So Top Management and I recently spent only the second night away from the kids in over ten years. We went down to Greensboro to see my boy Bruce Springsteen perform on only his second solo tour in well over thirty years. Coincidence? I think not.
It’s been nearly a month now since the show. Several folks have written, asking when I was going to write up what passes for my thoughts on the concert. This prodding, of course, only kept forcing me to push it further and further back on the burner. Because I’m, you know, a jerk.
But I also wasn’t sure what I was going to say. I’ve seen Springsteen eight times now, I think, and maybe a few times more. And each and every time has been one of the greatest concerts I’ve ever seen.
But this one was still different. Even for an artist who changes his show every night…this one was different. And just so there’s no question or suspense or nothing, I’ll come right out and say it now: it was brilliant. So that’s not what gave me pause when it came to writing this. Part of it’s simply inertia. Partly it’s just sheer laziness. A big part of it’s my contrary nature. But mixed in there was a part of me that wasn’t sure I was up to the task of writing about the experience. And that even if I was, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t a religious experience for me, although he did talk about religion quite a bit. It was just a very powerful performance by a very, very powerful artist. And a part of me felt that discussing it could in some way damage the fragile thing that is my memory of the show.
But now that a month has gone by, I’ve less trepidation about that. The experience, the performance, the songs, the artist are all more than strong enough to stand up to any clumsy poking and prodding I may do as I reflect on the entire thing.
Springsteen started the show by simply coming out and asking that cell phones be turned off and that folks refrain from clapping, explaining that his sense of rhythm is too tenuous and he’s likely enough to screw up as it is. A very funny and low-key way to get his point across and with very, very few exceptions, the audience was more than respectful; at times it was stunning how quiet seven thousand (or however many were there) people could be.
The opening song was "If I Should Fall Behind," played on the pump organ. From the very first notes of the night, there was no pretense of this being a crowd-pleaser—even when the crowd was made up primarily of hardcore Springsteen fans who knew what they were in for. An usual way to begin any concert, it immediately give an indication of what kind of show this was going to be: like none you’d ever been to before, as musically the song could not have been much more different than the album version. In hindsight, it was also an indication lyrically of what the night had in store, as virtually every one of the concert’s two dozen pieces was a love song, albeit some in very unconventional ways.
And describing the next song as "unconventional" would be an extreme understatement. The laid-back "Reason to Believe" closes his brilliant Nebraska album magnificently; easily read as a "ain’t people awesome!" statement, it’s always struck me as more a "I really can’t believe you—what is WRONG with you people?" kind of question. There was less ambiguity in the live performance, however, as the only musical backdrop was a harsh harmonica accompaniment and the stomping of his boot on a resonator board. Rather than a casual shuffle, the song became a blistering fieldholler, made all the more intense by the fact that he sang—more like shouted, really—through the harmonica microphone, a piece of technology NOT developed for the human voice. The result was distortion just on the edge of—but not quite over—incomprehensibility. I’d heard he’d reworked the song so radically that many long-time Bruce fans, even knowing what was coming, were unable to recognize the tune. I therefore wasn’t unprepared, although I was still stunned by the rendition. Top Management, however, had no such forewarning, yet turned to smile at me happily, recognizing it from the very first line. I’ve rarely been so proud of another human being.
From there the man ran through wonderful versions of a few more songs before getting to "Long Time Comin’," about which I’ve written at length. When it came to this song, Springsteen did something I’ve not only never seen before, I’ve never even heard of a performer doing it before (which, I hasten to point out, does NOT mean it hasn’t been done). Whenever he got a line to which he wanted to draw particular attention—such as the reference to the singer’s father or the entire verse about Rosie’s pregnancy—he not only played the guitar more softly, he actually moved away from the microphone, off to the side.
The result was that his voice got quieter, as did the audience, who had to strain even harder to hear every syllable. But what’s even more astonishing is that as the amplified sound got softer, it allowed those of us close enough to actually hear his voice directly, rather than just through the speakers. It was a surprising, and surprisingly intimate, experience. Top Management seemed to think so, as I actually felt the goosebumps break out on her arms.
And that was really a theme of the entire night: intimacy, the longing for it, the difficulty with attaining it or being open enough to accept it. And although several songs made it explicit—including the incredibly powerful, tremendously moving and just plain gorgeous "Reno"—it was a thread which tied together songs as disparate as "Jesus Was an Only Son" and "Part Man, Part Monkey."
The latter song, the only one I recall being played on an electric guitar (a Gretsch semi-hollowbody, no less), pointed out one of the things that made the evening so remarkable: Springsteen’s often overlooked musicality. Justifiably hailed for his lyrics, his outstanding musicianship is often underrated. But the ease with which he made the transition from acoustic to electric to piano to pump organ to electric piano, often accompanying himself on harmonica, while never singing a bum note, even when soaring in his falsetto, was astonishing.
So he was able to perform, for only the second time ever, I believe, a hidden gem like 1987’s "Valentine’s Day" (also a relative rarity in the Springsteen catalog for being a waltz); interestingly, the song, from the flawless Tunnel of Love album, may be the first time he ever sang longingly or approvingly of the idea of pro-creation, despite the fact that fatherhood was still years away—in previous years, children had tended to be viewed as the death of freedom. Yet here children are seen as something wild and beautiful: "the light of the skies and the rivers, the timberwolf in the pines, and that great jukebox out on Route 39."
This treat was followed by a gorgeous version of "The River," through which Top Management sobbed, making the experience all the more powerful for me, frankly, if a tad soggy.
