CALGARY - Is there a better way to wrap up a weekend of folk music than with a man who is synonymous with the genre?

Can you think of a more apropos capper to four days of classic roots music and the various other genres that have branched off of it than a concert by the individual responsible for those offshoots?

Actually, yeah -- yeah, last night could have been better.

Bob Dylan, on the 40th anniversary of his song Like A Rolling Stone hitting the charts, could have been playing on the main stage of Prince's Island Park instead of in the Saddledome.

But because of a number of different factors -- scheduling, corporate greed, etc. -- the legend performed in front of 7,000 or so fans in a hockey arena with a sometimes sketchy sound system instead of in gorgeous natural surroundings.

Still, however imperfect the setting and the timing of the show, his Bobness was in excellent form last night.

Kicking off with the seminal -- only one of many tunes from Dylan you could describe as such -- Maggie's Farm, the 64-year-old and his five piece band attacked two hours of his half-century career with an almost workman-like attitude and approach.

While the term workman-like normally denotes a cold detachment to the task at hand, there was an undeniable warmth and even intimacy about the set.

Sure, for much of his career, Dylan has never been one for showmanship, preferring instead to let the depth of the material and skills of himself and whatever players he surrounds himself with sell the show.

And that was definitely the case last night as the man, true to form, had said nothing to the crowd in the first hour and a half except the words which were sung in his charming, nasal mumble.

But in the past decade -- since he's become the consummate road warrior on a never-ending tour, he's played himself into a comfortable place.

And onstage, clad in his (these days) signature white cowboy hat and standing mostly in front of his keyboards, that comfort came through and lit up his country-rock treatments of tracks such as Lay, Lady, Lay.

He doesn't have to worry about his material, he doesn't have to worry about his band -- if they were any tighter you'd need a shoehorn to tell the sound of one instrument from another -- and as you can probably tell from his commercials hawking panties, he doesn't have to worry about his legacy.

He just goes out and plays, seemingly enjoying -- you never know, the man defines stoicism -- still being able to do it and do it well.

If you've seen him on any of his past tours through town, yes it was pretty much by the book. That book, the book of Bob, albeit ragged, dog-eared and worn, is one still worth taking off the shelf every so often and getting re-acquainted with. The classics usually are.