Ben French, Nude As The News
"If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which
grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me." -- William
Shakespeare
Time has always been the greatest judge of artwork. Elizabethan audiences
went crazy for Marlowe; a few hundred years later, theatergoers watch
"Shakespeare in the Park." It's impossible for us to determine which of
the artists we celebrate today will be admired by future audiences, but
that doesn't mean it isn't fun to wonder.
Bruce Springsteen's The Rising is an interesting album to consider in this
sense. Many of its songs were written in the weeks immediately following
the 9/11 attacks ("Into The Fire" was even written in time for the Sept.
21, 2001 "Tribute To Heroes" telethon). All of its tracks can be closely
associated with the tragedy in one way or another. Therefore, the music's
references are especially audible and meaningful to us now, while the hunt
for justice is still unresolved. Yet The Rising has an incredibly timeless
feel to it. And after listening to it again and again during the last six
months, I am tempted to wonder if its simple language -- its universally
understood imagery -- will stand the test of time.
Other artists have already taken on the subject of 9/11 -- Sleater-Kinney,
Steve Earle and Sonic Youth, to name a few -- but none have been as direct
in their emotional dissection of the tragedy's aftermath as Springsteen is
here. Bruce has made a career of writing about normal people dealing with
life's common struggles. A few of his most celebrated songs
("Backstreets," "The River," "Reason To Believe") are about characters
mourning the loss of love and relationships that have recently fallen
apart. So it's not surprising that he succeeds so well in his exploration
of this ever-intimidating subject matter.
As a New Jersey native and someone who could actually see the World Trade
Center towers from his town, Bruce might as well be transmitting from
Ground Zero. But the emotions the singer is drawing out of his freshly
injured heart are as old as mankind: frustration, anger, bereavement and
the hopelessness associated with tremendous loss. He injects these common
feelings into the songs and, as he's so effectively done before, finds the
perfect personal details to give life to the songs' characters. He frames
these subjects with his basic but effective set of standard chord
progressions and song structures, presented ever so carefully by his E
Street Band. And he makes a great effort to broaden the focus of the
album's message beyond the realm of the 9/11 aftermath by pairing
incredibly personal details with more lasting and timeless imagery.
The album's best track, "You're Missing," is a perfect example.
Springsteen tosses out universal symbols, not unlike the "union card and
wedding coat" of "The River," and takes a deceptively simple approach to
unveiling one person's misery. The singer's delivery is painfully cold and
tired, presented with downtrodden instrumentation to match, and the
repetition of both the music and words reinforce this person's
heartbreaking cycle of pain. Waking every morning to find "too much room
in my bed, too many phone calls." Staring at empty coffee cups and unworn
jackets on the nightstand. Turning off the lights, trying to fall asleep.
"Everything, everything," he repeats again and again to himself and the
listener, chanting it like a mantra for mourning. Everything is the same;
everything has changed. "Everything, everything," he sings once more. "But
you're missing. You're missing."
The equally potent tunes "Empty Sky" and "Into The Fire" work in much the
same way, though their words provide a more clear connection to the World
Trade Center attacks. In the first, Bruce centers his lyrics on the anger
that bubbles from such a horrific event. The character wakes in the
morning to find an empty sky, remembers a lost kiss, hungers for "an eye
for an eye," searches for an answer to the dead who haunt him:
Blood on the streets
Blood flowin down
I hear the blood of my blood
Crying from the ground
On the flip side of the coin, the protagonist of "Into The Fire" sings a
tender tribute to a firefighter lost in an unnamed conflagration. Again,
repetition is key, especially during the ending. Here, Springsteen offers
his listeners a prayer that he recites over and over as the music swells
around him: "May your strength give us strength. May your faith give us
faith. May your hope give us hope. May your love bring us love."
Springsteen considered performing "Into The Fire" during the
aforementioned national telethon of September 21, 2000, and it's a shame
he didn't. Ever the cautious man, Bruce instead decided to play "My City
Of Ruins," an older song he had written and performed before September 11,
and one with which he felt more confident. One wonders if the timely
qualities of "Into The Fire" will ever be as powerful as they might have
been that night.
