Bob Dylan live in the time of the plague (New England shows revisited) by Harold Lepidus
SCENE: The night after Thanksgiving. A post-apocalyptic vision: It’s a dark, cold, windy evening in the big city, snow flurries on the way. People, bundled up, masked and anonymous, in long lines in front of the Providence Performing Arts Center. An ominous voice warns patrons over the loudspeakers to have their IDs and vaccination cards, or proof of a recent negative Covid test, ready, and to remove their phones from out of their pockets. Across the street, almost an hour before show time, the parking lot is already almost full. An elderly woman is having difficulty with the credit card payment kiosk, while the parking clerk is distracted as he is directing the last few cars into the lot, too busy to help or even notice her. After I was finally able to pay for my parking space, I saw there were two lines to get in, with the wellness check person in the center examining IDs and Covid status. I went for the shorter line on the left. We’re all herded in like cattle. Metal detectors, tick