Theater: Walter Kerr Theater / 219 West 48th Street, New York, NY, 10036
Synopsis:
“I wanted to do some shows that were as personal and as intimate as possible. I chose Broadway for this project because it has the beautiful old theaters which seemed like the right setting for what I have in mind. In fact, with one or two exceptions, the 960 seats of the Walter Kerr Theatre is probably the smallest venue I’ve played in the last 40 years. My show is just me, the guitar, the piano and the words and music. Some of the show is spoken, some of it is sung. It loosely follows the arc of my life and my work. All of it together is in pursuit of my constant goal to provide an entertaining evening and to communicate something of value,” says Springsteen.
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There came a moment the other night, near the end of Bruce Springsteen’s overwhelming and uncategorizable Broadway show, when it seemed possible to see straight through his many masks to some core truth of his being.
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“I'm no hero, that’s understood,” sings Bruce Springsteen in “Thunder Road,” self-effacingly but also with the knowledge that a cardinal rule of heroism is denying it. He's got the dirty hood, sure, but it’s a hoodwink of a kind, and in the extraordinary concert show Springsteen on Broadway he is candid about that: Rock stardom, he says, is partly “a magic trick.” He's the young man without a driver’s license writing songs about the road; the artist costumed in the “factory clothes” of his emotionally withholding father; the working man who is also always the Boss.
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“I’ve never had an honest job in my life,” Bruce Springsteen declares from the stage of Broadway’s 939-seat Walter Kerr Theater, a far cry from the stadiums he’s known to fill. “And yet that is all I write about.” Reading off a teleprompter he’ll use throughout the evening with varying degrees of obviousness, he thanks the crowd for letting him become wildly successful on the back of that contradiction.
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Inside the Walter Kerr Theatre -- a modest playhouse of just 960 red velvet seats -- Bruce Springsteen could sing without a microphone. On Tuesday evening, The Boss stood on the stage's edge as he belted his stormy tune "The Promised Land" over an audience that hummed with adoration: some fans whisper-sang along; others sat in full-on rock n' roll arrest, staring in reverence at the man strumming his sunburst Takamine guitar. A dramatic crimson light cast half his face in shadow, mimicking the southwest's unforgiving heat. Springsteen had just finished recounting his first cross-country road trip -- a three-day marathon in 1971 that forced Bruce, who had never driven before, to speed halfway across the U.S. for an audition in California.
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When legendary record producer and talent scout John Hammond signed Bruce Springsteen in 1972, the scraggly Jersey kid was envisioned as a lyrically intricate singer-songwriter, who might be New Jersey’s answer to Bob Dylan.
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