One thing is certain: a few of the songs here here have already outworn
their welcome. Maybe the fairy-tale imagery of the album's worst track,
the overly sappy "Countin' On A Miracle," would have been more acceptable
had it been released immediately after 9/11, but its magic certainly isn't
working now. The Rising somewhat falters in its middle third, as
Springsteen struggles to make this a cohesive record. He's said in many
interviews that he's been trying to find his rock voice again, and here we
plainly see him "trying on" sounds, rock genres and singing styles as if
they were hats and gloves.
On "Worlds Apart," he sounds like Peter Gabriel; on "Let's Be Friends,"
Marvin Gaye; "Further On Up The Road," Steve Earle; "The Fuse," U2; and on
"Mary's Place" he sounds like a 1974 version of himself. Keep in mind,
those five songs run in that order, falling ungraciously one after
another. And without question, all or most should have been cut. It isn't
that they are bad songs per se; they just don't fit. They especially don't
fit when one considers this album is a far-too-long 15 songs and 72
minutes.
Indeed, nearly all of this album's lasting moments come during either its
strong opening or its spectacular finish. The first four tracks set the
tone of The Rising, displaying Bruce's unmatched ability to explore the
aforementioned serious themes via highly accessible songs. In opener
"Lonesome Day," the songwriter pairs one person's self-doubt and fear with
a human quality to persevere despite it all; then on "Into The Fire" he
presents one person's intense bereavement as a touching tribute to
courage.
With "Waiting On A Sunny Day," he offers his listeners a carefree
celebration of the things that deliver us from sadness and pain. Its faux-Mellencamp
instrumentation and poppy feel is a welcome relief from the album's more
heavy side and reminds us of music's ability to lift one's spirits. The
album's fourth song, "Nothing Man," written before 9/11, is an equally
catchy tune, but of a far more dark sort. Highly reminiscent of Tunnel Of
Love-era hits such as "Brilliant Disguise" and "One Step Up," the song
blends lyrics infused with self-distrust and disgust with light-as-air
melodies.
The album's four-song finale is equally compelling. The yawning violins
and tender lyrics of "You're Missing" lead beautifully into marching
triumph of the title track. "The Rising" doesn't play, as much it
explodes. Here, we finally get a rock song out of this aging rocker,
worthy of his Born In The U.S.A.-era anthems. He follows its thunder with
the atmospheric "Paradise," a beautiful folk number with an opening verse
that provides the listener a perspective from the vantage point of a
terrorist. Slide guitars and hushed synths, along with Bruce's gritty
delivery, lull the listener into a dream state. The song slows the
adrenaline rush brought on by "The Rising" and prepares us for the album's
perfect closer.
In the middle of "My City Of Ruins," Springsteen asks, "Tell me how do I
begin again?" It's the single best line on The Rising, for it is the
single biggest question one can ponder in the face of adversity. The song,
written well before 9/11, was inspired by the gradual crumbling of
Springsteen's Asbury Park, N.J., stomping grounds, and it resonates well
with the rest of the material here. After woefully pondering the
devastation that surrounds and emotionally engulfs him, the singer urges
his audience to summon the courage and faith to move forward and to "rise
up."
Ultimately, The Rising is all about transcendence, yet another theme that
permeates Springsteen's best work. In classics like "Born To Run," "Racing
In The Street" and "Thunder Road," he offers us a place in the front seat
of his escape car. He gives us a promise of something better and grander
down the road. "It's a town full of losers and I'm pulling out of here to
win," he sings. Not unlike the protagonist of "My Hometown," the narrator
of "My City Of Ruins," offers a different form of relief: he decides to
stay with his downtrodden community, rather than abandoning it for a
fabled "walk in the sun" or a "drive to the sea."
In the chorus of voices and instruments he brings together during the
final push of "My City Of Ruins" and The Rising, Bruce finds a different
type of transcendence: a power that is brought out when a singer connects
with an audience, the imagined "magic in the night" he prayed for 25 years
ago. It has always been suggested by Bruce that this intangible energy
will metaphorically deliver us from the pains and fears that follow us in
troubled times. And here, as the music grows and expands, giving way to
his emphatic "rise ups," one can easily understand what he's talking
about.
The Rising is definitely not Springsteen's best work, but it does have
this one fantastic success: it sorts through the emotions of the here and
now with startling clarity and it lifts its audience above it all. One is
left to wonder whether future audiences will be affected in a similar
fashion -- whether our great grandsons will find solace and spirituality
in this music. It is possible the album's importance and meaning will fade
with time, as future generations fail to connect with this "everyman" of
an ancient art form.
