Even This Revival

What a Springsteen show can do—and what it can't

I’m no stranger to the power of a live performance by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. I’ve seen the fabled troupe numerous times since my first show in 1988. And while I’m open to the possibility it’s a sign of age, other than a 2016 concert with my then-eleven-year-old son, I can’t recall being as moved at a Springsteen show as I was on Monday night for the San Francisco stop on his Land of Hope and Dreams tour.

Honestly, it felt less like a concert than an old-time political or religious revival—a Great Awakening. And for three hours, at least, it soothed the soul.

As Fine Tuning Fans no doubt know, Springsteen hastily launched his current mini-tour last month in Minneapolis for the stated purpose of celebrating and defending “America, American democracy, American freedom, our American constitution and our sacred American dream—all of which are under attack by our wannabe king and his rogue government in Washington, D.C.”

Mission accomplished.

The set list—to say nothing of Bruce’s monologues, which have received considerable press—was finely honed to pack a political punch. I found myself drawn into the orbit of songs that had never exerted much gravitational pull on me before, but that resonated powerfully in context. “Wrecking Ball,” for instance. If I’d heard it back in the day, it wouldn’t have caused me to light out for the Disc-O-Mat to fork over my allowance. When it came out in 2012, I’m not sure I even streamed it once. But on Monday night, that closing refrain—hard times come and hard times go—repeated again and again, broke through my own indifference and landed as something close to solace.

Same goes for “American Skin (41 Shots).” It was never a subtle song, written in the aftermath of the NYPD’s killing of Amadou Diallo in 1999. But hearing it in our current political moment elevated its poignancy: You can get killed just for living in your American skin. That refrain, paired with a few skeletal bars of Jake Clemons’ saxophone and two dirge-like guitar solos from Tom Morello, lingered.

As an aside: I’m a huge Rage Against the Machine fan, so I loved Morello’s presence—his guitar, his vocals, especially on the Clash’s “Clampdown” and Bruce’s “The Ghost of Tom Joad.” Rage so completely claimed the latter on their 2000 album Renegades that, for me, it’s the greatest cover ever recorded. But Morello’s role in this tour raised a nagging question: where’s the outrage among younger artists? Why is Morello onstage with a 76-year-old Springsteen? Shouldn’t some Gen Z or Millennial band be inviting him up as an elder statesman of dissent? Isn’t that how this is supposed to work—a passing of the baton, not a return of it?

I tried to banish the thought since it was depressing me.

Luckily, “Two Hearts” snapped me out of it. Again, not my favorite Springsteen track, but on this night it was the primary vehicle for Little Steven’s gloriously curlicued vocals. Full disclosure: I’m a massive Little Steven fan. How massive? I’d rather listen to his first two records than Bruce’s—and it’s not even close. How massive? I paid hundreds of dollars for a VIP ticket when he came through Berkeley a few years ago just so I could stand in a very short line with five other obsessives and shake the man’s hand. His bobblehead graces my desk.

Watching Bruce and Stevie share a microphone, singing “two hearts are better than one,” I thought about their decades-long friendship—and felt a surge of gratitude sitting beside my own lifelong friend from third grade, who’d been with me at that first show in 1988 and many since. That moment gave me chills.

As for the song’s inclusion in the set list, I wasn’t immediately sure how “Two Hearts” fit among the politically charged songs that preceded it— unless it was meant as a reminder that love stands in opposition to hate. Or maybe, given that “Hungry Heart” followed, Bruce simply wanted a heart-forward interlude before diving back in with the likes of “Youngstown” and “Murder Incorporated.”

The opening set ended, appropriately, with “Land of Hope and Dreams” melding into the final verse of “People Get Ready.” If any doubt remained about the evening being, at its core, a revival, it was shed with that last couplet:

“All you need is faith, to hear the diesels hummin’/Don’t need no ticket, you just thank the Lord.”

Amen.

It was powerful stuff. As my wife put it, “the rise of fascism has really lit a fire under Bruce!”

The encore comprised five songs, including the obligatory “Born to Run” and “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out,” concluding with Bob Dylan’s “Chimes of Freedom.” That final song hit me hard—but not for the reasons I expected.

Hearing Bruce perform “Chimes of Freedom” brought me right back to my high school bedroom, holding that EP cover, playing it over and over until the grooves could barely contain the stylus. Released in 1988, the Chimes of Freedom EP, included a live version of “Be True,” a song not contained on any album, but released as the B-side of “Fade Away” from The River, and one of my favorite songs. That’s what I bought it for. That and the solo acoustic version of “Born to Run” also on the EP. “Chimes of Freedom” was unfamiliar to me at the time, but I immediately fell under its spell—partly for the inspirational lyrics, but mostly for the final anguished bellow, the emotion in Springsteen’s voice splitting something open.

I was listening for that howl on Monday night.

And yes, his voice has changed. At 76, it has to. It’s diminished, but still more powerful at 80 percent than most voices at full throttle. For most of the show the diminishment was noticeable but not distracting—he could still summon what the songs required.

But on “Chimes of Freedom,” that final cry, that howl against the world’s injustices—once so raw, so uncontainable—felt thinner. That’s not a criticism. It’s reality. Nearly forty years have passed since that EP.

Still, I felt the loss. The weight of time. Bruce isn’t the same and neither am I. Much has been gained over the years, but much has been lost.

I don’t want to be 18 again. I just want to feel the way I felt the first time I heard “Chimes of Freedom.”

That was more than even this revival could deliver.

From 1988.