Bruce Springsteen, July 27, 2008, Giants Stadium, East Rutherford, New Jersey

Set List:
Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out
Radio Nowhere { lyrics }
Lonesome Day { lyrics }
No Surrender { lyrics }
Adam Raised A Cain { lyrics }
Spirit In The Night { lyrics }
Summertime Blues
Brilliant Disguise { lyrics }
Atlantic City { lyrics }
Growin’ Up { lyrics }
Janey Don’t You Lose Heart { lyrics }
I’ll Work For Your Love { lyrics }
Youngstown { lyrics }
Murder Incorporated { lyrics }
The Promised Land { lyrics }
Livin’ In The Future { lyrics }
Mary’s Place { lyrics }
Working On The Highway { lyrics }
Tunnel Of Love { lyrics }
The Rising { lyrics }
Last To Die { lyrics }
Long Walk Home { lyrics }
Badlands { lyrics }

Girls In Their Summer Clothes { lyrics }
Jungleland { lyrics }
Born To Run { lyrics }
Bobby Jean { lyrics }
Dancing In The Dark { lyrics }
American Land { lyrics }
Rosalita { lyrics }

BRUUUUUUCE
Bruce was an hour late. All afternoon, monster thunderstorms had been drowning the New York area, threatening to make the show impossible.  But all of us were there on time, and I was not thrilled with the diva delay–in all my years of Bruce-going, he’d never pulled this before, and after all, he doesn’t live that far from Giants Stadium.
Then the band hit the stage and Bruce explained, “Down where we were, it was looking kinda biblical!”
And from that moment, he had somewhere in the neighborhood of 70,000 people eating out of his hands, Basically, Bruce Springsteen can get 70,000 people to do anything he wants. Or in the case of the Super Bowl half-time show, 90,000. In record time, too. Twelve minutes? He’s got jokes that take longer than that.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in an arena with that many people, but with Springsteen at the helm, it’s an oceanic, ecstatic experience: 140,000 (or 180,000) hands waving in the air, 70,000 (or 90,000) heads bobbing in rhythm, and the enormous thunder of –well, you do the feet math. And EVERYONE was singing. IN TUNE.  Sometimes all Bruce had to do was conduct this mammoth orchestra; they knows every word he’s written, so he can lift an arm, cup an ear, cock his head–one gesture–and he’s got the biggest backup chorus– hell, they’ll even sing lead– in the world. And when he takes it down, he can silence them with one “Sshh!”

