’m reminded of the line from This Is Spinal Tap: “Yes I Can, if Frank says I can.” Apparently Dylan is telling Britt “Yes you can.”

Ray’s recent report emphasized the word “jaunty.” There’s a lot of that throughout the set, but the words I write down most often for this show were “heavy” and “groove” and, as the set develops, “slinky.” There’s a deep bottom to the sound that hits harder than I’m used to hearing from Dylan. Some of that is due to Anton Fig being locked in tight. The bass drum is more prominent in the mix than usual in the mix and it’s all right there without sounding mechanical. But primarily the heavy groove is coming from Tony. He’s playing a Fender (or Fender-style; my binoculars would have been handy) bass. There’s a noticeable deep bass presence that he doesn’t get from from his Warwick or double bass.

It’s immediately apparent that Bob is in better than fine vocal form. I’ll even go out on a limb to say that this was the best I’ve heard him sing live going back to 1974. The barks and growls and lines delivered in staccato are strategic, not rote. But he’s by turn tender (another word I wrote down more than once), poignant and even, soaring. Each line is carefully delivered while he draws from his full range.

Heading in, I wondered if the success of A Complete Unknown would have any effect on the general, non-Bob audience. I’m not sure, but opening with a song featured in the movie doesn’t hurt. There seems to be a bit more overall respect from the crowd – a shift from “he isn’t playing anything I know” to “I guess this guy is really special so maybe I should pay attention.”

One thing that really helps is that Bob is playing songs that have an overall vibe that works with a large summer crowd. You don’t need to have ever heard “I Can Tell” for it to connect. It’s speaks in the universal language of the blues, as if you’ve just walked into a Southside Chicago bar in the Sixties and the band is killing it with a funky loping groove. Bob Britt’s Telecaster-twang conjures up early period Mike Bloomfield before he switched to a Les Paul. It’s a given that with a festival lineup there will be yakkers, but it occurs to me that Bob has figured that if the groove is right, the crowd will be more engaged regardless of the song. Of course, a predominantly greatest hits set plotted out to whip the crowd into a crescendo might solve all that, but we know that’s not in the cards, nor would we want it to be (okay, maybe once would be cool). I don’t know if it’s been noted elsewhere but “I Can Tell” was the title song of a John Hammond Jr. album from 1967 featuring Robbie Robertson and Rick Danko (as well as “Billy” Wyman). Bob would have undoubtedly been familiar with the album when it was released. But, know it or not, it lands with the crowd.

“Forgetful Heart” might be a relatively tame ballad if not for the heavy-echo sharp stabbing chords that break it up. They’re like sonic tasers that prod the audience into staying attentive. There’s some gorgeous interplay between the two Bobs and the song ends to enthusiastic applause. Dylan has become a master of using dramatic accents to goose an arrangement to great effect. This is a prime example.

“Axe And The Wind” takes us right back to Chicago. Another slinky groove (those words again). Now that Bob has shined a bit of a spotlight on “Wild Child” Butler, here’s hoping that his next Butler cover is “Hippy Playground.” (I highly recommend Butler’s early Jewel sides. Lots of songs ripe for covers.)

The waltz time and general familiarity of “To Ramona” connects again. Bob delivers gorgeous lines and it’s now apparent that we’re in for a special night. Check out “no one is better than you” when the recordings emerge. It features with first of several beautiful harp solos. They are all beautiful, but the’s the norm. I can’t think of the last time I heard a harmonica solo was a dud.

Ray’s dreaded “Early Roman Kings” is up next. It’s an original, but most of the crowd doesn’t know that or care. The basic “I’m A Man” riff is as familiar as “Louie, Louie.” My family spent Christmas in 1966 at my grandmother’s apartment in Greenwich Village. Walking around the neighborhood you’d encounter at least two harmonica-blowing hippies on every block playing the same riff over and over and over. Duh-duh-da-duh. Duh-duh-da-duh. (A friend who lived in London during the same period told me years later that it was also was common phenomenon there.)

The band is pumping out a, yes, slinky groove, Bob Britt snarling and barking, while Dylan’s vocals are darn-near smooth in contrast. The rumbling piano riffs that Dylan used to lean into between the verses have given way to Britt’s terse solos, another indicator of him being elevated in the overall landscape. I’ve somehow focused over the years on the how Bob delivers the line “Ding, dong, daddy, you’re coming up short.” Tonight it doesn’t have its usual sneer but I don’t care. We likely all have our favorite lines, and that’s one of mine

The jaunty “Under The Red Sky” is delivered on the nose. Britt adds some pedal steel licks on his Tele, and Bob takes the song out with another generous harp solo. I’ll have to check on a recording, but my impression is that Bob is soloing on piano a bit less than usual, with harp and interplay with Britt getting more time. Again, the rhythm makes the song immediately accessible and the crowd bobs along (no pun intended). It’s not Yacht Rock but it has a similar light swing. (Q: Could Jaunty Rock the next big thing?)

As a Charlie Rich fan of many decades, I could probably pick at least several dozen of his songs I’d love to hear Bob cover. But what would he care? He’s chosen this one and nails it. Despite it being yet another largely unfamiliar song, the crowd seems to be listening (mostly—there are people who would talk through a Beatles reunion). Bob’s vocal soars at times. Even if you don’t like the Sinatra albums (I love them), there’s no denying that however he prepped his voice to record them, the experience had a tremendously positive effect on his vocals.

