It's good to be the King, especially when you've throughly earned your crown.
In case you haven't heard of B.B King, you should know he basically invented the blues guitar as we know it, and to this day is considered one of the masters of the instrument. What, I guess, is less well known is that the man is also a damned good singer. Age has given his voice a texture that is pure, undiluted blues.
Interestingly enough, one thing he doesn't do is play guitar and sing at the same time. He sings, he plays, but he switches off, instead of doing them both at once. And his guitar sounds like a voice: clear and liquid with notes that shine cooly in the air.
Like Springsteen, B.B is a natural frontman. Out front is where he belongs, and where he's most comfortable: sitting on his chair, cracking wise with long, winding stories and playing off the audience in a way that gives you a glimpse of the sort of all-inclusive presence he must have been in the dance halls in his prime. I am convinced that bandleaders like him must have been the forerunners of the stand-up comedians as we now know them. A one-stop-shop for a night's entertainment. The only thing missing was the dancing that his quick, sax-heavy band was clearly built from the ground up for.
Speaking of that band, I have seen some good jazz acts in my time, and these guys were worth price of admition all on their own. I think the youngest member of that band must have been at least in his 60s, and they were so in synch they were virtually finishing eachother's sentences: musically speaking. B.B reminded me of no one so much as Bruce Springsteen when he had his band-members pantomiming the correct responses to his jokes (turning away in wonderfully self-conscious disbelief when he declares he has "never seen an ugly woman") and reading his mind as regards to the timing of the songs, the lengthly intervals filled by his rambling, often tawdy stories of blue pills and seduction how-tos. It's the kind of connection born of so many road-miles it's crazy. I could imagine the E-Street Band getting dropped into any venue and making it work for them, but their actual venues remain pretty uniform: B.B and his band really can play everything from Jazz festivals to indian casinos to rock clubs and will make it work for them somehow. They're that good.
B.B King is 83 years old. He sits for the entire performance. He has his guitar (the famous Lucille) and he has a microphone, and he has a band that can read his mind. He ended the show throwing whole handfuls of guitar pics and necklaces into the crowd, but we'd already gotten our biggest treats.
Hail to the King of the Blues.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band at the LA Memorial Sports Arena: Los Angeles, 5/15/2009
So...... that's what all the fuss is about.
Holy shit.
My ticket karma didn't hold. My seats were pretty far back. At least they were on the aisle, so instead of kicking the chair next to me, I would sometimes totter at the edge of the step.
But who cares about that when I think I just saw a miracle. Finally, I know what people are talking about when they talk about Bruce Springsteen.
And here's the crazy thing: it happened during the encore. It'd been a fantastic show, don't get me wrong, but during the encore something happened that just sent the energy level rocketing straight through the roof. I wish I could tell you what it was, I really do, but all of a sudden I realized something fucking miraculous was happening right in front of my eyes.
The band had played for around two hours, and I'd been really enjoying it, the whole set was noticeably both looser and tighter then in San Jose. I don't think I need to mention that the band sounded great, but they did, and my Dad, for one, left a devout fan of Max Weinberg: the Mighty One never stopped playing ONCE during the entire 2 hour and 45 minute set. While other people got to breath, Max did drum-rolls. Whatever stiffness he had in San Jose was not there this time. What a drummer.
Again, you're going to have to go somewhere else for the setlist, but it felt like he'd got the kinks worked out and settled down into a song collection that came on like a hurricane without breaking any of the pale hips in the audience. Two songs in the main set and one in the encore were sign requests: him grabbing them up, piling them on the stage, and plunging in like a kid jumping into a leaf pile in the fall, sending the rejected signs flying in all directions until he found the perfect one. Then he ran around showing it to the band members before leaning it against the mic stand where the camera could finally show it to the audience. Both songs were pretty amazing. I think "Spirit in the Night" might be a new favorite of mine. And Bruce actually talked to the crowd, both name-dropping extortions to get the LA people riled up and a sermon about building a house of love and music out of all the good news and bad news. He'd avoided addressing the crowd for most of the San Jose show. Now he couldn't keep his hands off them.
Really, I thought he spent a lot of time on his catwalk before: I hadn't seen anything: I swear to God, Bruce did an actual STAGE DIVE. Honest to God, plunging into the crowd body-surfing. One of the security guys had a hold of him so he didn't go far, but still! Sheesh! I don't think a single song went by without him taking to the stage skirts at least once so's the people could feel those sturdy, age-defying legs of his.
