By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
By Drew Ailes
By Courtney Harrell
By Kyra Scrimgeour
If workers at the United States Census 2000/ Denver Bureau had really been thinking, they would have moved their tables from the entrances of Alfalfa's and the Cherry Creek shopping center and placed them in front of the Pepsi Center last Thursday and Friday nights. That way, the combined total of more than 30,000 upper-middle-class, middle-aged white people who attended two sold-out concerts by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band could've been accounted for in one fell swoop, thereby giving a little bit of relief to the United States Postal Service. (I think we all know what happens when those people get tired and overworked.)
On Thursday night, Springsteen and the E Street Band successfully, passionately delivered a bona-fide rock show that was lovingly received -- at times frighteningly so -- by its audience. Afterward, praise for the concert included decrees that Bruce had almost single-handedly proved that the heart of rock and roll is indeed still beating. Never mind that it beats in a vacuum. In many ways, the show was a pleasant, enjoyable, rollicking nostalgia trip -- a return to stadium rock and an entire era full of memories. But Springsteen has always offered audiences much more than just pleasantness -- he is perhaps one of the few remaining performers we can look to for authenticity, for daring, in an increasingly commercial musical climate. Both elements were plentiful the last time he took his show on the road -- for a limited number of solo, acoustic engagements in support of the quiet, simple and haunting 1995 album, The Ghost of Tom Joad. That tour, which may have disappointed some fans who longed for Bruce's heartland rock in all of its raucous, anthemic glory, found Springsteen connecting with his audience in a way that he only hinted at last week in Denver. The Tom Joad shows felt intimate, felt reciprocal. Bruce backed up his reputation as a musical populist by standing alone on a dark stage -- devoid of flashing flood lights, guitar histrionics or a cast of characters -- and just performed, relating to and with a crowd that breathed it in like oxygen. In between songs, he told stories -- small, human tales about people he'd met out on the road, something that had happened when he and a buddy went walking around in the woods, playing guitar at a biker bar in the middle of nowhere -- before launching into breathtaking, full-voiced, emotive versions of Joad material. In that setting, as he played "Youngstown" and "Across the Border" accompanied by just one guitar, you wondered how one man could create so much powerful sound.
But while Bruce and the band did a fine job of filling the vast space of the Pepsi Center with powerful music, rare was the moment when the performance rattled the senses or awakened the heart in new ways. It was almost as if Bruce was out to prove he could still pull it off -- still roam the stage with the vigor of his younger days, still command the attention of thousands for three whole hours, still tear it up on guitar and sing through the night at the top of his voice. He can still move -- as he demonstrated throughout the evening, particularly when he assumed a comical baboon posture and seemed to challenge the audience to a fistfight. "How many of you are alive?" he asked repeatedly before launching into a revivalist litany about the power and the glory, the power and the glory of rock and roll. Yet Springsteen was unquestionably preaching to the converted -- 17,000 people who seemed to hang on his every word, so long as it was loud and followed by an acrobatic guitar solo or something worthy of a raised Bic. Whether he was guitar-dueling with Nils Lofgren on "Light of Day," sharing a microphone and a harmony with Steven Van Zandt on "Two Hearts" or sauntering seductively on up to Patty Scialfa during "Ramrod," Bruce exhibited a rock-and-roll work ethic that's increasingly rare in live performance, particularly among the reunion crowd.
But Springsteen is not just getting older, he's getting old -- a fact illustrated in full Pixelvision by a gigantic video screen hovering over sax player Clarence Clemons (who seemed nearly as large as the video screen itself), which found him resembling Johnny Cash more than the bearer of the famous backside on the Born in the USA album cover. Considering that Springsteen hasn't released a full-length album of original material in five years -- not since Tom Joad, which was hardly a commercial blockbuster -- the current tour seems almost like an attempt to keep the Boss's party going, even in the absence of anything new to celebrate.
Yet strong new work isn't a prerequisite for perpetuating the Springsteen myth. That's a dilemma for an artist whose tendency is to push boundaries, but who's allowed -- even encouraged -- to rely on existent material. In his own way, Springsteen is the world's most famous crossover artist -- both a balls-out rock musician and a good ol' boy, a blue-collar loyalist with a million-dollar smile. He is as much of an American icon as his Levi's, yet he has made a career of championing decidedly personal themes and anonymous people. So while much of his music remains, admirably, informed by and rooted in the stories and turmoils of America's working class and rural poor, he's a commodity of interest to people who have little relation to or comprehension of the kind of things he's singing about. It's a dichotomy that's sure to rear its confused little head from time to time -- as it did on Thursday night.