But it's just as likely the intangible energy that propels The Rising will
allow it to outlive the scars of 9/11. Maybe the obvious connection to
such a massive historical event will make it Springsteen's most remembered
work.
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David Pyndus, PopMatters, August 9th
2002
If you're looking for classic
Springsteen, look no farther than "Further On (Up the Road)", a rocker
about companionship fueled by three guitars, a relentless beat and swampy
harmonica. The song was written during his reunion tour with the E Street
Band in 2000, before anyone knew if he'd ever record another full-length
album with his former bandmates again.
Faith was rewarded but the landscape had changed when the band met in
Atlanta early this year to record their follow up to Born in the USA.
Springsteen had already agreed to work with a new producer, a musician
named Brendan O'Brien known for polishing hard rock acts like Pearl Jam
and Stone Temple Pilots. The biggest change came when terrorist attacks in
the Northeast altered life in 21st century America.
For a writer known for mining the dark recesses of "a runaway American
dream", as Springsteen once famously sang, it's no surprise that the whole
of The Rising tries to pick up the pieces of a post-September 11th world.
From the opening anthem "Lonesome Day", to the stinging title track, to
the closing R&B soul of "My City of Ruins" -- perhaps the masterpiece here
in its newfound arrangement -- nearly every song is infused with duty and
suffering, tempered by hope and spiritual resurrection.
While Springsteen thankfully avoids jingoistic sentiments, one of the
album's obvious touchstones is "Empty Sky", a countryish ballad addressing
common feelings after the attack:
"I want a kiss from your lips / I want an eye for an eye / I woke up this
morning to an empty sky."
The song moves along almost at a monotone pace, as if he is still in
shock, and the effect is powerful, especially when his wailing harmonica
punctuates the air. Springsteen formerly sang about getting to the
Promised Land, and here he sounds like he almost doesn't have the heart to
care.
The first single from the album, a metaphor-rich narrative called "The
Rising", is an account of a fireman or disaster worker losing his life in
the World Trade Center, though he wisely avoids journalistic detail,
preferring instead to sing of a man "wearin' the cross" of his calling
while riding on "wheels of fire" to answer a call. A more specific account
of the day, the maudlin "Into the Fire", is not nearly as successful,
because of a relatively plodding musical arrangement and a chorus sounding
like a lame benediction. It is a rare misstep on a very carefully thought
out album, which refines the E Street Band sound with ample cellos and the
prominent addition of violinist Soozie Tyrell.
The song that sticks out like a sore thumb, both musically and
thematically, is "Let's Be Friends (Skin to Skin)", a sunny sing-a-long
that's fun to listen to, almost recalling the Jackson 5, but just doesn't
fit here. Perhaps he felt it was needed, considering the how often the
mortal coil is broken on these songs, only to be replaced by bleak
realizations. If anything the album is an embarrassment of riches, a
15-song collection ranging from hard rock ("Countin' on a Miracle", "Waitin'
on a Sunny Day") to acoustic ballads ("Paradise", "Nothing Man") to
anthems ("Lonesome Day", the title track) to experiments ("Worlds Apart",
"The Fuse"). Much of the band's work in albums like Darkness on the Edge
of Town and The River is recalled throughout. A song that could be the
sequel to Springsteen's desolate classic "Point Blank" is the sadly tender
"You're Missing", which details the emotions of someone coming to terms
with the sudden loss of a loved one. The cello-and-piano centered song is
almost as spare as Springsteen's more recent work, yet Federici's roller
rink organ towards the end of the song slides right in as if recalling
happier days gone by on the boardwalk.
In particular "Worlds Apart", infused with the devotional music of Islamic
mystics, is the biggest departure here. The song opens with qawwali singer
Asif Ali Khan, who is joined by Springsteen singing of a relationship
seemingly doomed by dual cultures that cannot mesh. Practically pleading
to his lover, "may the living let us in, before the dead tear us apart",
Springsteen acknowledges the uphill battle facing couples of different
backgrounds while his guitar screams in frustration.
