You will not want to like this album. The title, Working on a
Dream, is so nakedly optimistic and Obama-ready that it may make
your gorge rise. The lyrics aren’t so hot, either. And in his sinewy
middle years, Brucey’s voice is more warbly and strained than ever. But
then “The Wrestler” will come on and you will forget everything about
the album that irked you. No, instead you will listen to it again and
marvel at how the Boss has managed to condense a lifetime of regret,
exhaustion and failure into one stripped-down, crippled melody. And you
will swallow hard, swipe at your watery eyes, and think, “Fuck you,
Bruce Springsteen.”
This article appears in Feb 5-11, 2009.