Last year, rock and roll legend Bob Dylan almost died from a cardiac infection. Last Friday, he performed before a sold-out FleetCenter in downtown Boston. Unfortunately, the condition of his vitality did not exhibit much variance between the two occasions. The old bard has clearly lost his touch, but that didn't stop the girls sitting in front of me from trying to resurrect some of his old spirit. The young women filed in before the lights in the arena had gone down, eight of them in all, all done up in tight tops and black go-go pants. They weren't exactly the sort of kids you'd expect to see at a gathering of nostalgic Baby Boomers. They looked like they'd gotten lost on their way to party at the Spee. They couldn't have been older than 16.

Hoping to set the stage for a genuine mind-altering experience, the girls turned to their smuggled flasks of Wild Turkey immediately after settling into their seats. I watched as they passed the liquor among them, hoping that perhaps they might decide to offer some to the fellow revelers sitting around them. Apparently, the spirit of communal property that defined the 1960's is one hallmark of that era that has not survived. I was denied a swig and had to endure the rest of the evening in a painfully sober state.

By the time Dylan took the stage and began wailing out his incomprehensible opener, the schoolgirls had finished off their alcohol and moved on to a more appropriate vice--the ganga. As they climbed to new levels of consciousness on the sweet smelling wisps of burning grass, they rose to their feet and began swaying rhythmically to Bob's mellow groove. It was not long, however, before the girls lost their balance and sank back into the comfort of their hard plastic seats.

Next, the free lovin' began. Imagine my surprise when the three girls sitting in front of me suddenly turned to one another and began affectionately nibbling on each other's faces. What might have been a contained instance of drug-induced, same-sex experimentation soon erupted into a frenzied orgy of kisses, as the girls began sloppily doling out affection to every member of their party they could get their hands on. As Dylan launched into another unidentifiable song from his new album, and the school girl groping fest continued to pick up speed, I looked around at the crowd of aged hippies. To whom do I owe the amusement of this sordid and poignant spectacle, I wondered? On stage, a burnt-out Dylan tried to work the crowd, still trying to squeeze some life out of his legend. In front of me, eight young women performed a historical re-enactment, a little tribute to the hedonistic achievements of the preceding generation.

What was the meaning of the '60s? What is our inheritance from that tumultuous era? Few seemingly academic questions are as hotly contested in contemporary political battles. I do not possess the expertise to pass judgment on the meaning of the decade. But its legacy is an entirely different matter. It has less to do with what the decade actually meant, and more to do with what those 16-year-olds at the concert believe it meant. Those who remember the '60s favorably herald the decade as a triumph of progressive reform and popular empowerment. Maybe it was. But what are we left with now?

Arguably the most significant achievements of the '60s were the victories of the civil rights movement. Yet today race relations are in an abysmal state. Lyndon Johnson championed the Great Society. Thirty years later, we're still trying to sort out the welfare system while our inner cities spiral into decay. As for the Vietnam War, student activism helped bring about an end to that. But that activism also entrenched a vitriolic suspicion of patriotism that still pervades college campuses across the country.

The actors of the '60s can boast laudable accomplishments, both in the arena of political improvement and cultural development. Unfortunately, the legacy of the decade has been stripped of its socially nutritious content. We've elected another philandering playboy to the oval office, but rather than inspiring visions of Camelot, he plombs new depths of sleaze like Jacques Cousteau in an ocean of immorality. We still listen to rock and roll, but while The Beatles have earned their place in the history books, it is unlikely that Oasis, Hootie or any other group of pathetic mimeographers will be remembered beyond the next Billboard cycle.

When the baby-boomers and the 16-year-old girls gathered last Friday in the FleetCenter, it was obvious that we still live very much in the shadow of the '60s. But it was equally obvious that the fire that fueled the brilliance of the era has long died out. Dylan's voice is still a nasal whine, but his lyrical efforts can no longer redeem it. Youthful abandon continues to stretch boundaries, but any spirit of adventure has been replaced by sad desperation. Halfway through Dylan's unintentionally elegaic performance, my schoolgirl friends stopped drinking, smoking and fondling each other. They sat slumped in their chairs, staring blankly into the vacuous arena. Suddenly, one girl vomited onto the middle-aged couple in front of her. As the couple leapt up in horror, the girls took their ill companion and stumbled out the nearest exit. It is a shame they had to leave so early. Dylan's closing number, "Rainy Day Women, #12 & 35" with its refrain, "everybody must get stoned," brought the crowd to its feet. I'm sure the schoolgirls would have loved it. But I was disappointed. I had come to the concert hoping to hear "Blowin' in the Wind," and Dylan never played it. Perhaps a song like that just doesn't have much appeal anymore.

Noah D. Oppenheim '00, a social studies concentrator, lives in Adams House. His column will appear on alternate Fridays.