Yet it's the return of his comrades from the glory days, saxophonist
Clarence Clemons, guitarists Steven Van Zandt and Nils Lofgren, bassist
Garry Tallent, pianist Roy Bittan, organist Danny Federici, drummer Max
Weinberg and (on background vocals and not guitar) wife Patti Scialfa,
that's part of the story here. In one fell swoop Springsteen has released
an album that is chillingly relevant even as much of it, especially the
over ballyhooed "Mary's Place", is unabashedly anachronistic. He's trying
to please old fans, even though these modern war stories are as far
removed from the lives of Rosalita and the Magic Rat as can be. Most
tellingly, he's still trying to cross that bridge -- the one connecting
people in commonality and shared experience -- with rock music and at this
point, no one does it better.
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Kurt Loder, Rolling Stone, issue 903, August 22nd 2002
The heart sags at the prospect of pop stars weighing in
on the subject of September 11th. Which of them could possibly transmute
the fiery horror of that day with the force of their art, or offer up
anything beyond a dismal trivialization?
The answer, it turns out, is Bruce Springsteen. With his new album, The
Rising, Springsteen wades into the wreckage and pain of that horrendous
event and emerges bearing fifteen songs that genuflect with enormous grace
before the sorrows that drift in its wake. The small miracle of his
accomplishment is that at no point does he give vent to the anger felt by
so many Americans: the hunger for revenge. The music is often fierce in
its execution, but in essence it is a requiem for those who perished in
that sudden inferno, and those who died trying to save them. Springsteen
grandly salutes their innocence and their courage, and holds out a hand to
those who mourn them, who seek the comfort of an explanation for the
inexplicable:
Picture's on the nightstand, TV's on in the den
Your house is waiting . . . for you to walk in
But you're missing, you're missing
It's wonderful to hear these finely calibrated lyrics borne aloft by the E
Street Band, brought back at last for a record that rocks as broadly as
Born in the U.S.A., the last studio album for which they all gathered,
eighteen years ago. However heavy of heart the new songs may be, this
three-guitar incarnation of the band (with Steve Van Zandt and Nils
Lofgren standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Springsteen -- never a slouch
in the screaming-guitar department himself) propels them with resounding
power. Like Born in the U.S.A. before it, The Rising sounds unlike any
other record of its time; in an era of rock murk and heavy synthetics, it
flaunts its hard, bright guitars and positively walloping beats.
Springsteen addresses the spiritual dislocations of the World Trade Center
attack - and the unquestioning bravery of the rescuers who lost their
lives in it - with "Into the Fire," a song that starts out with the
simplicity of a white-gospel hymn ("I need your kiss/But love and duty
called you someplace higher"), then blossoms into a luminous anthem:
May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love bring us love
Elsewhere, Springsteen acknowledges the fury that welled up in many bereft
New Yorkers after the destruction of Manhattan's two most towering
landmarks: "I want a kiss from your lips/I want an eye for an eye/I woke
up this morning to an empty sky." And in the lush, haunted ballad "Nothing
Man," he seems to give voice to the emptiness and incomprehension felt by
some of that day's surviving heroes:
I never thought I'd live to read about myself
In my hometown paper
How my brave young life was forever changed
In a misty cloud of pink vapor
Not every song on the album was written in the wake of September 11th: "Waitin'
on a Sunny Day," for example, with its big, meaty riff and strutting
lyrics. "Let's Be Friends (Skin to Skin)," with its entirely unexpected
beach-beat bounce, wouldn't seem at first listen to fit in here. But every
song on the album is unified, to an extent, by a mood of romantic longing
and a yearning for human connection. In the end, they all flow together.
As with Born in the U.S.A., the title of this album may mislead some who
hear it, particularly those intent on retaliation, which Springsteen
himself shows little interest in contemplating. His concern is not with a
national uprising but with a rising above: the transcending of
ever-mounting losses and ancient hatreds.
His most inspired gesture comes in "Worlds Apart," a track that writhes
with the sounds of qawwali, the intense, God-conjuring, life-affirming
vocal music of the mystical Sufi sect of Islam - a branch of the faith
much detested (and often suppressed) by death-trumpeting fundamentalist
imams. Hearing ecstatic qawwali ululations underpinning a song in which
Springsteen sings "May the living let us in/Before the dead tear us apart"
is a truly soul-stirring experience.
Bruce Springsteen has gathered many a superlative over the years. His most
resonant works stand as milestones in the lives of millions of fans. Even
for him, though, The Rising, with its bold thematic concentration and
penetrating emotional focus, is a singular triumph. I can't think of
another album in which such an abundance of great songs might be said to
seem the least of its achievements.
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Lonesome
Day
