Bob Dylan, Thomond Park Stadium, Limerick City, July 4th.
Moments to search for:
Crowding into a car, making your case for which disc should spin, which window should lower for fresh air – the one furthest from you.
An Uncle who has warned us that a “torn jeans” and “white bandanna” combination is ironed and set to be put on display.
You know your ticket is legit, but that skip of a heart beat as it’s scanned.
The crowd tightening.
Open air venue with a ceiling trickle of rain, but the weather forecast is never wrong when negative.
To be reminded further that an aged voice outweighs one of youth.
His back catalogue: songs aplenty, but sing-along’s a rarity.
Itching and yearning for the first roar of harmonica splash.
To be witness to songs that most certainly will be played one day on neighbouring planets.
That charge of hope that at any moment the opening sounds of Queen Jane Approximately will choke the air.
Tightened gut at the realisation that no such moment will he had, no such song will be sung.
Straining one’s eyes for any level of humanity in that black clothed man: a smile, a small jig… maybe even a kick of cowboy heels.
The ride home.
The retelling of those moments that made the time special [for you].
Post concert blues.
Look at that view.
[Look at that Skyline!]