As the Boss, Bruce Springsteen, fittingly, is rich. According to Celebrity Net Worth, his value is about $200 million–enough, presumably, for him to finally buy some sleeves.
(By the way, former Tiger Beat heartthrob Rider Strong’s Mr. Feeny-baiting grin is valued at $6 million, so think about that as you finish your tax returns.) Springteen’s latest record, Wrecking Ball, is receiving much of its press not so much for any musical or lyrical news, but because it’s an album full of anger for the banking industry and Wall Street titans who were at the heart of the near-collapse of the financial system—an album that, while not directly connected to Occupy Wall Street, is replete with songs at home on the playlist of the 99%. Problem is, some can’t get past the fact that it was written by a member of the .01%. Makes sense. I mean, I’d never watch Goodfellas; I don’t see how an asthma-riddled, film school grad, one-time-aspiring priest could ever make art out of mobsters beating the living hell out of a pay phone.
I don’t want to spend a lot of time on the silliness behind this. Nearly every review of the album has either in the review itself or in the always-informative comments section some astute observer pointing out that, quite proudly–arms crossed, chin tilted knowingly upward, as if he just figured out you could punch 1:00 OR :60 on a digital microwave and get the same cooking time–that a guy with with a swimming pool full of money is lambasting folks with artificial shark ponds (ambiguity intended) full of money. Indeed, Springsteen has more than the combined net worth of the poor schlubs who lay down a day or two’s pay on an upper bowl seat at Madison Square Garden. He seems to do some (legal) dodgy things with his property taxes. He (or someone in his band) demands homemade natural sports drink behind him on stage for thirst-quenching purposes, never mind how anyone but a level 4 wizard could harness those magical electrolytes in a normal person’s kitchen. Yeah, I get feeling a bit skeptical that this type of guy can empathize with those most beat down by the Great Recession.
But Springsteen’s villains are the “robber barons” and “banker men”; rich, sure, but a different kind of rich, not built on selling a product (music, boyish Courtney Cox), but on risky speculation and investment that could bring an entire financial system down. If Springsteen lost all of his money investing in an amusement park called “Jungleland” because the “I’m on Fire” ride caused everyone’s souvenir American flag bandanas to melt to their temples, the financial damage to the global economy would be a footnote in the Wall Street Journal. The economical events that came to a head in 2008, however, were anything but minimal. That’s pretty much the end of the story.
Springsteen wrote twenty years ago that it was “a sad funny ending to find yourself pretending/a rich man in a poor man’s shirt.” He sees the irony that his career, filled with ballads and face-melting rockers about factory employees, border agents, unemployed auto workers, cops, and all sorts of blue-collar folk, has made him the owner of the mansion on the hill. But like Charles Dickens and John Steinbeck, whose humble roots allowed them to write passionately and honestly about the people they knew and once were, Springsteen can look down from the windows of his big house and think, “What if…” while also whispering “Thank God.”
As far as the album goes—does legitimacy lead to quality execution?–that’s the next conversation…
