He’s trying, at least. Wallflowers singer-guitarist Jakob Dylan once squirmed beneath the burden of having one of the most famous surnames in rock. In trying to get through his early concerts while some psycho would call out for “Like a Rolling Stone,” Dylan came off as shy, surly, a touch defensive. Understandable, certainly, but no way to make friends and influence tastemakers in this glad-handing business.
But on Thursday at Metro, the 31-year-old poster boy for the new classic rock was surrounded by worshipers who didn’t give a hoot about pedigrees. They were there for those chiseled cheekbones, those ocean-blue eyes, and, yes, the songs — Wallflowers’ songs, not Bob Dylan’s.
The sense that Jakob Dylan is finally an artist in his own right has had at least a superficial effect on his stage demeanor, thawing out his protective coating of reticence and revealing the ambitious, eager-to-please rock star beneath. A smiling, almost chatty Dylan tried to come off as a more in-the-moment performer, though his attempts at spontaneity were sometimes painfully awkward, particularly a spoken-word interlude that nearly beached “6th Avenue Heartache.” After he mentioned for the fifth time that his album was out this week and that he was “really excited about it,” I found myself yearning for the shy, surly Dylan of old.
Dylan gave dutiful, note-for-note readings of his best-known songs, and the expanded and retooled Wallflowers performed them with workmanlike dispatch. Their sound occasionally suggests a combination of The Band’s rag-mamma-rag soulfulness and Peter Gabriel’s almost mystical sense of despair, but it never quite achieves that intriguing synthesis. Instead, it more frequently suggests the cold, world-weary precision of the Eagles.
His newer tunes — “Sleepwalker,” “Some Flowers Bloom Dead,” “Letters from the Wasteland” — are a downcast bunch, with Dylan ruminating ruefully about public perceptions of himself. He delivered them seductively in a voice with a smoky, real-men-don’t-cry ache. These were elegies soaked in Rami Jaffee’s gospel organ and punctuated by Michael Ward’s well-played but perfunctory guitar solos. This was a polite, well-rehearsed band making polite music for an audience that politely cheered them on.
Everybody loosened up for the old breakthrough singles, especially “The Difference” and “One Headlight.” And though the encore of The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” wasn’t exactly a daring choice it did suggest that the Wallflowers can break outside of their tightly prescribed arrangements and actually rock. Until that happens more consistently, however, the Wallflowers will remain more of a pleasant top-40 diversion than a band to be seriously reckoned with.