It did it's job. Somewhere along the line it actually, finally hit me: I am standing in a room with Bruce Springsteen. If I were down there in the pit, I would be able to reach up and feel him. He's really there.
That feeling is worth a hundred youtube videos.
Far away as we were, I felt like we saw more of Springsteen. At times it was almost like he wasn't so much a singer performing a song as an actor creating a character, a bunch of them, and switching them around and blending them together.
I've been trying to figure out what made this show so intrinsically different from San Jose. One of the most obvious, and curious, things was the distinct lack of red on the stage. Patti Scialfa wasn't there, and maybe I was imagining it but it seemed like Bruce, Nils, and Steve were switching their guitars more often, perhaps to cover up for the lack of her blue acoustic. Before Bruce launched into "Kingdom of Days," the song that had been his nightly duet with his wife, he shouted "This one goes out to Pats! And the kids!"
In a way the song packed even more emotional punch when sung solo. It was still a celebration of love, except it was love turned bittersweet. And great as Patti Scialfa is (haters can suck it!) maybe her absence was a large part of what made Springsteen's character so complete. The last time he was playing to crowds facing foreclosures, layoffs, and bad debt, it was the 80s and Bruce was alone. Although he shared the spotlight with Clarence (the spotlight never leaves Clarence for very long: he'd be the star if he was in any band except this one) and calling Steve out to holler his backing vocals, but this night was all about Bruce. I've described him before as being full of holy fire. Well, tonight he must have thrown some holy kerosene on that holy fire, because he was shining bright enough to be visible from space.
And he was fired up, too. He pinwheeled on his guitar like a madman. He grabbed that microphone stand and spun around like a kid on a banister. His knee-slide has become a staple of his shows ever since he awesomely sent his crotch rocketing into the living rooms of millions of Americans on Superbowl Sunday.
And if that wasn't enough: everyone's favorite political populist pyrotechnic guitar monster Tom Morello appeared from the shadows, strapped on that colorful guitar of his, hiked up all the way to his chest as usual, and proceeded to burn the house down. Bruce echoed the outraged screaming visually, holding down rhythm guitar from a fighter's crouch, eyes never leaving Morello, though he could not contain some awestruck gaping when Tom out-soloed himself and turned me into the happiest young woman on the planet. My life is complete. I could totally die now. Thank you universe.
He even had his suspenders back.
And to top it off, the "encore" wasn't really an encore: not if the band ends up playing for another hour. Tom came back to lend a bluesy solo to "Hard Times Come Again No More" and then something mysterious happened. The energy just went through the roof. I can't even describe it. The climax was symbolized perfectly at the final end of the last song, when Bruce turned his guitar into a hula-hoop: spinning it around himself until he caught it, firmly and perfectly, with one hand.
It's like the knee-slide. From anyone else it would be cheesy. From Bruce it was perfect.
Now I know what all the fuss has been about all these years. Bruce Springsteen. The last of the vinyl Rock Gods, the rock and roll evangelical who can turn despair into hope, sorrow into strength, and make you believe in dreams.
What a night.
Holy shit.
My ticket karma didn't hold. My seats were pretty far back. At least they were on the aisle, so instead of kicking the chair next to me, I would sometimes totter at the edge of the step.
But who cares about that when I think I just saw a miracle. Finally, I know what people are talking about when they talk about Bruce Springsteen.
And here's the crazy thing: it happened during the encore. It'd been a fantastic show, don't get me wrong, but during the encore something happened that just sent the energy level rocketing straight through the roof. I wish I could tell you what it was, I really do, but all of a sudden I realized something fucking miraculous was happening right in front of my eyes.
The band had played for around two hours, and I'd been really enjoying it, the whole set was noticeably both looser and tighter then in San Jose. I don't think I need to mention that the band sounded great, but they did, and my Dad, for one, left a devout fan of Max Weinberg: the Mighty One never stopped playing ONCE during the entire 2 hour and 45 minute set. While other people got to breath, Max did drum-rolls. Whatever stiffness he had in San Jose was not there this time. What a drummer.
