Bruce Springsteen
& The E Street Band
Qudos Arena SydneyFeb 7 2017
You’ve perhaps never heard all of the quote that defined -
and nearly crushed - Bruce Springsteen 40 years ago. He wasn’t just ‘the future
of rock n roll’, the suggestion being he was representative of its past and
present as well. Now, with recent political stupidities in his homeland, The
Boss’ strange status as multi-millionaire everyman has him representing those
blue collars – even some with slightly red necks – who still believe we’re all
in this together, rather than looking for someone brown to blame. He’s even
been overtly outspoken in some of the earlier dates of this tour, as the
alternative reality of Trump sank in. With a tour ostensibly built around The River – 1980’s sprawling double
album of rock revivalism, complete with Bruce sporting Elvis-esque sideburns –
maybe these shows are representative of the past, present, and future of
Springsteen himself.
The Springsteen live experience remains an extraordinary
thing. Each the same and yet different. Finding its own dynamic between the
crowd, this so-tight and so-loose band, and events outside the room. After a
Melbourne show where he excoriated America’s [then-]new regime between every
other song, there’s no straight-up lecturing tonight, but following an opening New York City Serenade, sweeping in on Roy
Bittan’s piano cascades and a guest all-female string section - each rewarded
with a handshake and thank you from the head man as they clambered off after
their one-song appearance – there are some recurring themes: American Land’s immigrant hope, Ties That Bind, No Surrender, the still-lacerating 41 Shots (American Skin) and The
Rising’s first responder humanity show there’s still an eye on the country
they’re currently not in.
But there’s still room for some traditions that almost verge
on hokey. The carefully scrawled cardboard sign requests are almost a
competition among the faithful of just how obscure a tune you can throw at a
band that seems to have everything in their leader’s catalogue committed to
muscle memory. My Love Will Not Let You
Down is the deep cut, into the venerable Long Tall Sally, and Hungry
Heart’s towering sour bubblegum, which is the first – but certainly not the
last – to get the crowd out of their seats. That’s also the cue for himself to
go on an excursion around the perimeter of the moshpit, before crowdsurfing
back. A trick made a little more complicated these days as so many punters try
to hold their mobile in one hand and some portion of Bruce in the other. Similarly, a later bracket of desperation of Candy’s Room and the entwining heat of I’m On Fire are more straight-up carnal
than any 67-year-old man has a right to be. And yet he does, and yet he is.
That the band can follow these mood swings remains magical.
Back down to a ‘basic’ nine-piece(!) unit after some editions with added brass
sections, singers, various and bells and whistles, E Street is back being the
last (and best) gang in town. Stevie Van Zandt is the overseeing eminence gris consigliere;
Nils Lofgren can stretch again, after being a bit lost down the guitar pecking
order when Tom Morello was in the fold. As above, Bittan is studied and knows
when not to play. As drum heartbeat Mighty Max Weinberg just is, while possibly
being the whitest drummer alive. Gary Tallent’s bass is also part of the pulse –
but his tuba is still side-stage should the man in charge call for a run at Wild Billy’s Circus Story, an oom-pah band oddity
from their very first album and never out of the question if the mood hits. And
Jake Clemons – given that near-impossible space where his Uncle Clarence used
to so fill – is expressing himself more, his sax tone now almost eerily like
his forebear.
And there’s still room for those big set-pieces.
There’s not been a time that opening mournful harmonica as that ‘...screen door slams [and] Mary’s dress waves’
in Thunder Road doesn’t provoke some
Pavlovian response in your guts and puts something in your eye. Also more
welcoming, there’s now half-a-dozen 'Courtneys' invited up onstage to shimmy as
Dancing In The Dark unfurls. And
still it’s not over. Jungleland is a
neon-lit opera out on the New Jersey turnpike. It’s huge, emotional, and
somehow real – although outside most of our experience. Tenth Avenue Freezeout honks and swings as it should.
It shouldn’t be possible for a band this long-serving to be finding new things, and even better balances in their work, but this sweat-soaked guy in the check shirt manages it. This is nothing more or less than the shit that keeps me alive. You have to see this spectacle at least once, if only to give yourself a yardstick.
It shouldn’t be possible for a band this long-serving to be finding new things, and even better balances in their work, but this sweat-soaked guy in the check shirt manages it. This is nothing more or less than the shit that keeps me alive. You have to see this spectacle at least once, if only to give yourself a yardstick.
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