After the first phase of the post-Springsteen hangover, it is interesting to review the emotions experienced. To the unconditional euphoria that Bruce Springsteen concerts usually cause, the sophisticated garnish of the presence of the Obama and Spielberg couples has been added. They are personalities who annul any principle of respect for privacy, who deploy security measures that the people of Barcelona would not tolerate for any indigenous person and who trigger outbreaks of cosmopolitan provincialism. The media definition repeated with archeological furor speaks of “idyll”, which takes us back to the concept of a pastoral poem or just a short poem. The relationship between Barcelona and Springsteen, then, is poetic. Forcing appearances to the point of caricature, one could intuit that in the singer’s attitude –a natural and mature masculinity– there is a greatness and humility typical of a pastor, and that his spectators’ love has moments of gregarious obedience.
From the point of view of artistic rigor, the concert format in a stadium is, by definition, far from a high-quality sound experience. Closer to the ritual of joining and celebrating, Springsteen’s tour exploits the ability to bring together all the nuances of intimacy transformed into a community, from curiosity to fidelity, from fondness to devotion and, finally, idolatry. In the media, the submission to the event and the competition – to see who best connects with the energy of the phenomenon – is fascinating and, at the same time, grotesque. The idyll has existed for so many years that it has become a journalistic genre. The narrative repeats itself. From the collapse in ticket sales to the queues that justify all kinds of connections, the imminence of the concerts provides complementary content that this year has focused on the spectacularity –it was news– of the VIPs and their gastronomic preferences and, in a way tangential,
in the problems of access to the Olympic Stadium.
The criticisms are so legitimate that they are already part of the show
It is already known that the possibility of 55,000 people being happy for three hours makes those of us who, for reasons that are now irrelevant, feel more comfortable in a world of bitterness and moderate suspicions frown. We criticize the invasive devotion of idolaters and the excesses of Springsteenian scholarship, or we vindicate the days when Springsteen was Springsteen, or, as I have heard in renewed circles of dissent, we lament the price of tickets and the role of “women”. de”, limited to the condition of choristers. These criticisms usually carry tics of intolerance or superiority, and they are so legitimate that they are already part of the show. The acolytes of this religion need us as much as we need them. And between concert and concert, both sides prepare for the next fights and the next hangovers.