Again, you're going to have to go somewhere else for the setlist, but it felt like he'd got the kinks worked out and settled down into a song collection that came on like a hurricane without breaking any of the pale hips in the audience. Two songs in the main set and one in the encore were sign requests: him grabbing them up, piling them on the stage, and plunging in like a kid jumping into a leaf pile in the fall, sending the rejected signs flying in all directions until he found the perfect one. Then he ran around showing it to the band members before leaning it against the mic stand where the camera could finally show it to the audience. Both songs were pretty amazing. I think "Spirit in the Night" might be a new favorite of mine. And Bruce actually talked to the crowd, both name-dropping extortions to get the LA people riled up and a sermon about building a house of love and music out of all the good news and bad news. He'd avoided addressing the crowd for most of the San Jose show. Now he couldn't keep his hands off them.
Really, I thought he spent a lot of time on his catwalk before: I hadn't seen anything: I swear to God, Bruce did an actual STAGE DIVE. Honest to God, plunging into the crowd body-surfing. One of the security guys had a hold of him so he didn't go far, but still! Sheesh! I don't think a single song went by without him taking to the stage skirts at least once so's the people could feel those sturdy, age-defying legs of his.
It did it's job. Somewhere along the line it actually, finally hit me: I am standing in a room with Bruce Springsteen. If I were down there in the pit, I would be able to reach up and feel him. He's really there.
That feeling is worth a hundred youtube videos.
Far away as we were, I felt like we saw more of Springsteen. At times it was almost like he wasn't so much a singer performing a song as an actor creating a character, a bunch of them, and switching them around and blending them together.
I've been trying to figure out what made this show so intrinsically different from San Jose. One of the most obvious, and curious, things was the distinct lack of red on the stage. Patti Scialfa wasn't there, and maybe I was imagining it but it seemed like Bruce, Nils, and Steve were switching their guitars more often, perhaps to cover up for the lack of her blue acoustic. Before Bruce launched into "Kingdom of Days," the song that had been his nightly duet with his wife, he shouted "This one goes out to Pats! And the kids!"
In a way the song packed even more emotional punch when sung solo. It was still a celebration of love, except it was love turned bittersweet. And great as Patti Scialfa is (haters can suck it!) maybe her absence was a large part of what made Springsteen's character so complete. The last time he was playing to crowds facing foreclosures, layoffs, and bad debt, it was the 80s and Bruce was alone. Although he shared the spotlight with Clarence (the spotlight never leaves Clarence for very long: he'd be the star if he was in any band except this one) and calling Steve out to holler his backing vocals, but this night was all about Bruce. I've described him before as being full of holy fire. Well, tonight he must have thrown some holy kerosene on that holy fire, because he was shining bright enough to be visible from space.
And he was fired up, too. He pinwheeled on his guitar like a madman. He grabbed that microphone stand and spun around like a kid on a banister. His knee-slide has become a staple of his shows ever since he awesomely sent his crotch rocketing into the living rooms of millions of Americans on Superbowl Sunday.
And if that wasn't enough: everyone's favorite political populist pyrotechnic guitar monster Tom Morello appeared from the shadows, strapped on that colorful guitar of his, hiked up all the way to his chest as usual, and proceeded to burn the house down. Bruce echoed the outraged screaming visually, holding down rhythm guitar from a fighter's crouch, eyes never leaving Morello, though he could not contain some awestruck gaping when Tom out-soloed himself and turned me into the happiest young woman on the planet. My life is complete. I could totally die now. Thank you universe.
He even had his suspenders back.
And to top it off, the "encore" wasn't really an encore: not if the band ends up playing for another hour. Tom came back to lend a bluesy solo to "Hard Times Come Again No More" and then something mysterious happened. The energy just went through the roof. I can't even describe it. The climax was symbolized perfectly at the final end of the last song, when Bruce turned his guitar into a hula-hoop: spinning it around himself until he caught it, firmly and perfectly, with one hand.
It's like the knee-slide. From anyone else it would be cheesy. From Bruce it was perfect.
Now I know what all the fuss has been about all these years. Bruce Springsteen. The last of the vinyl Rock Gods, the rock and roll evangelical who can turn despair into hope, sorrow into strength, and make you believe in dreams.
What a night.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band at the HP Pavillion, San Jose: 4/1/2009
What is there to really say about this show? In a way, I'm kind of reluctant to actually try and write about it. Not just because I'm dog tired, but because this show might be kind of beyond description.
Outside influences factored in. I went to see Springsteen with my mother. The last time she saw Springsteen, she'd only barely met the man who would eventually be my dad. It was 25 years ago.
When Bruce took the stage she let out a squeal and gave me a hug.
