Was Bruce Springsteen Too Happy At The Super Bowl?

You have to love the still-chugging-along online magazine Slate for its “sorta-smug semi-contrarianism equals clicks” business model. Following in the footsteps of its super-nontroversial Billy Joel takedown that amazingly lit up the blogosphere and its not-really-bold pro-DRM screed, the mag’s critic-at-large, Stephen Metcalf, takes on the Boss’ halftime show for being just too darn cheery in a piece titled—I am not kidding—”He Should Have Played ‘The Wrestler'”:

Nothing will ever compete for sheer tone-deafness with Paul McCartney playing a zealous Super Bowl rendition of “Live and Let Die” at the height of the Iraq war. But Springsteen would have put America on its ass—its mind shortly to follow—had he strolled out with a Martin and played “The Wrestler.” (And how about a nice “This one’s for Danny,” aka Danny Federici, the recently deceased keyboardist who was with Bruce for more than 40 years?) The national mood is sober bordering on a galloping panic. Lively as he was, I wouldn’t say the Boss did much to either banish or capture it.

While I would agree here with Metcalf about the overall mental state of the country (and the bad decision regarding “Live And Let Die”), something tells me that the venue for this sort of “no, you’re supposed to be bummed out!!!” grandstanding is definitely not the Super Bowl halftime show. While sad songs may say so much, 7:15ish on Super Bowl Sunday night—i.e. the point right before the big game starts to wind down, when people at parties are starting to think about timing their commutes home so they can start their workaday routines again (even if they’re not employed at the moment), when the dip bowl is running dry and the only beer left is the shitty stuff. Being reminded at that point, by the so-called entertainment that “hey, by the way, everything sucks and we’re probably all screwed, and now back to the slate of ads featuring ball shots, people breaking glass, and the promise of possible breasts if you just visited the Web site of a second-tier domain-name shop!” would probably strike what we professional music-writer types call “a bum note.”

Metcalf then takes a moment to wonder if Springsteen, who he loves in part because he’s a “from all appearances, a social phobe and a depressive,” is just a big old phony:

Springsteen concerts, when I first attended, were Atlantic Coast joy fests for a small community of like-minded fans. To discover that many other people share a taste for something oddball is a source of true shelter from the agglomerating powers of the mass. A Postmodernist would scoff and say nothing has changed, that Springsteen was always only merchandise. True, but in every possible way, Springsteen holds himself out as a force against such Postmodernist sophistication—on behalf of meaning, sincerity, and authenticity! As media outlets reported, the field seats for the halftime show were filled with paid extras, a crowd of “excited fans,” as the cattle call put it, to be seen dancing and clapping by the real audience, the 90 million sitting at home. I’m glad that my oddball favorite from middle school has become a zillionaire and a living legend. But watching him play the Super Bowl, I couldn’t help saying back to my flat screen, “Is there anyone alive in there?”

Oh, authenticity! Surely people couldn’t be genuinely moved by a performance despite the “postmodernist” circumstances, possibly because they weren’t there when The Other Little Stevie was, back in the early days on the Atlantic Coast. Is this attempt at elevating Metcalf’s “I was there first” old-guy cred a sign that maybe, just maybe, he’s a little hurt about Slate not sending him to Tampa?

He Should Have Played “The Wrestler” [Slate; HT Matthew Perpetua]