Drunk.
Probably talk about Bruce Springsteen too much. Post-Oscars even, his non-nomination the cause of many teeth-gnashing contests among music blogs.
No matter. I love Bruce Springsteen and my proclivity toward music with painful intent does not rule out the affirmation of a G chord, open, ringing, carrying a half-broken voice, massacred in equal measures by years of passion and lost hope.
He won in 1993 already, besides, with “Streets of Philadelphia,” a melody so simple and small it was a risk for Springsteen, who, aside from Nebraska, had previously reached the public through widescreen guitar lines, shimmering and pure, mechanically engineered to touch dead-end-but-dreaming souls across America’s sadder stretches.
Here, instead, he lumbered sadly through a keyboard and a drum machine.
Continue reading ‘THE BROKEN SPIRITS… OR LET’S NOT WRESTLE MR. SPRINGSTEEN’
