The New American Music Union Festival Report

9:15 P.M.
Mr. Connected has been holding onto eight unused concert tickets all weekend, and now I understand why. On a grassy hill outside the backstage entrance, he spots some members of the Dockers and Rockports crowd who came to see Dylan but couldn't get in. Mr. Connected hands them tickets gratis, and I watch their faces light up with a glee that tells me they wish their own grandchildren were half that nice to them.

9:31 P.M. Darkness. The murmur of the crowd swells into a palpable roar. When the stage lights come back up my first thought is that the Zorro hat perched atop Dylan's head has a brim wide enough to obscure his face. For a moment, I wonder if my Dylan body-double conspiracy theory could be true. I realize right away this can't be the case, because if Dylan

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had hired an impersonator to appear in his stead, he most likely would have gotten one that could sing. The mumbled vocals on this very loose version of "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" are so bad it takes me nearly three minutes to actually figure out what it is. For the rest of the uninspired set Dylan's voice is croaky, his phrasing loose and his band delivers the whole thing in a very hazy countrified swing. Not once during the first three songs does he even acknowledge the audience or even look out at them. However, that's not the reason I'm pissed. I'm fuming because from the crowd comes a blinding avalanche of camera flashes. Those of us with photographer laminates were made to lock up our gear under penalty of belt whippings by Live Nation's security goons and now the one guy we couldn't shoot is awash in as many flash pops as Barry Bonds record-breaking homer at bat. I look over at Mr. Connected and he shares the same thought as we try to enjoy the latter-day material that makes up most of the set's repertoire. "Nettie Moore" is not what this crowd came to hear, as displayed by the early exodus for the exit. Spending the whole evening at a keyboard facing the side of the stage, Dylan doesn't pick up a guitar even once. If what I am seeing and hearing is any indication of what he'll bring to the stage this year, his would be a tour best renamed "Dylan Goes Eccentric." The performance was not a complete disaster for the diehards, however, as Mr. Zimmerman did manage to reach into his back catalog for crowd-pleasing renditions of "Tangled Up in Blue" and the very encore-worthy "Like a Rolling Stone," which he mostly mumbled through. It's sad to say, but this nascent festival's big headliner did not deliver. And as a result it felt like the very otherwise feisty New American Music Union went out with more of a whimper than a bang. But at the end of the day, given the obvious young demographic in attendance, seeing Dylan was a bonus and not the big draw, so there are very few unhappy faces at the exits.

11:10 P.M.
It's over. After nearly a year of planning, the first New American Music Union comes to a close. I bump into Mike from American Eagle, one of the people instrumental in pulling off this concert, and ask him if there will be a second NAMU next year. With a wink he tells me "You know, Phish is back together." I can already see the wheels spinning in his head. With a grin he turns and leaves.

Sunday, 7:30 A.M.
At the airport. It's way wicked early. I look up, bleary-eyed at my gate and who do I see but Anthony Kiedis in disguise, meaning that he's without his trademark bandanna. I ask him if it's really true nobody asked him to perform with them all weekend. As he turned to board the plane ahead of me, he maintains it is.

"Next year," I mutter to myself, as I watch him board the plane ahead of me. "Next year ..."

To see exclusive live NAMU video performances go to http://www.ae.com/musicfestival.

Mark Yoshimoto Nemcoff is the writer and host of "Things I Learned This Week," which can be found, ironically, at http://ThingsILearnedThisWeek.com.