Music: Poet's Return: It's What I Do

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Behind the wooden stage, helicopters leaped like grasshoppers into the peach-colored haze of dusk. Beside the phalanxes of electronic equipment a sign warned: DO NOT APPROACH THE SPEAKER BANKS TOO CLOSELY WITHOUT PROTECTIVE EAR MUFFS. All around stretched an undulating, thick-pile carpet of humanity. Three of the Beatles were there, and three of the Rolling Stones, and celebrities like Actress Jane Fonda and her husband, Film Director Roger Vadim. So were bedraggled pilgrims from Sweden, Holland, Australia, the U.S. and every corner of Britain, many of whom had hitchhiked for days to get there with bedrolls and rucksacks on their backs. For a week, brightly colored tents had dotted the festival grounds. For the past twelve hours, the idolaters of rock had been staked out in choice positions on the grass or aboard knobby limbs of strategically located trees in the arena. They were young. They were more than 100,000 strong. They had come to the Isle of Wight off the English shore at Southampton to witness the first full-fledged public appearance by Singer-Composer-Poet Bob Dylan since he broke his neck in a motorcycle accident in 1966. In the cool evening air, as evident as the sweet odor of marijuana, hung an almost palpable yearning for some sort of transcendent experience.

Out he came in a white suit and a yellow open-necked shirt, altogether a more relaxed and assured-looking figure than the leather-jacketed, unkempt Dylan of old. The hair, once long and wild, was now relatively short. A wispy mustache and thin beard had been added. When he came on, he was greeted by applause that sounded like the roar of surf from the nearby Channel.

Without announcing the titles of his songs, acknowledging applause only with a quick smile or a murmured "thank you," he sang with the new voice and manner first heard on his most recent LP, Nashville Skyline (TIME, April 11). It is far less nasal and rasping than before, far less a mixture of drone and downward slur. The tone is softer, rounder; one note leads gracefully to the next, and the result is just as satisfying in its own way. Unexpectedly bending and holding notes like a crooner, Dylan gave a lyric, wistful quality to the traditional Irish ballad, Wild Mountain Thyme. He introduced no new songs, but older ones like It Ain't Me Babe, once intoned in harsh, jagged phrases, took on new colors and a smoother flow.

All told, he sang 17 songs, including two encores, and then hopped into a waiting car behind the stage and zoomed away into the darkness.

Musically, Dylan's performance was an impeccable job. But his departure left the faithful dissatisfied. Through no fault of Dylan's, he started hours late. The audience, moreover, had expected two or three hours of singing, and found Dylan's 70-minute stand inadequate. Long after there was any hope of recalling him, they moaned and yelled for more.