That was WHEN Bruce took the stage. The show started an hour late, as most of the attendees seem to have anticipated that it would, filling the vacant seats at the sold-out venue around an hour behind schedule while my mom and I twittered, marveled at the sky crew's high-wire antics on the huge lighting rig above our heads (one small blond woman was termed "Spiderwoman" by my mom for her high-speed, high-altitude surefootedness) and wondering what the hold-up was. My mom hypothesized that since this was the first show of the tour, they must be backstage fretting over the set-list. This was supported by the fact that every so often, some roadies would materialize, switch the papers lying around, and then vanish again. When one of them appeared carrying what could only be Clarence's saxophone, we knew it was only a matter of time, but still the waiting continued.
The house lights changed colors fairly regularly, and each change would bring hopeful cheers from the new fraction that had leaked in since the last lighting change. This was a big place. Not to brag, but we got some pretty awesome seats: around ten rows up behind the keyboardist's right shoulder, and it was hard to believe some of those tiny little figures almost out of sight, way high up in the distance were actual human people. So, this is a stadium. I don't think I've ever really been in a stadium before, let alone one absolutely full-to-bursting with white people over the age of 50.
At long last, the house lights went dead, and I mean dead, as in pitch-dark dead. There was just enough lighting from the emergency lights that we could see some shadowy forms making their way through the stadium's bottom entrance and coming up under the stage. The room was loud, pretty darn loud, with cheers and woops and clapping and "BROOOOOCE!!"
When the house lights came up, there they were. Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. It was like Max Weinburg is the most overdressed drummer I'd ever seen in his silk shirt and waistcoat. Stephen Van Zandt plays his guitar like a gangster wields his machine gun. Nils Lofgren became my favorite by being the too-much-energy-in-too-small-a-packaging firework of a man with bones of rubber who soloed like Satriani (minus the teeth) and was never in the same place twice. Red-headed Patti Scialfa (a rare splash of color on a stage full of black clothing) had a blue acoustic, a calm face, and the sturdy, wide-legged stance of a veteran rocker.
Let me say a few words about the seats I got, because I was quite proud of them. They were around ten rows up, right behind the stage and could see everyone more easily then we could see the jumbotron. Or specifically, we could see their right shoulders, which were what they had facing us most of the time, but that was alright since it turns out, even Springsteen's shoulder has charisma. Also, the keyboardist would turn, look at, and point at us from time to time. I'm pretty sure he saw me.
You're gonna have to go somewhere else to get the full playlist, I didn't keep track. They started playing and they kept playing with no pauses, no breaks, straight from ending beat to intro beat for something like 40 minutes. Bruce didn't even address the crowd until a pause in... god what song was it, I couldn't even tell you, but he only chit-chatted some three times during the whole show. The first time was to shout out to San Jose and get people riled up. He wouldn't address the crowd again until the encore when he pleaded for people to donate to the local food bank accepting donations in the hall. I was glad to see their coffers stuffed by the end of the evening.
The rest was rocking. Hard core, full-steam-ahead rocking. No one in the E-Street band is as young as they used to be; Max was favoring his right arm, Nils was nimble but the night was devoid of dive-rolls, the Big Man was leaning against a stool for most of the set, and even Bruce winced as he pulled himself out of his slides. But they can still bring down a house.
I asked my mom how the show was different from 20 years ago. She said Bruce used to pile on the energy and just keep it coming until the end. He's gotten more mature since then, and his show is more evenly paced: sequences of hard, loud rockers and then quieter breaks. I'm a hardy soul and can jump around continuously for a three-hour show, but I was in the minority, and since I was forbidden to jump around anywhere except at my seat, even I had to sit down and collect myself sometimes.
Yeah, I had to jump AT MY SEAT. Lame, but I guess that's stadiums for ya. Also, Dreamer's bad audience karma continues: the guy next to me didn't crack so much as a smile for the whole show, and spent most of his time sitting down, his leg braced against the seat in front of him as if to ward me off. I have a bruise on my shin from where I kept knocking it against the edge of his chair, but since he never stood up, I couldn't mosh my way out of this problem. I have no idea what his goddamn deal was. Mom thought he might be autistic. He approached this rock show with all the joy of a corporate board-meeting.
