Periodically I’ve dipped back into what Springsteen Inc. has been up to lately, hearing the material how one might slow down to gawk at a wreck on the highway. I had plenty of opportunity to go see Springsteen on Broadway but wasn’t about to drop several hundred bucks on the privilege. Today tons of progressive ticketholders still cheer on The Boss from front rows and luxury boxes, shouting along with “The Promised Land” as if 40-odd years later, the downscale protagonist wouldn’t likely be a Trump supporter adamantly against the Green New Deal, critical race theory, top surgery, and whatever else is fashionable on Martha’s Vineyard. As Bruce readily admits, myth almost always sells better than reality. Even if the shows were vastly more affordable, the Bruce that means anything to me survives only on tape, no matter how well rehearsed the stage monologues. He can’t properly perform the old songs like “Thunder Road” or “Racing in the Street” anymore, let alone write new ones, because he’s forgotten what they mean.

In this late day and age, it’s better that the man has finally turned to extraneous cover albums. If it’s going to be exhausted oldies karaoke, best to take on material he still retains some capacity to interpret. As Bruce himself sang on “Better Days” back in 1992, “it’s a sad funny endin’ when you find yourself pretendin’, a rich man in a poor man’s shirt.”

[Jesse also writes at The Ivy Exile. I’ve never been a big Springsteen fan anyway, but Jesse’s lament really strikes a chord as to why. His early days may have been working-class-hero stuff, but he’s been cashing in for decades on that persona. At least Madonna never pretended to be anything other than a Material Girl. — Ed]