Bruce Springsteen

It was New Year's Eve, out in the suburbs of Long Island. It was the dawn of a new decade, the decade that would turn Bruce Springsteen into the icon of the American-born rockstar. But on that December 31st, 1980, in the bowl of the Nassau Coliseum in Uniondale, New York, there was room for nothing less than a torrential, unstoppable rock 'n' roll party: over thirty songs, nearly four hours of music. The stuff of legend. Springsteen had never yet set foot in Italy, and yet that memorable tour de force was already the stuff of myth, passed down through a bootleg box set worn out by fans. Who could have imagined that one day something like it would happen right here in Italy?

That Springsteen's bond with Milan's San Siro stadium was something truly special has been known practically forever: it was there, in the early summer of 1985, that his visceral relationship with the Italian audience was born. A relationship renewed under the downpour of 2003, and confirmed despite the curfew restrictions of 2008. But this time, for Springsteen, it was something more: one of the longest concerts of his entire career, just shy of that legendary New Year's night in 1981. Who knows whether he already had it in mind when he walked out onstage, accompanied as ever by the ritual strains of Morricone. Or whether it was instead the unbroken roar of the San Siro crowd that carried him further. One thing alone is certain: for those who were there, on that long night in 2012, the smile plastered across Bruce's face will be something hard to forget.

An E Street Band show is like a family reunion: you hug relatives you haven't seen in ages, catch up on how the world's been treating you, stop to play with the kids. You exchange silent glances thinking of those who are no longer with us. Where's Patti? She stayed home with the kids, but sends everyone her love. And look how big Clarence's nephew has gotten...

Yes indeed, it seemed impossible to imagine an E Street Band tour without Clarence Clemons. And yet Bruce, without pretending he could fill that unfillable void, conjured up a horn section capable of renewing the band's soul, picking up the legacy of the old Miami Horns. The music thus returns to its soul-tinged colors, in keeping with that "Jersey Shore sound" so dear to the young Springsteen. Just listen to how the gospel of "My City Of Ruins" blends with the melody of "People Get Ready" over the organ's solemn notes, while Bruce gives free rein to his preacher side: "This is a song about greetings and goodbyes, about the things that leave us and the things that stay with us forever," he announces in his halting Italian, like some pontiff of rock 'n' roll. He introduces the band's old and new members one by one, then presses the crowd with the question everyone has in their heart: "Is anyone missing?" Above the ocean of heads, a sign pops up: "Danny and Clarence are here." "I can hear them in your voices," Springsteen replies. And the ovation that rises up is entirely for them.

The preacher calls the congregation together, and the horns conjure the ghost of "Spirit In The Night" up from the past. He sits down on the steps of the stage and starts telling once again the story of Crazy Janey and her gypsy angels. A forest of hands reaches out toward him, drawing him into the night's first crowd dive. This isn't mere rockstar idolatry; it has more to do with a shared experience that everyone knows they can take part in firsthand. Like when Springsteen stops in the middle of the song to grab an inflatable doll of his own face from the crowd, which he then uses to play ventriloquist: there's certainly the born showman's instinct at work, but also a rapport with an audience able to play along perfectly with the timing of every grimace.

From the distant past of "The E Street Shuffle" we move to the present of the crisis ("I know it's been rough here too"), with cigarette lighters joining the unreal glow of cellphones for a "Jack Of All Trades" dedicated to "everyone out there who's struggling." Among the songs from Wrecking Ball, though, it's above all the bittersweet celebration of "Death To My Hometown" and "Shackled And Drawn" that gives voice to the effort of daring to hope again. The images of "Johnny 99" then sound more vivid and contemporary than ever, even as Roy Bittan's piano helps turn them into a Jerry Lee Lewis-style romp. After all, isn't it the spirit of King Elvis himself that Springsteen summons in the dance moves of "Working On The Highway," out front and center armed with his acoustic guitar?

The usual Springsteenian syndrome will already have you wondering who wasn't there. Is it possible that every time we talk about a Boss show it's always epic? No, on that night at San Siro not everything was perfect: for starters, the stadium's acoustics inevitably flatten the sound of such a crowded band. And the setlist held fewer surprises than usual for the die-hards: basically just the chills of a lone piano rendition of "The Promise", in answer to the request signs that, as always, crowd the front rows.

But that's not the point. Even in its weaker moments (from the Bon Jovi-style riff of "Radio Nowhere" to the flat rap of "Rocky Ground"), the bond between Springsteen and his audience is able to transcend everything, giving every glance a meaning that goes beyond the simple ritual of a rock show. He can even afford to botch the opening of "No Surrender" twice: nobody minds, when you're blood brothers. Because the moment he shouts "San Siro" at the top of his lungs, everyone knows he's talking about a pact sealed forever. Everyone knows there's no room for rhetoric in his declarations of love ("You are always primo, always the best").

So, from "Out In The Street" onward, the voices become one with the music, in a kind of inseparable communion to which Springsteen himself seems willing to entrust his songs. Even the kids he calls up to sing, as usual, on "Waitin' On A Sunny Day" seem to know every single word by heart. "Everybody's got a hungry heart," thousands of voices sing out: and it's precisely this mutual recognition among hungry hearts that unites the kids jumping in the pit and the middle-aged fathers sitting in the stands, binding them together in a single cry, a single desire.

The fanfare of "We Are Alive" recovers all the folk momentum of the Seeger Sessions: a "ghost story," Springsteen calls it, and the shadows of the kids dancing at the edges of the crowd to that ancient rhythm seem to embrace the ghosts of railroad workers, the ghosts of innocent victims, the ghosts of everyone who still feels alive. All ready to board the train bound for the land of hope and dreams: "Faith will be rewarded," sings Springsteen, and it's impossible to doubt it when you hear it in his voice.

There isn't a moment's pause even before the encores, in spite of Springsteen's sixty-plus years. With his eternal office-clerk look, Max Weinberg pounds away relentlessly on the drums, while Steve Van Zandt keeps clowning around slyly on guitar, the last real sidekick left for Springsteen's inevitable bits of stage banter.

"One, two, three, four" and it's already time for another song. Easy songs, one might object, but go tell that to someone who'd been waiting 25 years to hear "Cadillac Ranch"... When "Born In The U.S.A." kicks in, you see people breaking into a run wrapped in the stars and stripes, then the stadium lights come up full blast as if for a World Cup final, and here comes the charge of "Born To Run". The fans manage to catch even Springsteen off guard, like the girl who, during "Dancing In The Dark", asks to dance with Jake Clemons instead of Bruce (only to leap into his arms at the end with a kiss that would make Patti jealous...). He may not yet be fully seasoned in every corner of the E Street Band's repertoire, but for Jake it's quite the passing of the torch. And when the big screens once again show images of Big Man during "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out", only someone with a heart of stone could remain unmoved.

It's at that point, perhaps, that something lights up in Springsteen's eyes. Maybe while he's lying on the stage, with Little Steven dousing him with water from a giant sponge. The show is over, the E Street Band bids Milan farewell, the roadies are already ready to strike the stage. But he can't stop. He whips the crowd into a frenzy, then launches unexpectedly into a blazing "Glory Days". But even that isn't enough, and the notes of "Twist And Shout" flood the Meazza stadium, just like in 1985. Everyone's hands go up, while the horns let the party explode. Bruce opens his shirt, tears off his t-shirt, bares his chest, and charges on unstoppable right up to the final guitar toss. 3 hours and 40 minutes of show, for the record. But you can clearly tell that, if he could, he'd cue the band again for one more song... Some things are a mission, not a calculation. Now and forever, "just a prisoner of rock 'n' roll".

(27/06/2012)

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