“All Along The Watchtower” has been the song that’s inspired one of the greatest covers of a Dylan song (Hendrix) and many atrocities (I’m looking at you, Dave Matthews). The original three-chord progression has been expanded and rearranged but it’s soon recognized and gets some people on their feet. I wrote “slow burn” and that phrase is a good overall description of the entire set. Doug Lancio plays a solo on acoustic. It’s a shame that his guitar work is often lost in the mix; I wonder if Bob has it higher in his monitor feed. Anton Fig is so constantly on the mark that you doesn’t draw much attention. He’s just always right there. Unlike last summer’s tour, Bob isn’t giving the drummer any dirty looks. As the biggest “hit” so far in the set, it brings the crowd to its feet for an ovation.

“Til I Fell In Love With You” has no set rhythmic pulse. Just Bob at the piano with the band rumbling in stops and starts. Notes, riffs, cymbals, beats shooting out left, right and center. Mid-song, Britt casually walks over to his amp to get a sip of water—the first time I recall that he’s not laser-focused on Bob. (Will Bob pull a James Brown and fine him $25 after the show?) There are whoops and hollers after each salvo. Bob says “thank you” after the song, his only speaking line of the concert from my hearing vantage. (He did not introduce the band.)

Fig lays down the “Wipeout” beat for “Desolation Row” and the dedicated Bob-fan portion of the crowd erupts. After all, this venue was where Bob debuted his percussive wrench skills last year. There’s a serious effort to clap along but it doesn’t quite synch with the band without Mr. Goodwrench leading the way and it dies down by the second verse. Over the beat, Britt plays a Chuck Berry-like chunka-chunka figure. Bob lays down some almost barrelhouse-like piano. As throughout the evening, there’s a lot of space in the arrangement and Doug turns in a fine acoustic solo. Yet another fine harp solo closes it out.

The heavy syncopation in “Love Sick” again works some subliminal magic. Britt plays prominent lines as counterpart to Bob’s vocals. The band sounds even menacing at times. Big cheers at the end.

“Share Your Love With Me” is perhaps a nod to Richard Manuel. Or not. At this point Bob can take a risk knowing that an old-school ballad might lose the crowd, if he even cares. Before the song the band huddles around the piano, as if to make sure they get the arrangement right. Upon learning that the band was in a recording studio near Albany for a few days during the week, my guess was that it was little rehearsal before the current tour leg, not a recording session. Bob’s vocals soar over a jaunty beat and the performance is certainly enjoyable and short enough that there’s not time for the crowd to tune out.

While the crowd applauds, the band huddles around the piano again for the first time and then rolls into “Positively 4th Street” Big cheers of recognition follow. It briefly occurs to me that, sixty years later, Bob is finally answering my fan letter. As we’ve heard with recent live versions of “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” and “It Ain’t Me Babe,” there’s a darn-near transcendent quality to Bob’s vocals. The bite of the original version has been sanded-down, replaced by a near-wistfulness that comes with age, reinforced by the vocals being right on top and crystal clear. It conjures up aging boxing champion adjusting form to stay on top. Just plain fantastic.

In recent years, I’ve thought that “Highway 61 Revisited” was predominantly a throw-away: an uptempo boogie number as a bone to the crowd. Tonight it’s toned down and a bit jaunty (sorry, couldn’t resist). The rumbling piano riff between lines are gone. In their place is Bob Britt channeling Bloomfield’s slide on the recording. Nothing flashy, just right. The band is in once again in the pocket and leaving Bob enough room to sing in hushed voice at times. I’m taking it off my “please play something else” list for now.

There’s another huddle before “Blind Willie McTell,” perhaps to get the rhythm right. It’s a late-night slinky saunter that sounds just fine but, in the only indication that Bob is displeased, he claps out the rhythm pattern he’s looking for mid-song. He gets it across without using pulling out the wrench. (Does he admonish the band with “don’t make me pull out the wrench” like a parent might do?)

We’ve now reached the end, where the artist is usually working overtime to whip the crowd up into a big whoop-de-do. “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” takes the opposite tack. It’s played with gorgeous understatement with some jazz chords even peeking through. Bob exhales the line “but it’s alright” with sublime tenderness. Somehow subtle but right in your face. There’s nothing to do but sit back and soak it all in. Bob takes it home with yet another beautiful harmonica solo. He’s up from the piano and in the “see ya” line in a second, actually clapping along with the crowd in appreciation. And then, off into the night.

I’m not sure if and when I’ll get to see Dylan again, but if this was the last time I’ll remember this concert as an absolute highlight. I just pray that someone captured it properly on tape so all can savor it. If the tour is coming near your town, don’t pass on it.

---

Thanks Bruce! Check out his 33 1/3 book on the Big Star album Radio City. No tape yet, but keep an eye on the Discord for when one appears.

1. Someone recently remarked to me that they’d heard that I was a big Dylan “fan.” I replied that I started out as a fan but now think of myself as a student of the mighty deep river of his work and all the tributaries that have fed into it.

2. With the advent of the internet I began to take screenshots of Dylan’s signature from around this time period. He’s changed his signature over the years maybe even more often than the setlists. I began to see some signatures that matched up closely to mine. When I read that Bob would go into his office occasionally and actually read fan mail, I thought there was a way-outside chance that it might be real. Finally, I paid to have an actual expert evaluate it. He determined that it was indeed likely real. I now have it framed with some stage passes and ticket stubs. I still don’t know if I’d bet real money on its authenticity but it makes the story more interesting for sure.