REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK:Reporter at the county fair

A little skip as he took the stage at the Pacific Amphitheatre Thursday night signaled to my dad that Bob Dylan was feeling all right.

“He’s in a mood to entertain,” he whispered, the excitement apparent in his voice.

When I got the tickets for the show, there was no question in my mind who I was going to take. My 55-year-old dad adores — some might say he’s obsessed with — the singer-songwriter who has topped music charts for five decades.

Most days when I wake about 7 a.m., the hum of Dylan’s guitar twang and poetic lyrics have been echoing through the house for at least an hour. An iconic black-and-white image of the young, pre-amphetamine folk singer is posted prominently among family photos in my dad’s bedroom.

Watching Martin Scorsese’s film documentary “No Direction Home” is a rite of passage for any guest who enters the Brunner home.

So you’d think he’d have gone to his first Dylan concert circa 1967, or at least caught him singing “Maggie’s Farm” in the ‘70s, or “Jokerman” in the ‘80s or even “Not Dark Yet” in the ‘90s, but no.

His first Dylan concert was July 26, 2007, at the county fair.

It’s not that he didn’t want to see Dylan. He just “wasn’t quite ready to encounter this incarnation of Dylan.”

But a pair of free tickets and an eager daughter was enough to spur him, and he decided to go not for the music, but for the man.

“I’m just going to be staring at him the whole time trying to do a mind meld,” he told me as we drove up to the fairgrounds in our Volkswagen van.

Dylan opened the concert with “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35,” and as he sang the final stanza, “Everybody must get stoned,” it was apparent that a good percentage of the audience was well on the way to that state of mind, excluding, of course, my editors and publisher who were also there.

Most of the audience was old enough to remember when Dylan released his self-titled debut album, though their long hair has since receded and tinted sunglasses have been traded in for thin-rimmed spectacles.

For the entirety of the show, my dad leaned in toward the stage, his chin perched on his elbow as he studied the musician before him.

His concentration was interrupted only briefly so that he could comment to me on why Dylan did this or sang that. I think they have a personal connection.

My dad offered an explanation for why it was difficult to recognize some of Dylan’s classic tunes.

“He’s constantly changing his music,” he said.

Or why the stage lights turned off between each song.

“He doesn’t want the audience to see him interacting with the band. He only wants you to see him as a musician.”

For some, the raspy, staccato voice they heard singing songs such as “Lay, Lady, Lay,” “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)” and “Tangled Up in Blue” was a letdown, but for me and my dad, the only disappointment came as the amphitheater’s lights hummed back on at the end of the show, when for the first time in the night, my dad’s body touched the back of his chair.

I think everyone has a private checklist of things to do before they die. One of my dad’s: to see Dylan. One of mine: to see my dad see Dylan.

Editor’s note: Jessie Brunner took her dad, Mike Brunner, to see Bob Dylan Thursday night at the Pacific Amphitheatre.