Springsteen closed the main set with two of his more difficult songs, "The Hitter" and "Matamoros Bay," both of which are quiet, long, and less immediately melodic than most of his material, but he put them over effortlessly.
After that, he waited perhaps a briefer period of time to come out for the encore than any artist I’ve ever seen. I recall someone (Billy Joel maybe?) saying that the way to get an artist to come right back for an encore ISN’T to stomp and cheer and scream and clamp enthusiastically but to do just the opposite. Well, that wasn’t the reason with this crowd—they were screaming as thought their shorts were on fire, but out he quickly came anyway.
The first song he performed was "Waiting on a Sunny Day," a cheery singalong on The Rising tour, its bouncing melody contrasting nicely with its rather dark lyrics. Here, sans the E Street Band and with the tempo slowed slightly, there was no doubt about the implicit darkness. Yet at the end, where Little Steven would have normally taken over the chorus, solo Bruce smiled and said he knew we wanted to, then stepped away from the microphone again. He yelled "C’mon Steve!" and mouthed the words to the chorus, letting the audience know that, at long last, they were not only allowed to sing along, but actually encouraged to do so. It felt like his way of rewarding us for joining in the previous two hours’ worth of work. Would that work were always so bracing and gratifying.
If there was any doubt of his intentions when it came to saying thanks, the next tune erased any such possibility. "Wild Billy’s Circus Story" isn’t exactly his best-known song—or even his fiftieth best-known—but it’s long held a place close to the heart of many of his hardcore fans. Alas, I’m not one: I like it but don’t love it, and if he’d pulled out some relative obscurity, I could have come up with twenty off the top of my head I’d have preferred. But I got what he was going for, and appreciated the gesture, knowing that I may have been in something of the minority on this one. I did wish I hadn’t looked as so many setlists from previous shows, as I was rather envious of some of the other rarities he’d performed. I know, I know, that’s my own problem and I should be happy with what I got—brilliance—rather than bummed by what I missed. What can I say? I’m human. Shocking, I know.
From there he ran through his rhythmically-fascinating deconstruction of "The Promised Land," so different from the normal version it’s almost impossible to reconcile the two musically, other than the fact that they both work magnificently. And as Top Management said, when a 55-year-old Bruce Springsteen sings, "I ain’t a boy, no, I’m a man," it packs a very different punch than when a 28-year-old sang it. Not a better or more powerful punch, but a very, very different one.
The night finally concluded with yet another love song, this one seemingly directly to his fans, yet ironically, the only cover of the night. Suicide’s "Dream Baby Dream" is not quite the most likely Springsteen cover ever—in fact, other than maybe ZZ Top’s "I’m Bad, I’m Nationwide," I can’t imagine a less likely tune for him to cover. And, played on the pump organ, it’s been something of a bone of contention with the longtime fans, half of whom seem to hate it. But even with a catalog as rich as his, I can’t imagine a more fitting and glorious end to the night, as he sang over and over and over, "I just want to see you smile." Given the previous few hours workout, that seemed a somewhat unlikely sentiment at first, and yet it felt absolutely true and right. It was not an easy night for anyone there, least of all the guy up on stage working his ass off, yet in the end it felt like we’d all made a journey together which had lasted considerably longer than a hundred and thirty minutes.
The concert was unlike any other I’ve ever seen. It was challenging, it was mature, it was sophisticated, it was difficult, it was uplifting, it was dark, it was depressing, it was rewarding, it was brilliant.
It was music made by an adult for adults. It was not for those who see the world in black and white, or seek easy answers to complex questions. It was for those who can acknowledge that there are troubled times and sometimes it’s hard to know just what the right thing is in every situation. It was for those in search of catharsis and redemption and are willing to put in the effort to understand those things and do the work necessary to achieve them. It was not for everyone, and there was never any pretense about that. It was for those who are interested in exploring some of the finest art being created today.
I once read an overview of Springsteen’s career that said something like "with Bruce Springsteen we’re getting what we were denied by Elvis’s death: the chance to watch a great American rock and roller grow up and mature." He’s not a kid anymore. When he was, he wrote for kids—albeit kids with particularly outstanding taste. But as he’s aged, so has his music matured. The door’s still open but the ride’s still not free. As he once said, "if you wanna play, you got to pay." The price may be steep, but it’s worth it. It’s worth it.
Oh joy! Your review. Thank you. Thank you for giving me the chance to relive the experience again through your lens. We had a different set list but there was enough overlap in the songs you highlighted that I felt like I got to enjoy the show one more time.
I loved that you said this:
"It was music made by an adult for adults. It was not for those who see the world in black and white, or seek easy answers to complex questions. It was for those who can acknowledge that there are troubled times and sometimes it’s hard to know just what the right thing is in every situation. It was for those in search of catharsis and redemption and are willing to put in the effort to understand those things and do the work necessary to achieve them. It was not for everyone, and there was never any pretense about that. It was for those who are interested in exploring some of the finest art being created today."
I also feel that Bruce, Bono and Sting are three artists who've given us lyrics that speak to adults while having caught our loyalty while we were young. We trust them to sepak to us now because they spoke to us then.
Bruce is rare, though. He's American. He knows our roots, our culture, our unique American idealism and angst. His voice and musicianship are added dynamics that make the message come alive.
Thanks Scott. Sorry for nagging. :)
Julie
Posted by: Julie | Friday, August 26, 2005 at 09:33 AM