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Rating: A black and white photo taken on a street in New York, the peeled walls of some run-down building, and the steam rising from the manholes.
It was the time of The River. I was a child and the stories of that album marked my life. A big mistake? Perhaps. Can an album impact someone's life? A question I have always asked myself but to which I have never found an answer. The romantic soul of the dreaming teenager I was would suggest yes, but today, framed, set, inserted, started, integrated, I would say no. An album changes nothing. But what can three songs do against Life? However, every now and then, I’m happy to throw integration to the wind.
And so it happens that I disconnect everything, say goodbye to my family, and leave with two ham sandwiches and a small bottle of Powerade to find out if my childhood dream was real and could really save my soul and change the course of events.
I find myself with my backpack on my shoulders, together with a group of spirited kids, young-old people, and flashy middle-aged women packed inside a minibus to Florence. But is the Boss the one in black and white, unkempt beard, lean face, intense gaze against the New York backdrop, or is it the truck-driving digger of Debaser? Springsteen is a crude interpreter of crass rock music or the last romantic rocker à la Elvis? Is he the true and straightforward poet-singer of the disinherited, the losers, and the outlaws, or is he a sordid billionaire opportunist?
These questions whirl in my mind as I wait perched a meter away from the pit between two fat Americans, a hippie, and a family with a small child under a gray and windy sky. The hours pass slowly while waiting for the concert and they serve me to relive my story with Springsteen which can be summed up as: romance/dreams/glory of the '70s, explosion/muscles/success of the '80s, introspection/family/commitment of the '90s, decline/renaissance of the 2000s. Time passes quickly and silently like the black clouds above me and I reflect.
I unwrap a sandwich but I’m not hungry, my stomach has closed up. The moment is about to arrive and we all move forward to try to get close to the black metal bar that delimits the pit. The wind brings the scent of rain. In front of me the colossal black stage seems to want to swallow all the audience that fills every space of the stadium. I meet the tough gaze of one of the security guys and then the trance-like eyes of hundreds of fans. Notes of Morricone, the musicians of a lifetime, Bruce. And the rain starts to fall lightly, almost vaporized.
Here, the review should end here.
I know, I know it's the review of a Springsteen concert but it’s difficult for me.
It’s difficult because the framed, set, inserted, started, integrated ordinary man has been confronted with years of life. Bruce is a showman, has a powerful voice, is moving, engaging, overflowing but I realize that what tears me apart are his songs. The rain increases and washes everything away. Soaked and smiling, I listen to a frantic rock marathon supported by the remnants of those kids against the New York backdrop. In between, there is also space and light for an immense Burning Love by Elvis, a magnificent Trapped by Jimmy Cliff, and a classic Who’ll Stop the Rain by CCR. But it’s Badlands, Prove It All Night, Born to Run, Hungry Heart, Seven Nights to Rock, Dancing in the Dark, Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out that exalt me but at the same time, they seem to come out of myself. The concert starts at 20:28 and ends at 23:56.
On the notes of Backstreets, I realize that Bruce's albums have touched some exposed wire. They have imperceptibly changed my existence, slightly, by a comma but now I’m sure they have changed it. A child sings with Bruce on stage and I think: I am that child. Now I am.
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