From where I sit, the silhouettes of hands — hundreds of hands — cut a jagged line like pine needles between myself and the artificially sun-soaked stage below, where a man is preaching to the wide-eyed crowd to “rise up.” Behind him stands a four-piece choir and a warm piano skipping along in blissful reassurance. With the exception of the abundant saxophones, trombones and electric guitars, the whole scene looks like a mega-church rally — and maybe it is. If our faith is in America’s founding principles, then a Bruce Springsteen show is prime group worship.
“This tour was not planned,” The Boss said to the packed crowd in Target Center on March 31. “We’re here tonight because we need to feel your hope and your strength. We want to bring some hope and strength to you.”
And a paycheck’s worth of hope and strength they brought. Springsteen and the E Street Band’s “Land of Hopes and Dreams” tour came at no better time in the nation’s tumultuous political climate, kicking off with this three hour marathon in Minneapolis and winding around the country to hit Washington, D.C. for its final stop on May 27.
In 1985, to go to a Springsteen show was an act of patriotic protest. The disillusioned working class could shuffle into an arena much like Target Center and fasten their eyes on a comically large American flag, before which a man clad in tight denim from head to toe would take them to the Promised Land. This ability of Springsteen’s shows to rejuvenate burnt out Americans has not changed. The concerts’ aesthetic certainly has. In a humid arena, deep in the heart of a grieving country, the same tiny f igure took the stage donning all black attire.
“Tonight,” Springsteen said, “we ask all of you to join with us in choosing hope over fear, democracy over authoritarianism, the rule of law over lawlessness, ethics over unbridled corruption, resistance over complacency, unity over division and peace over war.”
At the end of his speech, he tore open a series of anti-war anthems, notably a cover of Edwin Starr’s 1970 protest classic “War” and his infamously misinterpreted “Born in the USA.”
Springsteen’s control over the venue went unquestioned. When the f irst synths of “Born in the USA” shot from the stage, baseball-capped heads began to bob, fists punched the air, hands grasping Hamm’s cans swayed across stage views and little screens rose to document. Perhaps the only difference between this scene and one from the 1984-85 “Born in the USA” Tour — technology aside — was the crowd’s attire. Numerous backs were veiled in t-shirts from the merch stand stamped with a black and white, upside down American flag. The 25-foot-wide tapestry of red, white and blue was certainly nowhere to be found.
When Springsteen began drawling out the “Streets of Minneapolis” over anticipatory synths, the room rose to its feet as if reciting the national anthem. All 18,000 of us picked up on the band’s melodies, undulating beneath the choruses of “Badlands” and “Dancing in the Dark.” For the latter, a stretch of the barricade was impeccably synced up, swinging their arms in front of their torsos in some unspoken dance.
Between his classics and his covers — including a thunderous performance of Patti Smith’s “Because the Night” — Springsteen dove into a series of his post 9/11 anthems. While the solemn keys of “My City of Ruins” drifted into the crowd, our preacher sat on the edge of the stage for one of his signature sermons. As if standing face to face with all of us, he spoke of the “hard times” plaguing the nation — the illegal war in Iran, the rapid detaining of immigrants, the White House’s corruption of the Supreme Court — amongst other grievances.
“We are no longer the land of the free and the home of the brave. We are now, to many, America the reckless, unpredictable, predatory, rogue nation,” Springsteen said, punctuating every adjective. While his speeches were lyrical, he did not shy away from a series of direct attacks on President Donald Trump.
“You want to talk about snowflakes, we have a president who can’t handle the truth,” he said after speaking on the “whitewashing” of history.
Of The Boss’ many hymns, “My City of Ruins” borrows the most Christian-leaning lingo. Springsteen himself called it a “prayer for our country.” This belief system, defined as American civil religion — though I wish not to kill the Springsteen show with religious theory — is the groundwater that nourishes his anthems. The bridge of “My City of Ruins” is, quite directly, a series of prayers, from “I pray for the strength, Lord,” to “I pray for your love, Lord.” What “Lord” is being addressed is not the focus of the crescendo, just as the “God” in the Pledge of Allegiance is not defined by faith. The “Lord” is a vehicle for patriotic unity, a figure we can crane our necks up to for the sake of feeling a little less small.
I was not analyzing Springsteen when I stood shoulder to shoulder with swaying bodies. Instead, I was struck by the fingers stretching toward a sky sealed shut. Behind Springsteen’s litany his choir repeated, and so did we, the line “with these hands.” Involuntarily and instantly, hands sprouted across the stadium. I felt out of place, like I was intruding on a Gen-X church service.
In a 2014 essay on Springsteen’s “The River 40th Anniversary Tour,” music critic Hanif Abdurraqib writes, “in the church of Bruce Springsteen, it is understood that there is a singular America, one where there is a dream to be had for all who enter, and everyone emerges, hours later, closer to that dream.”
While Springsteen’s shows have certainly not changed in this regard, the necessity of this musical church has only intensified as the world outside the arena unravels.
