Bob Dylan went through his setlist at a show last year as if he had errands to run afterwards, maybe see a man about a dog. He would pause for just seconds, strut a few steps and exchange nods with the backup band to launch another song. It was the music alone that brought time back to its truthful rhythm, making him one with the piano, microphone, and ether.
All pomp that night was limited to the gold-and-black outfits in which the men were dressed. Dylan said only “Hello” and “Thank you”. Eight thousand pairs of eyes followed him from

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