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THE RISING
Bruce Springsteen
(Columbia/Sony)
A city devastated by tragedy. Families torn apart in an instant. Ordinary men and women transformed into heroes. Grieving people struggling to rise from the ashes of despair.
Since Sept. 11, these images and the tales that accompany them have become all too familiar to anyone who reads the paper, listens to the news or watches prime-time TV. But those who look to popular music for social commentary have come away almost empty-handed. With the exception of a few artists like the always-outspoken Neil Young, most rockers have remained strangely silent on last year's terrorism, preferring escapism and populist sloganeering -- Freedom, anyone? -- over serious contemplation and topicality.
Then there's Bruce Springsteen, a guy who seldom flinches from the harsh glare of reality. Last fall, he was the first musical performer on the America: A Tribute to Heroes telethon, delivering a stirring acoustic rendition of the unreleased song My City of Ruins (a song ironically written before the tragedy). Now, with his long-overdue disc The Rising -- his first studio effort in seven years and his first record with the E Street Band since 1984's Born in the U.S.A. -- Springsteen picks up right where he left off that day, weighing in with what will undoubtedly go down as rock's first full-fledged (and very likely finest) Sept. 11 album.
And who better to tackle such a tough topic than America's blue-collar poet laureate? After all, these subjects -- family, pride, love, honour, perseverance in the face of loss -- have been right up his artistic alley for decades. Actually, if you believe the hype, a lot of these tales were literally up his alley; supposedly, many of these songs were inspired by the stories of Bruce's New Jersey neighbours. But whether they're fact or fiction, they possess the ring of truth that Springsteen's finest work always carries.
Even better, they present moving human drama free of flag-waving jingoism and self-righteous chest-beating. While these 15 tracks are obviously going to have a deeper resonance south of the border, you don't have to be a Yankee to appreciate the emotions behind them. Waitin' on a Sunny Day and Lonesome Day, for example, examine the emotional and physical void left behind by the death of a loved one. You're Missing and Countin' on a Miracle echo the anguish of those waiting for news of a lost lover. Into the Fire's narrator has just been rescued from a burning building by a firefighter -- who then turns around and walks back "into the darkness of your smoky grave" -- while The Rising views similar events through the firefighter's soot-covered mask.
If those songs seem like downers, well, buckle up folks, because this mood elevator's heading to the basement. Empty Sky scans the changed Manhattan horizon, and finds its narrator torn between yearning and vengeance: "I want a kiss from your lips / I want an eye for an eye." Nothing Man is the confession of an ordinary joe who becomes a home-town hero but is driven to suicide by guilt and grief. He ends up praying for guidance, a handgun -- "the pearl and steel on my night table" -- within easy reach. Perhaps the darkest and most compelling cut, however, is Paradise, which begins with the final thoughts of a suicide bomber ("In the crowded marketplace ... I hold my breath and close my eyes / And I wait for Paradise") and ends with a suicide bid by a victim's spouse ("I sink 'neath the water, cool and clear / Drifting down I disappear").
In the end, however, that narrator chooses life ("I break above the wave / I feel the sun upon my face"), and so does Springsteen. It's no accident the disc is titled The Rising; although downcast, many of these tracks are ultimately uplifting, even optimistic in their belief that time will heal the wounds and bring better days -- Reborn in the U.S.A., if you will. Mary's Place finds its hero forcing himself to return to the old friends, haunts and habits that now seem foreign: "We're gonna have a party," he promises, then sadly asks, "tell me, how do we get this thing started?" On the global perspective, Worlds Apart incorporates Middle Eastern flourishes and Pakistani vocalists to accent cultural differences as Bruce makes a plea for brotherhood, tolerance and unity.
Too bad this 73-minute album isn't always as musically adventurous as Worlds Apart. While it's a joy to hear the solid avalanche of sound that is the E Street Band back in a studio, they don't really seem to get much of a workout here (sax man Clarence Clemons especially seems under-used). A couple of tracks thump along to the bruising grooves of Darkness on the Edge of Town, but only Mary's Place harkens back to the Jersey-shore frat-rock of Rosalita. The rest of the disc is dominated by a slate of rootsy, midtempo guitar-rock -- think The River's darker points -- that's augmented by John Mellencampy fiddles, dobros and mandolins, sweetened by orchestral strings and occasionally contemporized by beatboxes and loops. Granted, it's not as disappointing as Human Touch, but then again, it's no Born to Run either. If this is the work of producer and mixer Brendan O'Brien -- whose previous clients include Pearl Jam and Rage Against the Machine -- Bruce can go back to producing himself with our blessing.
Still, even if its musical depth can't always compete with the emotional wallop and weight of its lyrics -- and even if occasional tracks like the lightly grooving Let's Be Friends smack of filler -- this album is ultimately a triumph. And not because it's going to hit No. 1, sell a jillion copies and nab a slew of awards. No, it's a success not for what it will become, but for what it is: An honest, gutsy comeback from an artist who's become more concerned with telling the truth than with pleasing the masses. (More on Bruce Springsteen)
Track Listing