Is There Anybody Alive Out There?

It's an interesting thing, this question that Mister Springsteen continues to ask, since after thirty years in the business and an induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame there aren't that many more mountains to climb. Yet he does it every night, as if his life depended on it. And I suppose in a way, it does. Making records is more of a secondary concern. Playing in front of an audience is his highest priority. If it isn't, then he certainly makes a good show of how much he cares. At the end of a show, there is little doubt of the man's sincerity.
Most of the negative comments I have heard about the current tour have centered around the relative length of the concerts themselves. Coming in at around two and a half hours, a lot of old-timers are complaining that they don't match up to the three and four hour marathons of years gone by, and he played almost the whole new album. If that's the worst you can say about the experience, then be satisfied with a twenty song set, and then a prolonged encore that included songs both old and new. This is the man that set the bar, and you can forgive him, as he enters his fifties, if he doesn't play every song he ever wrote in the course of an evening.
Does this sound like I'm excusing him? Does this sound like a fan letter? It should, since that was my intent. For twenty-five years now, I have been going to see Bruce Springsteen perform, and I know that when he's asking if anybody's alive out there it's because he wants you to know that it's not a free ride. He wants something from his audience in return. He wants to hear them, and at the end of the night when the house lights come up for the last encore, he wants to see them too. Last night, for the first time, when Bruce looked out at the crowd he saw me with my son. Some of the first sounds that my son heard when he was brought into this world were those of the E Street Band playing "Born To Run", and last night he saw it, heard it, and sang along with his father.