My spirits were slightly mollified when they played "The Ghost of Tom Joad." The solos didn't hold a candle to Morello's, but who gives a shit. Nils the Soloist shone on this one, and Bruce himself proved he's no slouch at the shredding. "Lonesome Day" and "Radio Nowhere," were on the list, and they are some of my favorites, as well as the obvious Springsteen essentials like "Thunder Road" and "Born to Run." He even grabbed a couple of signs out of the audience: one of them said "I just turned 18, I need some GROWIN' UP!" and that's the song that they played.
If it sounds like I'm avoiding talking about Springsteen himself, I kind of am. Far better writers then me have killed many trees and even more hours trying to describe what happens between the Boss and an audience when he's onstage live. For me, it's impossible to do without delving into the impossibly, mind-meltingly cheesy. Because Bruce Springsteen has the light of grace in him.
Sorry, I just don't know any way else to describe it. The arena is dwarfed by the size of his soul, and when he's belting it out like he means it, you believe in miracles, you believe in healing, and you believe in hope. He's the antidote to cynicism, and this is a time when America deeply needs some of what he has. Springsteen no-doubt knows that, but it doesn't change that the album he's currently touring on is a personal album, full of songs overflowing with love and hope. Don't get me wrong, love and hope are really good things, but we're talking about the Clusterf@ck to the Poor House here. This is not the best time for upbeat adoring gushing.
The closest thing we came last night to seeing the real "Working on a Dream" tour was Bruce and Patti singing a romantic, charged duet on "Kingdom of Days" while they looked into each other's eyes from at least twenty feet away. It was the show he would be putting on if the stock market hadn't crashed, sending unemployment skyrocketing. If Bruce was into pure fuzzy escapism he'd be all set, but since he's apparently serious about tackling the times and fighting for the soul of the country, the sooner he gets back into the studio and re-equips himself, the better off we'll all be.
It sounds weird to critique a performance this tight and this full of non-stop rocking. If it were anyone else, I would have walked away more then satisfied, but this is Bruce Springsteen we're talking about, backed by what is considered to be one of the best live bands in the world, and they never really took flight.
Since I broke my own rules AGAIN and waited two more days to finish this blog, I can say, the San Jose Mercury had a much sharper review. Read that one instead.
Bruce is beyond me.
Outside influences factored in. I went to see Springsteen with my mother. The last time she saw Springsteen, she'd only barely met the man who would eventually be my dad. It was 25 years ago.
When Bruce took the stage she let out a squeal and gave me a hug.
That was WHEN Bruce took the stage. The show started an hour late, as most of the attendees seem to have anticipated that it would, filling the vacant seats at the sold-out venue around an hour behind schedule while my mom and I twittered, marveled at the sky crew's high-wire antics on the huge lighting rig above our heads (one small blond woman was termed "Spiderwoman" by my mom for her high-speed, high-altitude surefootedness) and wondering what the hold-up was. My mom hypothesized that since this was the first show of the tour, they must be backstage fretting over the set-list. This was supported by the fact that every so often, some roadies would materialize, switch the papers lying around, and then vanish again. When one of them appeared carrying what could only be Clarence's saxophone, we knew it was only a matter of time, but still the waiting continued.
The house lights changed colors fairly regularly, and each change would bring hopeful cheers from the new fraction that had leaked in since the last lighting change. This was a big place. Not to brag, but we got some pretty awesome seats: around ten rows up behind the keyboardist's right shoulder, and it was hard to believe some of those tiny little figures almost out of sight, way high up in the distance were actual human people. So, this is a stadium. I don't think I've ever really been in a stadium before, let alone one absolutely full-to-bursting with white people over the age of 50.
At long last, the house lights went dead, and I mean dead, as in pitch-dark dead. There was just enough lighting from the emergency lights that we could see some shadowy forms making their way through the stadium's bottom entrance and coming up under the stage. The room was loud, pretty darn loud, with cheers and woops and clapping and "BROOOOOCE!!"
When the house lights came up, there they were. Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. It was like Max Weinburg is the most overdressed drummer I'd ever seen in his silk shirt and waistcoat. Stephen Van Zandt plays his guitar like a gangster wields his machine gun. Nils Lofgren became my favorite by being the too-much-energy-in-too-small-a-packaging firework of a man with bones of rubber who soloed like Satriani (minus the teeth) and was never in the same place twice. Red-headed Patti Scialfa (a rare splash of color on a stage full of black clothing) had a blue acoustic, a calm face, and the sturdy, wide-legged stance of a veteran rocker.
