There's an admirable perversity to one of the world's great lyricists - perhaps the world's greatest - delivering those great lyrics - perhaps the world's greatest - in a voice that regularly borders on damn near incomprehensible.
Dylan's words slur and soar and crash into each other, more rhythmic onomatopoeia than anything else, in a croaking voice that sounds like he's spent the day gargling gravel. It has to be said that against the backing of his crash hot blues band this sounds absolutely fantastic. Grizzled, swampy and, often, quite moving and beautiful.
It also borders on trolling that the man who started a musical revolution, smirking off accusations of being a folk Judas for having the audacity to pick up an electric guitar, spent the evening hammering away at a grand piano.
Dylan did leave it once - doing a snazzy little dance shuffle to center stage to sing Love Sick, heck, he even busted out some unexpected Elvis Presley style, mic stand poses an indication that yes, he was having fun up there - before retreating back to his piano.
His blaring harmonica, as recognisable as his voice, was never far away and when he was really feeling the music, he'd shrug off his famous silhouette to jump up off his seat and play his piano standing up.