Working on a Caricature
This past Tuesday, Bruce Springsteen released Working on a Dream,
his 16th studio album, amidst an extensive promotional push that includes a performance at the half-time show of Super Bowl XLIII, a Wal-Mart exclusive greatest-hits compilation (does anyone else see the hypocrisy/irony in this one?), an appearance at a pre-inauguration concert, and the announcement of yet another juggernaut world tour. The album, much like Springsteen’s persona as of late, comes off as unintentionally self-parodic, and confirms my belief that the Boss is unfortunately nothing but a caricature of himself these days – albeit one who can still put on a ridiculously good performance and whose first eight or so albums are undeniable modern classics.
On the heels of 2007's Magic, a collection of some of the most mediocre Bruce material in over a decade, Bruce and his E-Street Band hurriedly recorded Working, and it shows in how thoughtless and oftentimes silly this record is. On first listen, the opener “Outlaw Pete” should raise eyebrows because it might very well be Bruce’s attempt to take his operatic stories of the late 70s and mix it with his late roots-rock sound, but in the end the song lacks any emotional punch and feels entirely calculated – a common trend throughout the album.
The album experiments with a variety of new sounds for Bruce, but all of them come off as utterly restrained and carefully designed, like the overproduced blues dirge “Good Eye,” which fails at being anything but boring. The chord progressions on the record are, like Magic's, all quite similar, and are not original enough to make up for that fact. “This Life,” Bruce’s latest attempt at a Spector-like production falls flat quickly because of the entirely uninteresting tune.
The two singles, “Working on a Dream” and “My Lucky Day,” are both vastly inferior to any single off 2002’s The Rising; the former is downright boring, while the latter’s semi-shouted vocals are interesting but the tune sounds like it’s a recycled version of Magic’s “Last to Die.” Also not helping the cause of this album is the fact that Max Weinberg’s uninspired, repetitive drumming is becoming progressively more annoying. Get rid of him already!
While reading this review, do you notice a trend here with the words recycled; boring; flat; restrained; and calculated? Yeah, that about sums up this record.
But just when those adjectives seep into your brain and you think the record couldn’t possibly get any lower without being utterly painful, it does. “Queen of the Supermarket,” Bruce’s latest entry in his series of occasional abominations including “57 Channels (and Nothin’ On)” and “American Skin (41 Shots),” is absolutely unbearable and inessential. Bruce tells the story of falling in love with the grocery checkout girl with such cringe-inducing blue-collar self-awareness that it makes you wonder whether he recognizes that his populist image is becoming increasingly deliberate and silly. It’s almost as if the Boss traded in his "Top songwriters of the 20th century" members card and stooped to the low level of opportunistic populist rockers like Bon Jovi or John Mellencamp for this song – something we Springsteen fans have long prayed would never happen.
To top it all off, Bruce drops an uncharacteristic F-bomb in the last few seconds of the song, almost as if he’s trying to further establish himself as a man of the blue-collar people. He falls in love with a grocery store clerk, writes a crappy song about it, and unnecessarily swears while doing so – he’s so real and so much like us regular people!
With the exception of Human Touch, Lucky Town, Magic, and this train-wreck of an album, I am intensely dedicated to Springsteen’s work. It’s unfortunate to see him become such a caricature of himself in so many ways, especially because his good records – including his solo efforts and the Seeger Sessions release – are all so refreshingly original and are what I consider to be definitive moments in modern rock history. In stark contrast to the glory days (no pun intended) of Bruce’s once-youthful and innovative music, these past two albums represent a Springsteen marred by sales ploys, populist image-mongering, unabashed recycling of ideas, and terrible album covers.
In my next post, I will make a case for Mr. Springsteen to take his music in a more pleasing direction, using five songs from the past two decades as examples for what sound I’d personally like to hear from him. I refuse to give up on you, Boss.
his 16th studio album, amidst an extensive promotional push that includes a performance at the half-time show of Super Bowl XLIII, a Wal-Mart exclusive greatest-hits compilation (does anyone else see the hypocrisy/irony in this one?), an appearance at a pre-inauguration concert, and the announcement of yet another juggernaut world tour. The album, much like Springsteen’s persona as of late, comes off as unintentionally self-parodic, and confirms my belief that the Boss is unfortunately nothing but a caricature of himself these days – albeit one who can still put on a ridiculously good performance and whose first eight or so albums are undeniable modern classics.On the heels of 2007's Magic, a collection of some of the most mediocre Bruce material in over a decade, Bruce and his E-Street Band hurriedly recorded Working, and it shows in how thoughtless and oftentimes silly this record is. On first listen, the opener “Outlaw Pete” should raise eyebrows because it might very well be Bruce’s attempt to take his operatic stories of the late 70s and mix it with his late roots-rock sound, but in the end the song lacks any emotional punch and feels entirely calculated – a common trend throughout the album.
The album experiments with a variety of new sounds for Bruce, but all of them come off as utterly restrained and carefully designed, like the overproduced blues dirge “Good Eye,” which fails at being anything but boring. The chord progressions on the record are, like Magic's, all quite similar, and are not original enough to make up for that fact. “This Life,” Bruce’s latest attempt at a Spector-like production falls flat quickly because of the entirely uninteresting tune.
The two singles, “Working on a Dream” and “My Lucky Day,” are both vastly inferior to any single off 2002’s The Rising; the former is downright boring, while the latter’s semi-shouted vocals are interesting but the tune sounds like it’s a recycled version of Magic’s “Last to Die.” Also not helping the cause of this album is the fact that Max Weinberg’s uninspired, repetitive drumming is becoming progressively more annoying. Get rid of him already!
While reading this review, do you notice a trend here with the words recycled; boring; flat; restrained; and calculated? Yeah, that about sums up this record.
But just when those adjectives seep into your brain and you think the record couldn’t possibly get any lower without being utterly painful, it does. “Queen of the Supermarket,” Bruce’s latest entry in his series of occasional abominations including “57 Channels (and Nothin’ On)” and “American Skin (41 Shots),” is absolutely unbearable and inessential. Bruce tells the story of falling in love with the grocery checkout girl with such cringe-inducing blue-collar self-awareness that it makes you wonder whether he recognizes that his populist image is becoming increasingly deliberate and silly. It’s almost as if the Boss traded in his "Top songwriters of the 20th century" members card and stooped to the low level of opportunistic populist rockers like Bon Jovi or John Mellencamp for this song – something we Springsteen fans have long prayed would never happen.
To top it all off, Bruce drops an uncharacteristic F-bomb in the last few seconds of the song, almost as if he’s trying to further establish himself as a man of the blue-collar people. He falls in love with a grocery store clerk, writes a crappy song about it, and unnecessarily swears while doing so – he’s so real and so much like us regular people!
With the exception of Human Touch, Lucky Town, Magic, and this train-wreck of an album, I am intensely dedicated to Springsteen’s work. It’s unfortunate to see him become such a caricature of himself in so many ways, especially because his good records – including his solo efforts and the Seeger Sessions release – are all so refreshingly original and are what I consider to be definitive moments in modern rock history. In stark contrast to the glory days (no pun intended) of Bruce’s once-youthful and innovative music, these past two albums represent a Springsteen marred by sales ploys, populist image-mongering, unabashed recycling of ideas, and terrible album covers.
In my next post, I will make a case for Mr. Springsteen to take his music in a more pleasing direction, using five songs from the past two decades as examples for what sound I’d personally like to hear from him. I refuse to give up on you, Boss.
Labels: album, bruce springsteen, music, review




