Let me say a few words about the seats I got, because I was quite proud of them. They were around ten rows up, right behind the stage and could see everyone more easily then we could see the jumbotron. Or specifically, we could see their right shoulders, which were what they had facing us most of the time, but that was alright since it turns out, even Springsteen's shoulder has charisma. Also, the keyboardist would turn, look at, and point at us from time to time. I'm pretty sure he saw me.
You're gonna have to go somewhere else to get the full playlist, I didn't keep track. They started playing and they kept playing with no pauses, no breaks, straight from ending beat to intro beat for something like 40 minutes. Bruce didn't even address the crowd until a pause in... god what song was it, I couldn't even tell you, but he only chit-chatted some three times during the whole show. The first time was to shout out to San Jose and get people riled up. He wouldn't address the crowd again until the encore when he pleaded for people to donate to the local food bank accepting donations in the hall. I was glad to see their coffers stuffed by the end of the evening.
The rest was rocking. Hard core, full-steam-ahead rocking. No one in the E-Street band is as young as they used to be; Max was favoring his right arm, Nils was nimble but the night was devoid of dive-rolls, the Big Man was leaning against a stool for most of the set, and even Bruce winced as he pulled himself out of his slides. But they can still bring down a house.
I asked my mom how the show was different from 20 years ago. She said Bruce used to pile on the energy and just keep it coming until the end. He's gotten more mature since then, and his show is more evenly paced: sequences of hard, loud rockers and then quieter breaks. I'm a hardy soul and can jump around continuously for a three-hour show, but I was in the minority, and since I was forbidden to jump around anywhere except at my seat, even I had to sit down and collect myself sometimes.
Yeah, I had to jump AT MY SEAT. Lame, but I guess that's stadiums for ya. Also, Dreamer's bad audience karma continues: the guy next to me didn't crack so much as a smile for the whole show, and spent most of his time sitting down, his leg braced against the seat in front of him as if to ward me off. I have a bruise on my shin from where I kept knocking it against the edge of his chair, but since he never stood up, I couldn't mosh my way out of this problem. I have no idea what his goddamn deal was. Mom thought he might be autistic. He approached this rock show with all the joy of a corporate board-meeting.
My spirits were slightly mollified when they played "The Ghost of Tom Joad." The solos didn't hold a candle to Morello's, but who gives a shit. Nils the Soloist shone on this one, and Bruce himself proved he's no slouch at the shredding. "Lonesome Day" and "Radio Nowhere," were on the list, and they are some of my favorites, as well as the obvious Springsteen essentials like "Thunder Road" and "Born to Run." He even grabbed a couple of signs out of the audience: one of them said "I just turned 18, I need some GROWIN' UP!" and that's the song that they played.
If it sounds like I'm avoiding talking about Springsteen himself, I kind of am. Far better writers then me have killed many trees and even more hours trying to describe what happens between the Boss and an audience when he's onstage live. For me, it's impossible to do without delving into the impossibly, mind-meltingly cheesy. Because Bruce Springsteen has the light of grace in him.
Sorry, I just don't know any way else to describe it. The arena is dwarfed by the size of his soul, and when he's belting it out like he means it, you believe in miracles, you believe in healing, and you believe in hope. He's the antidote to cynicism, and this is a time when America deeply needs some of what he has. Springsteen no-doubt knows that, but it doesn't change that the album he's currently touring on is a personal album, full of songs overflowing with love and hope. Don't get me wrong, love and hope are really good things, but we're talking about the Clusterf@ck to the Poor House here. This is not the best time for upbeat adoring gushing.
The closest thing we came last night to seeing the real "Working on a Dream" tour was Bruce and Patti singing a romantic, charged duet on "Kingdom of Days" while they looked into each other's eyes from at least twenty feet away. It was the show he would be putting on if the stock market hadn't crashed, sending unemployment skyrocketing. If Bruce was into pure fuzzy escapism he'd be all set, but since he's apparently serious about tackling the times and fighting for the soul of the country, the sooner he gets back into the studio and re-equips himself, the better off we'll all be.
It sounds weird to critique a performance this tight and this full of non-stop rocking. If it were anyone else, I would have walked away more then satisfied, but this is Bruce Springsteen we're talking about, backed by what is considered to be one of the best live bands in the world, and they never really took flight.
Since I broke my own rules AGAIN and waited two more days to finish this blog, I can say, the San Jose Mercury had a much sharper review. Read that one instead.
Bruce is beyond me.
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