newcritics

The Shamus has listened to Bruce Springsteen’s “Magic” a couple of times now (praise be to free streaming at AOL) and I don’t want to write in terms of a review, but just offer a few impressions. All artists (or all worthy ones) go through phases. Springsteen lost me, for the most part, in the “Ghost of Tom Joad/The Rising/Devils and Dust” phase. I never bought that “Born In The USA” was commercial sloganeering, but many of the “Joad/Rising/Dust” era’s songs weren’t songs, they were editorials or broadsides spoken over the plunk of an acoustic guitar or wash of synthesizers. It’s as though he had these, well, essays he needed to write. (”Rising,” while more musical, always struck me as too specifically repertorial to be timeless, and it hasn’t held up, in my opinion).

But starting with “The Seeger Sessions,” Springsteen’s sphincter unclinched and he began to remember the soulful, footloose spirit that made his career. And now with “Magic,” there is an even stronger indication that he has re-embraced his musical roots. For as long as this phase lasts, we are reaping the sweet rewards of the Boss’ gift for melody. The songs on “Magic” have a joyful lilt to them, and there are lots of classic Bruuuuuuuce indicators, from the familiar plink of Roy Bittan’s piano to the “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out”-style intro of “Livin’ In The Future” to the muted roar of Clarence Clemons’ sax. (And there are some new touches. Film fans should listen for the razor whine of Morricone-esque harmonica on “Gypsy Biker.”)

What makes “Magic” even more impressive, though, is that he has married his house sound to some of his darkest, most poetic lyrics. I would love to know what writers (and, I suspect, poets) he has been reading lately in addition to “The New York Times,” because something has led Springsteen down a more indirect path in his imagery. On several songs, he writes of color schemes and card tricks and bruised relationships and Catholic iconography (replete with drops of blood) and you know he’s talking about the state of the country, the war, the horrible, senseless loss of life. And it almost moved me to tears, because it is so much more expressive for not being plainly stated. In coming at his frustration and anger from a softer place, the effect is much more powerful. His words set off a chain of thoughts in the listener’s head, like all good poetry does.

I don’t want to overstate the charms of “Magic.” I’m always wary of lauding music on only a couple of listens. It will take time to see if “Magic” holds up. I suspect it will. And while it may be his best work since “The River” and “Nebraska,” he is not the same man, and is never going to match those highs. But “Magic” strikes me as living proof that Springsteen really is worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as Dylan, Eastwood or Philip Roth, artists who find a re-animated voice in later years and push an already extraordinary career to new heights.

(Cross-posted at the Shamus’ shingle: badfortheglass.blogspot.com)