The Boss

I went to a Bruce Springsteen tribute night with a couple of friends. None of us were Bruce Springsteen fans. We knew a few of the big hits and had a vague memory of others – what is that song about the river? P kept asking. So I listened to the songs about men working in mines and coming out of prison and struggling families and fleeing couples as performed by six different guys on acoustic guitars. It was a sound of one kind of America – of blue denim and big cars and the wide road. As they strummed and picked the blokes from Fife and South Queensferry in striped shirts and work suits in a basement bar:-

somehow transfigured themselves into a dark bit of rough with bare biceps and cut off t’s from New Jersey adored by a stadium:-

I love this kind of tribute evening where musos get together out of sheer admiration for a particular artist. You hear the songs in their purity, without pyrotechnics.