When Bruce screws up the key or goes up on his lines–and he will; after you’ve written about 300 songs, you might flub a couple here and there–he cracks up, tries to fake it, loses it again, listens to the voluble prompting of the entire Bruce-addled audience, and eventually laughs himself back into the right lyrics.
The guy was very loose, friendly, having a great time, shakin’ his butt, doing a real funky strut. A great actor, too, on the dark songs and stripped-down versions of his hits—you wouldn’t know if it weren’t for the Jumbotron screens. He’s developed a fine-tuned sense of drama over the years, knows exactly where the camera is, uses every eyeblink and head tilt to convey meaning. He doesn’t just sing the songs, he acts them.
A half hour into the show, Bruce’s blue denim shirt and jeans had turned black with sweat. But he was still bopping around like the 20-something-year-old he was when I first saw him play in 1975 at the Bottom Line in NYC.  Yes, that run, which led to the “I have seen the future of rock and roll” quote and a great job for Jon Landau, even better than being a rock critic like the rest of us. It struck me about a hundred times during the Giants Stadium show that most of this band is over 50 years old, but they play like a hungry young outfit looking to make a big noise. Especially that locomotive out front.
He can be 100% ham, and it works, because he’s not just hilarious, he’s joyously over-the-top little boy hilarious. Sometimes he gets so happy, he just bounces up and down for no musical reason at all. He’s funny. He may be an obsessive control freak in the studio, but on stage he’s a (possessed) goofball. Another impossible combination of words, right? Sorry, but the man does defy all previously established rock and roll criteria. And he does this without drugs or alcohol.
It’s ridiculous to use the words “explosive” and “cute” in the same sentence, let alone to describe the world’s biggest rock star. Yes, I said it: BIGGEST. Our Jersey boy has eclipsed all the Brits who used to have a lock on the Rock God thing. How many 56-year-old guys do you know who can do a knee drop and slide across an entire stage? (The longest and best I’ve seen in all my Springsteen concerts. Same one that millions of viewers saw at the Super Bowl half-time show.) And he’s always got a new trick: now he slings his guitar round and round his body like a hula hoop– without getting hurt. Maybe he could show Roger Daltrey how to catch that lariat mic.
Springsteen has solved the dilemma of making heartfelt, soulful music that reaches everyone in a massive crowd. He got very up close and personal with the audience, lying down at the edge of the stage and letting them carry him off and pass him around. (Wouldn’t you hate to be the fool who dropped The Boss?) He constantly interacted, bantering with the audience, reading out loud their song requests from the home-made banners nobody was supposed to bring into the stadium. (The management’s list of Do’s and Don’ts for the concert declared them “prohibited items.”) He even sang Happy Birthday (well, his version of it) to a little girl whose parents had her hold up a “Rosie” sign. At first she was delighted at the attention, but after a while began to get a little freaked out by this sweaty, scary guy rasping into a microphone right next to her. Some day her parents will mortify her by telling the story.
I’ve lost track of how many Springsteen concerts I’ve seen, starting with his 1975 debut at the Bottom Line in Manhattan: by the time he leaped onto and jumped off his amp, we were standing on the tables yelling. People are still standing on their chairs—but now, there are three generations of them.  Two rows ahead of me were a white-haired couple, their adult son and his wife, and the grandchildren—all of them Bruce fans. I took two 15-year-old guys (one a damn good musician in his own right) to the show–their first Bruce experience. They knew what they’d heard on the radio, but they had no idea about the size of the truck about to hit them. First they were thunderstruck, then they were “whoa-oh-whoah” ing along on “Badlands,” and by the end of the first half hour they were pogoing along with me and hollering at the top of their lungs. Another two converts, another two T-shirts sold. (Okay, three; I just had to. I’ve never paid that much for a T-shirt in my life. But for Bruce…)
Over the years, Bruce’s introductions of the E-Streeters have become a set piece of evangelistic testifying; he can sanctify a crowd better than any tent revival fanatic. I’ll wave my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ hat in the air for that. Several songs now have a gospel sheen; none exemplifies the fervor better than the current rendition of “The Rising,” with its down-home shouter centerpiece. When you hear this, you realize how easy it would be for the man to become some power-drunk Messiah (and I am SURE he would HATE that word applied to him). As people down front desperately, adoringly clutched at his legs, the more cynical of the two guys with me nailed it: “I’m a leper!”  Fortunately, when Bruce does wield his power, it’s on behalf of other people.
But Bruce isn’t a solo act. He’s fronting one kickass rock’n’roll band. Max Weinberg out-slams guys half his age. Nils Lofgren, one of those underrated guitar guys, let loose and knocked everyone’s heads off; you don’t see him perform that often, so you forget how spectacular he can be. I almost didn’t miss the backflips. Professor Roy Bittan was in fine form, aided and abetted by newbie Charles Giordano on organ, and Soozie Tyrell (now blonde) practically sends sparks flying from her fiddle (or should that be, violin?). “Little” Steven Van Zandt is as great a harmonizer as ever could be, but honestly, after 40 years of this, couldn’t he use more than one facial expression? Gary Tallent is just so right on the bass, he doesn’t even have to slap it to make his point.
Now, Patty Scialfa– she has such a perfect voice, it’s impossible; she can waft a silvery sound overhead  that seems to have emanated from a misty Celtic land, harmonize with her husband’s gravelly sound, and—which she doesn’t get to do enough of—she can rock.  I just don’t understand how she can be so stoic onstage. If I were playing with the greatest working rock band, I’d look a lot happier. I vote that Bruce lets her work out on the rockers, not just the ballads. As for Clarence Clemons, the master blaster– how could Bruce ever have had a band without Clarence Clemons in it? Clarence is the bottom in the music and the thrills and chills on the ride. Can I get an “Amen”?!
Yes indeed, as Bruce proclaims during his preachin’ segment, the E-Streeters, the Ministry of Rock, are the hardest-rockin’, ass-kickin’, heart-stoppin’, pants-droppin’, foot-stompin’, earth-quakin’, booty-shakin’ champeen rock and roll band.
I knew a theatre critic in London who didn’t like it when a particular scene in Dancing at Lughnasa made him misty-eyed; he called it “manipulative.” I wonder what he’d feel like at a Bruce baptism. He’d probably rock his butt off and then complain that the music got the better of him, because sound manipulates your emotions. YEAH, DUH!! There’s no way in hell that any human being of any age could live through the catharsis of a Springsteen show and not be astounded. Not just by what happens onstage, with that motley crew blasting out a tremendous wall of sound (Phil Spector would faint–if he ever left his house), but also by what happens in the audience: the camaraderie, the shedding of masks, the brotherhood–I’d say sisterhood, too, but I seemed to be the only woman there without a date– the (yep, I’m gonna say it) love Bruce stirs up.

Vignette: Two of the most mismatched 30-something pals, a real Mutt and Jeff combo, in the row ahead of me were singing along (granted, after a couple of beers), when they spontaneously slung their arms around each other in a hug, almost in tears. And not that “Hey, I’m not gay” homophobic quick back-slap hug that most straight men do, but a genuine “You’re my best friend” hug. Bruce gives voice to inarticulate guys like them.

Three truths about a Springsteen show remain constant:

1) Bruce will always put out twice as much energy as anyone else. He’d wear out Mick Jagger–and I’ve also lost count of how many times I’ve seen those guys. Most bands play shorter concerts as they get bigger (and older). You don’t see the Stones doing any three-hour shows– not even two hours. Bruce’s shows get longer and wilder. Even if you pay an exorbitant ticket price, from Bruce you get a no-holds-barred pull-out-all-the-stops three hours of MUSIC with a capital “M.” And at the end of the last encore, Bruce is still skipping across the stage like a kid. It just ain’t natural.

2) I have never witnessed or heard of a fight at a Springsteen show. Period.

3) Anyone who goes in unconvinced about this New Jersey devil leaves with their ass kicked, a spring in their step, and a galaxy-wide smile. (Maybe even a new T shirt, regardless of the $40 price tag.)

That’s the thing: you can’t go to a Bruce concert and not be moved. And move. You may be the curmudgeon of the century, you may not understand a word the man says–whaddaya want; he’s a Jersey boy– but you will be affected by the sheet electricity engulfing you. Never underestimate the power of 70,000 “Whoa-oh-woahhhhh”s.