Bruce in Our Time
The Boss hasn't changed that much. But we have.
I wasn’t feeling so hot, but I took our oldest son to see Springsteen in New Jersey last week. Because, you know, you kinda have to. If you’ve got the means and inclination. It’s Bruce, right? He’s 73 freaking years old. How did that happen to him? And how did that happen to the rest of us?
Now don’t get me wrong. This is not an anti-Bruce screed. The world is lucky to have him, in the same way it was lucky to have Frank Sinatra and Marlene Dietrich who had similarly long careers. He’s written lots of good and great songs, and put on thousands of once-in-a-lifetime shows (well, once-in-your-lifetime). And as noted elsewhere, Springsteen still looks great. He roared through a two-and-a-half hour set at MetLife Stadium, never let the energy flag, bellowed with his full throat, gave his guitar a night on the town, did most of the hits, and generally sent his customers home satisfied.
But I don’t know: It felt a little different this time.
In the past when I’ve seen Springsteen – and I’m a casual fan, not a superfan – songs like “Badlands” and “Born to Run” still seemed like plausible alternatives to the Star Spangled Banner. They didn’t speak to everyone’s experience: I’m sure there are plenty of young, non-transgender and Asian music lovers who never raised a fist in tribute to those “suicide machines” and “hemi-powered drones.” But you could believe Bruce was at least trying to sing for everyone. Trying to be a unifier. He was as close as we could get to being the poet of our parking lots, the Pavarotti of our turnpikes. I mean, c’mon: Walt Whitman was great, but he never got into heavy rotation on AM and FM, and definitely never got the covers of Time and Newsweek at the same time.
But the image was always just an image. Springsteen himself has become increasingly explicit about that. “Now I've never held an honest job in my entire life,” he confessed in his recent one-man show on Broadway. “I've never done any hard labor. I've never worked nine to five. I've never worked five days a week until right now. I don't like it. I've never seen the inside of a factory, and yet it's all I've ever written about. Standing before you is a man who has become wildly and absurdly successful writing about something of which he has had... absolutely no personal experience. I, I made it all up. That's how good I am.”
It's a very good joke. But it began to sour when it was reported that Ticketmaster’s algorithm priced certain Springsteen seats on this tour at $5000. The Boss’s management team was quick to point out that most tickets were closer to a couple hundred, but the bloom was surely off the populist rose a little when I hopped the bus to East Rutherford and walked with my son through the parking lot tailgaters last week.
The vibe outside the arena, as my son noted, was definitely more Disneyworld than Woodstock. Clearly, Bruce wasn’t just singing for the garage mechanics and administrative assistants of the world. There were a lot more Teslas and BMWs than ’69 Chevys from “Racing in the Streets.” But that seemed appropriate for an artist well into the second half-century of his career with countless mega-successful world tours behind him. We were a long way from “Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J.” and even as a young rocker Bruce wasn’t about creating an edgy atmosphere. Inside the stadium, there were a surprising number of empty seats right up until showtime. It was a Wednesday night and when people did fill in they looked well-heeled, slightly hassled and a little distracted, but determined to have a good time anyway. They were there to remember themselves being young. Even for someone as old and pale as myself, it was hard not to notice how old and pale so many of us were – not that there’s anything wrong with that! The sky gradually darkened, a full moon rose, and then Bruce trotted on stage with two football squads worth of accompanists and launched into a very focused and competent version of “Lonesome Day.”
Just to show it wasn’t all Old Farts, a couple of young girls filled in the seats to my right and they sang and danced like it was almost as much fun as a Taylor Swift show. But something still felt off to me as Bruce mugged, yowled, and traded solos with Steve Van Zandt (in fine form himself). And then halfway through “No Surrender,” it hit me. The songs haven’t changed. Bruce hasn’t changed (that much). We’ve changed.
In truth, I’ve always thought of “No Surrender” as a bit of an also-ran in the Springsteen catalogue. But it had its place amid the anguish and celebration of the “Born in the U.S.A.” album. Its polished defiance was a necessary tonic after the shattering disillusion of the title song (for those who actually listened to the lyrics) and pieces like “Downbound Train.” It also made sense that Vietnam veteran John Kerry embraced the song for his equally disillusioning 2004 campaign against George W. Bush. But hearing the song that night made me think about January 6. And not just because of that red baseball cap Bruce famously had in his back pocket in that cover photo.
I’m not saying Bruce Springsteen has anything to do with MAGA. He’s called Donald Trump a threat to democracy and demanded that Trump stop playing “Born in the U.S.A.” at his rallies. What I’m saying is the meaning of those songs has changed in our current climate. You might want to deny it, but the people who stormed the Capitol that terrible day embodied the spirit of “No Retreat, No Surrender” a lot more convincingly than the affable, reasonable-seeming folks who brought their wives and kids (and in some cases, their grandkids) to see the Boss in New Jersey that night.
In fact, you could make a case that Oliver Anthony who recently became an Internet sensation by singing “Rich Men North of Richmond” is closer to the vox populi of today. Or maybe we’re just too segmented in the Social Age for a great unifying voice. Maybe DaBaby speaks for you and Morgan Wallen sings for the dude across the street, and the songs of Bruce Springsteen aren’t built to reflect the “us against them” anger of this period.
Probably that’s how it should be. Bruce’s season in the sun has stretched over many summers. He still speaks to a certain group, but he doesn’t speak for as many as he used to. No one could in present day America. We’re too divided against each other.
Anyway, I’m glad I took my son to see the Boss. It was a good show and we got our money’s worth. But as we caught the bus back to the city, I couldn’t help thinking: If we can’t even agree where the “Badlands” or “The Promised Land” lie, how could we ever be singing the same song about them?
Post-script: Turns out I wasn’t the only one feeling crummy that night. A week after the show, Springsteen announced he was postponing all his September dates on the tour to deal with a peptic ulcer. Like his old song said: Growing Up.