What happened this Wednesday in the Metropolitan CívitasAs Pablo Gil begins in his chronicle, “It wasn’t a concert, it was a party”.
It was one of those parties that only Bruce Springsteen and his gang are capable of organizing. The kind where you leave the stadium floating and disoriented as if you had just returned from some kind of astral trip. The kind where the rush of endorphins that explodes inside you prevents you from sleeping all night.
But yesterday was also a party with a certain farewell flavor. At least, from the Bruce of the large stadiums and the four-hour concerts that his fans have been hooked on for, as is my case, more than three decades.
It had to happen. The day had to come when our Bruce, just as it has happened to our parents and ourselves (yesterday I left the stadium walking like Robocop), would begin to be another Bruce. Another Bruce just as amazing as our usual Bruce, the one who gives his all at every concert and who, like those American pastors who appear in the movies, controls like no one else the mechanisms that lead his parishioners to ecstasy in each of his performances. homilies, but… Another Bruce. The one who will turn 75 on September 23.
A Bruce who last night made a titanic effort to hold on to that voice that broke after his concert in Dublin, forcing him to postpone his appointments in Marseille, Prague and Milan. A Bruce who has adapted a set list in which before there was no truce. That, although he continues walking the catwalk to let himself be loved by his people – thank goodness they have changed those demonic stairs from last year’s tour! – And giving away that suggestive hip sway that is marked in Nightshift, accurately measures each movement. A Bruce who hands his guitar to his faithful squire at every song change. Kevin Buellinstead of throwing it into the air as he did until recently.
It’s the last one left standing… The Last Man Standing. A Bruce who sings songs with a taste of farewell and who leaves us, all of us who grew up, got married, had children and tried to mend our broken hearts with his music as a soundtrack, with a strange mixture of eternal gratitude and sadness.
“Seeing Bruce on stage with that strength and that desire to live, it’s not so scary to get old,” my uncle Javi told me yesterday with his eyes filled with tears from emotion at one point during the concert. Seeing Bruce… It’s not scary at all…
Pd: sometimes, life gives you magic. Gracias, Ana Ibanez for that golden pass that turned a Metro trip like any other into a journey towards another unforgettable night in front of my Bruce. You should have seen people’s faces when I started screaming after hearing your message!