One look at the cover of Bruce Springsteen's new album is enough to make a seasoned Boss fan's stomach turn.
The record's generic title, Bruce's carefully ruffled black hair, the doctored texture of the photograph all reek of a middle-aged comeback album - which is more or less what "Magic" is. Luckily, in Springsteen's case this isn't necessarily a bad thing.
The big question is whether or not Bruce can continue doing what he's done so successfully in the past: adapt and remold his art to his changing life - his age, his experiences, his economic standing and his country's social and political climate. Can he do this while continuing to embrace the rough, folk-derived undertone that singularizes his musical persona?
"The Rising" (2002), his last album with the E Street Band, Springsteen channeled the psyche of post-9/11 America with unparalleled taste and effectiveness.
On "Magic," Springsteen also generally succeeds in this respect, but it might take a while to see it. The album does fall short of listeners' hopes, however, for a variety of reasons.
First, it is simply less inspired than "The Rising," a remarkable album that took on the bruised nation's mix of emotions - grief and loss, fear and vengefulness. Although "Magic" does take on the War in Iraq at many points, and does so with depth and sensitivity, it simply sounds as if it does not have as much to say as "The Rising" did. It doesn't crackle with the same sense of urgency.
The most obvious explanation for this is producer Brendan O'Brien's sub-par production. On "The Rising," Springsteen's first collaboration with O'Brien, the producer broadened Springsteen's sonic landscape with a wide range of new instrumental ideas. On "Magic," though, he drags the Boss's brawny, rockin' sound through the mud, subjecting it to Pro Tools-era overproduction. Most of the tracks come out cluttered and bass-heavy, drowning behind a wall of sound that is overly packed with synthesizers and digitized distortion.
The album's first single, "Radio Nowhere," is a perfect example of how O'Brien dives way overboard. Guitars overloaded with distortion, vocals layered with echo and reverb doesn't artfully veil the poetic subtlety of Springsteen's lyrics, but cruelly buries it.
"Radio Nowhere" is one of a handful of "Magic" tracks into which Springsteen injects the social commentary that has dominated many of his songs from the Bush administration era. After releasing "The Rising," Springsteen condemned the War in Iraq with the twangy folk of "Devils and Dust" (2005), then covered 13 of folk-protest guru Pete Seeger's songs on "We Shall Overcome: the Seeger Sessions" (2006).
On "Radio Nowhere," Bruce demonstrates a lyrical subtlety he recently refined. In lamenting the American people's muted objection to the war in Iraq, he uses the metaphor of trying in vain to find the signal on his low-humming radio. "I was spinnin' 'round a dead dial /Just another lost number in a file/ Dancin' down a dark hole/ Just searchin' for a world with some soul," he sings.
On the chorus, Springsteen wails, "This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?/ I just wanna hear some rhythm."
Springsteen's politically conscious lyrics show up again on the romantic, swinging dance tune "Livin' in the Future." This apparently upbeat song obliquely narrates the story of a soldier who receives a letter from the army calling him to serve in Iraq. "A letter come blowin' in on an ill wind/ Somethin' 'bout me and you/ Never seein' one another again," he sings.
Once again, though, O'Brien clouds the art of Springsteen's lyrics and song craft. This time it's with distorted, crunchy, low-end rhythm guitars that obliterate the "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" groove that saxophonist Clarence Clemons, drummer Max Weinberg and bassist Garry Tallent have attempted to fashion.
"Last to Die," an angry, minor-key rocker, is one of the album's strongest songs. In the chorus, Springsteen quotes a Vietnam-era John Kerry, who famously asked the Senate, "How do you ask a man to be the last man to die for a mistake?" On the drums, Weinberg crashes his way through the incensed power rocker, and Springsteen howls, "Who'll be the last to die for a mistake/ The last to die for a mistake?/ Darlin' will tyrants and kings fall to the same fate/ Strung up at your city gates?"
Another highlight track is "Long Walk Home." In this song, a glimpse of the blue-collar, down-home balladeer is visible in his most comfortable habitat. Uninhibitedly accepting his age, Bruce narrates the story of a single, adult man pursuing love with a local woman.
He inhabits this persona just as beautifully as he did the young, party-happy dockworker in "Out in the Street" on "The River" (1980), or the giddy groom in "Walk Like a Man" on "Tunnel of Love" (1987), agog but still preoccupied with impressing his aging father on his own wedding day. As Springsteen's life and times have progressed, his themes have moved along with them.
It is satisfying to see Bruce continuing the trend on "Long Walk Home," a song that starts gently and then launches into a propelling, classic Max Weinberg rock feel. The tune brings to mind an unmarried, 50-something working man plodding home alone from the pub on a Saturday night. As he walks, he wishes he could be with his girlfriend, twining his roughened fingers into hers as he sojourns past "Sal's grocery" and the "barber shop on South Street."
Once again, O'Brien overdoes it with the wall of sound. But the song's genuineness cuts through. And when Clemons pierces the thick guitar barricade with a forceful and pure saxophone solo, you can catch a glimpse, however fleeting, of the old glory days of E Street.
