Super Special Super Bowl Guest Commentary

The Wild, the Innocent and the Halftime Shuffle
By Joel Warner

My reaction to hearing that Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band were going to perform at the Super Bowl XLIII halftime show? A great, big, ambivalent “eh.”

Now that’s a big deal, coming from a guy whose first musical love affair was with Springsteen, born from a season washing dishes at a summer camp while Bruce’s devastatingly haunting album “Nebraska” was on permanent repeat. Especially since for me it’s an affair that never went away.

There were was many a teenage night when only the grandiose strains of “Jungleland” blasting from my bedroom CD player could calm the angst-ridden tatters of my adolescent heart, torn asunder by some girl or other who’d only wanted to be friends. Then there was the ultimate high school graduation present given to me by my brothers in arms: A shiny green street sign torn straight out of the ground from a Sudbury, Mass., street that had the misfortune of being named Thunder Road. And finally there were the concerts — oh, the concerts. Little in my life has compared to the feeling of the E Street boys, right there in front of me, tearing into the first, momentous strains of “Growin’ Up” or “Born to Run” or “10th Avenue Freeze Out” as the stadium goes bonkers. Maybe my wedding and the birth of my son outrank it. Maybe.

But Bruce’s newer stuff? I just don’t know. Don’t get me wrong; it’s good, great even. But as one of my closest Springsteen compatriots sheepishly admitted to me last week, he just doesn’t find himself keeping most of these later albums in regular rotation. Instead we find ourselves opting for newer bands who unabashedly ape Bruce’s early anthems and rock operas, folks like the Hold Steady, Arcade Fire and Gaslight Anthem. It’s not that Bruce isn’t pushing the creative envelope — quite the opposite, in fact. He’s continued to develop his sound, while we’re still stubbornly stuck in 1975.

And then there’s the fact that being a hardcore Bruce fan is a full-time job. Now that I’m actually doing all the things I’ve always listened to him sing about — settling down and starting a family, spending my days working in the factory (ahem, cubicle) — I’ve had to leave a young man’s indulgences behind. There’s no time for ordering obscure 1973 live bootlegs from the Netherlands, no time to scrutinize new concert set lists online for signs of lost classics like “Thundercrack” and “Santa Anna.”

That’s why I didn’t even realize Springsteen’s new album, “Working on a Dream,” was coming out last Tuesday. Sure, when I found out I dutifully purchased a copy, but after a play or two I could already see it fading into the far reaches of my iTunes library. And while I agreed with a buddy to try to get tickets for Bruce’s upcoming Denver concert when they went on sale this week, I knew that if I didn’t score seats, it wouldn’t be a big deal. And although I told myself I would watch Bruce’s much-hyped halftime show, I expected to keep one eye on the TV and one eye on the chips and dip.

All that changed in the first 20 seconds of the halftime show.

“Oh shit,” I said to myself as the E Street Band’s horn section kicked into a swinging intro that never fails to send a shiver down my spine. “10th Avenue Freeze-Out” — a killer old favorite. “Is there anybody alive out there?” hollered Bruce, the crowd went wild and I completely lost it.

I loved every over-the-top second of the 12 minutes that followed. Bruce’s over-exuberant knee-slide that led to him landing a crotch-plant right into the TV camera being watched by millions. Bruce promising Wendy, just like he always does, that he’ll love her with all the madness in his soul as thousands around him holler, “Baby we born to run.” The gospel groove sing-along of the obligatory new song, “Working on a Dream.” Even the ridiculous shtick of the show-closer “Glory Days” — the Super Bowl-specific lyric changes, the make-believe referee calling time’s up, band member Steven Van Zandt’s strange insistence on always dressing like a pirate.

Some reviewers have since knocked the performance — the gaudy spectacle of it, its unabashed giddiness. But those folks don’t know Bruce Springsteen. He’s first and foremost an entertainer, always ready to please his fans with whatever’s called for — whether that’s a ghostly hymn perfect for cruising alone down a dark interstate highway, an angry protest song dedicated to all those wronged working men out there, or, when the time is right, an exploding birthday cake of a routine designed to rock the faces off 100 million viewers worldwide. Plus, who wants to hear about broken marriages and crushed dreams in the middle of a Super Bowl?

There you have it. I’m back on the Bruce bandwagon, crazy as ever. Getting tickets to his Denver show became a must — and my buddy came through by scoring four general-admission floor tickets, the best of the best. Plus the more I listen to “Working on a Dream,” the more I think it might just make it into regular rotation. Best of all, my wife and I have now taught our 18-month-old son to say Bruce (“Bop,” he calls him) and trained him put his fist in the air and say “Whoa.”

Talk about being born to run.