The Haunting Death-Rattle of Boomerism

Nowadays, nothing is more uncertain than the future on all levels of analysis, whether we’re talking about the government closing small businesses tomorrow, or the placement of our time in the cosmic metanarrative. With this uncertainty comes the possible sudden death of everything surrounding us; structures that place birthmarks on our souls with their unspeakable duration now collapse into shadows of back alleys, easing into a charcoal grave, more distant from memory than dreams of an ancient childhood.

Death is characterized in this performance by Bruce Springsteen, the final cry of Boomer optimism and monism. Free of rhythm and percussion, the organ and harmonium wash gently in and out to lather the listener with a sense of comfort, before the gut-wrenching voice cuts into the mix with a reverb that barbs more than it softens. Springsteen demands dreams and smiles of his spiritual counterpart from encouragement to insistence to pleading, while the waves of palliative morphine turn into overheads and the judgement seat is obscured from sight. For six minutes the crying continues, before the soul evaporates from the body and dwindles quietly into luminescent annihilation. The dream is over; there is less now.