bruce springsteen

Drawing on his standard pallet of Phil Spector's "Wall of Sound" (although thankfully light on the saxophone), Bob Dylan acoustic balladry, some Tom Waits-esque distorted vocal blues and his trademark soaring anthems, Bruce Springsteen isn't blazing any new trails at this point in his career. The songwriting on Working on a Dream is good if workmanlike, and the band knows what it's doing, but unsurprisingly, Bruce's "Glory Days" are long behind him, flailing arond as though it were "Dancing in the Dark," leaving listeners feeling like they were "Born to Run" out the door.

The whole routine is wearing a bit thin, and his breathy over-excited rasp has become a routine out of a Vegas revue. The title track from The Wrestler soundtrack is pretty good and on the level of almost anything on Nebraska or Born in the U.S.A. On the other hand, "Outlaw Pete" is a 12-minute dirge disguised as an eight-minute outlaw ballad complete with a miasma of overwrought string arrangements and organ pads that belongs in a rarities collection, not a full album. When the band does branch out into more experimental production territory, it falls flat, such as the egregious "Queen of the Supermarket."

In the end Bruce Springsteen is kind of like your dad. He has the same corny routine you've had to hear since you were born, and sometimes he tries to be "down" with what's happening "on the streets." It's pretty embarrassing, but he's still your dad. What I'm trying to say is that this record isn't going to make any all-time-best lists, and I'm not sure who's going to buy it besides diehards, retired New Jersey steelworkers and other denim-vest types. But it's still pretty tolerable. It's still Bruce Springsteen. And I don't see the Hold Steady picking up the slack.