And He said, “He that dipped his hand with me in the dish, the same shall betray me. The Son of man goeth, even as it is written of him, but woe unto that man through whom the Son of man is betrayed! Good were it for that man if he had not been born.” And Judas answered and said, “Is it I Rabbi?” He saith unto him, “Thou hast said.”
— Matthew 26:21-25
“I don’t believe you. You’re a liar.”
— Bob Dylan, 1966
Even with 32 years hindsight, it’s hard to gauge the importance of Bob Dylan’s 1966 tour, or the changes it effected. It’s been compared to some of the great artistic impieties of this century: Stravinsky’s debut of The Rite Of Spring, Antonin Atroud’s Theatre Of Cruelty, and, lest we forget, the Bee Gees’ film version of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. But the stakes were higher, the turning point sharper for Dylan. In 1966, the whole world was listening to him, and the world did not like what it heard.
He debuted his electric band back in ’65, at the Newport Folk Festival. The audience there was mortified that Dylan, their great white minstrel, would have the audacity to burn their ears with such brazen, kinetic noise. Things only got worse from there. Dylan toured the States through the rest of the year with The Band — then known as the Hawks — backing him. By ’66 and Dylan’s imminent European tour, Hawks drummer Levon Helm dropped out, utterly deflated by the reception his band was receiving night in, night out.
Several bootleg recordings document Dylan’s European excursion. The most famous of these, perhaps the most famous bootleg period, is Dylan’s “Royal Albert Hall” concert, actually recorded in Manchester at the Free Trade Hall. Columbia’s issue of Royal Albert Hall is a boon for Dylan fans, as it presents the set in crystalline fidelity, but somehow, the officiality of its release contradicts everything Dylan endured and rose above on that night. For May 17, 1966, was one of the most treacherous, anarchic evenings in pop music history.
Dylan began the night with a solo acoustic set. It had been scarcely a year since his last solo tour of England, as brilliantly documented in D.A. Pennebaker’s Don’t Look Back film. But even from these acoustic songs, it’s obvious that Dylan had fully evolved into the impatient, artistic man he was threatening to become in Pennebaker’s film. His voice is soaring, almost jazz-like in the way it floats above and below the melody. And his set list is filled with introspective, hallucinatory observations. The only thing Dylan is protesting at this point is his own cult of personality.
When Dylan and the Hawks plugged in and took the stage for the second set, that cult would be crucified before his very eyes. He begins with “Tell Me, Momma”, a song never recorded in the studio, never officially released until now. Within the first two or three bars, you can hear everything from Greil Marcus’ “old, weird America” to a future pop apocalypse that plays itself out to this day. At 3 minutes, 11 seconds, Robbie Robertson launches into the first of an endless stream of scorching guitar solos. No guitarist on any given evening has ever sounded better.
The audience is stunned, blinded. They applaud more out of reflex than appreciation. Soon enough, they regain their senses, and the battle for the evening begins. As Dylan introduces “Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat”, he’s interrupted by an intentionally misplaced round of applause. He continues with the introduction, but stumbles to find words. His guard is down, and for one fleeting moment, he is vulnerable. The audience strikes with another round of vindictive applause. Dylan regains composure, and struts through the song with confident swagger. But he knows he’s playing a catch-up game now: Audience 1, Dylan 0.
The audience resumes their attack as soon as the song ends, yelling, clapping, stomping. Dylan mumbles to himself, like a child who cups his ears and shouts to keep from hearing a parent’s edict. His rambling trails off, with the only discernible words of the segue, “If you only just wouldn’t clap so hard.” The audience erupts in laughter. Tie game.
Both camps ready themselves for the final battle. And it comes just before the last song of the evening. A pregnant pause precedes “Like A Rolling Stone”, and then the anonymous heretic speaks. One word takes shape in the vapor somewhere between stage and seats: “Judas!” The audience laughs, awkwardly, as Dylan’s impudence quickly turns to scowling anger. “I don’t believe you,” he barks, “You’re a liar.” And then, he turns away from the mike, harnessing his anger, summoning everything he knows. If you listen closely enough, you can hear his instructions: “PLAY FUCKING LOUD! ” A violent snare crack cues the Hawks and they deliver the greatest version of the greatest song from the rock ‘n’ roll era. It’s more viscous (and vicious) than the entire Sex Pistols catalogue. It is played with the fiery inspiration of a Coltrane solo. It is total.
Dylan is not playing to the audience, but rather above them, like the Angel of Death casting his wrath on the Egyptians. His harmonica sears throughout the Free Trade Hall like a wild brush fire. He doesn’t as much sing the words as spit them. He becomes immortal. And then, at song’s end, he has the dignity to float back down to the stage and say, “Thank you.” Dylan 2, Audience 1. Game Over.
