Let’s start with a little story. Last month I was flicking through the vinyl racks of a Wexford Street record shop, wearing a 1985 Born In The U.S.A. Tour t-shirt and sporting my hair, as I will admit, at an angle. I can’t blame him for asking, really, but I became a little miffed when another of the shop’s more middle-aged patrons came over to enquire whether “that t-shirt is actually from the 80s” and “do you actually like Bruce Springsteen?” Having assured him it was not a €50 Urban Outfitters purchase and yes, I’m a devoted Boss fan we both went back to our perusing, having nothing else to talk about.
All of this serves to illustrate a depressing paradigm shift. Bruce Springsteen was once the ultimate symbol of wild youth, a young-blooded poet well-schooled in his progenitors, but forward-looking in his approach. Rather than having his image pickled in the jar of history, however, his persistence in releasing average albums since the early 90s with only flashes of the same vigour of Greetings From Asbury Park or the unquestionable craft of Born To Run’s epic soap operas has made him the foremost hieroglyph of dad-rock. Dylan, at least, was old before his time.
As with last year’s sleight of hand Magic, the “return to form” heralds are all bluster. There are moments of indulgence and (relative) experimentation, there are songs to fill the RDS, the Odyssey, and every sizeable stadium either side of the Atlantic, but not one song has the saintly qualification of entering the Springsteen canon. It’s not an offensive album to the point of making me want to hang up the Born In The U.S.A. t-shirt, but it doesn’t offer much in the way of seducting me into buying a Working On A Dream Tour 2009 one to replace it.
See also: Roy Orbison- Greatest Hits [Monument], The Byrds- Sweetheart of the Rodeo [Columbia]
