By Rebecca Bulnes
By Laurie Charles
By Chuck Strouse
By Lee Zimmerman
By Laurie Charles
By Falyn Freyman
By Hans Morgenstern
For more than twenty years, Bruce Springsteen has been creating characters and pushing them through life: through high school bands and dimly lighted bars; through the back seats of Chevys; through factories, plants, and mills; through war-torn rice paddies and crowded city streets; through dead-end relationships and good, solid marriages. Now, on his new album, The Ghost of Tom Joad, Springsteen is pushing those characters into their graves.
Whether you hear it as The Ghost of Nebraska, a conceptual recasting of Woody Guthrie's Dust Bowl Ballads, or a retreat back to the character-based narratives of his most acclaimed efforts, Tom Joad is an unsettling album. It is of a piece with his uniformly impressive body of work A an aural throwback to the acoustic-based home recordings on 1982's Nebraska, it's also linked to the more desolate moments of his union with the E Street Band, especially on 1978's Darkness on the Edge of Town and The River, from 1980. More noticeably, Tom Joad finds Springsteen taking some determined steps away from the themes that linked 1992's simultaneously released albums Human Touch and Lucky Town. Along with 1987's Tunnel of Love, those two vastly underrated albums explored the complexities of adult romance, asking the questions that arise when emotional commitment becomes a reality and then examining the answers.
Those questions and answers produced some of Springsteen's finest music and reflected a kind of wisdom -- or at least an awareness -- that would've been unimaginable to the young, highway-bound romantic who splattered his heart across the grooves of 1975's Born to Run. Some remarkable albums have been made when artists pick apart the intricacies of love, lust, marriage, and trust: Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks and Marvin Gaye's Here My Dear each summon the rage and bewilderment of couples fighting it out in divorce court, while Elvis Costello's Imperial Bedroom and King of America artfully ponder the sexual politics that exist both before and after the ink has dried on the marriage license. However, only Springsteen's trio of records (Tunnel of Love, Human Touch, and Lucky Town) bothers to sort through love's befores, durings, and afters.
With Tom Joad, Springsteen casts aside such concerns and returns to the storytelling of past benchmarks such as "The River," "Johnny 99," and "Downbound Train," which means that the die-hard fans who were unmoved by his last three albums have reason to rejoice. But be forewarned: Tom Joad contains Springsteen's most dejected and desperate cast of losers to date: border kids turned drug runners ("Balboa Park"); shoe salesmen turned on-the-lam bank robbers ("Highway 25"); war vets turned suicidal assembly-line drones ("Youngstown"); migrant workers turned speeddealers("Sinaloa Cowboys"). They all are a part of Springsteen's past legacy, but on Tom Joad their sour lives have turned rancid. Their onetime belief that at the end of the day they will find a "Reason to Believe" has degenerated into resigned pessimism: My life is fucked, and there is nothing I can do about it.
The title cut pays obvious homage to the protagonist of John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, the novel that also inspired the songs collected on Guthrie's magnificent 1964 album Dust Bowl Ballads. Springsteen has turned to those recordings at least twice before, with late-Eighties covers of "Vigilante Man" and "I Ain't Got No Home," and has written at least one song that bore the stamp of Guthrie's social concerns ("Seeds," from the Live/1975-1985 box). Tom Joad, however, is neither a tribute to a literary character nor a reiteration of a songwriter's determination to express the concerns of the battered underdog masses. Instead, it creates a doomed atmosphere much like that of the Louvin Brothers' bluegrass masterpiece Tragic Songs of Life, a quasi-concept album from 1956 in which death lingers over every song. In some tracks on Tragic Songs, the characters suffer only heartaches; in others, remorse and regret. But death reverberates throughout the set, palpable not only in the words of Charlie and Ira Louvin but also in their voices, which intertwine at times like a tangle of funeral bells emphasizing their forlorn messages.
Springsteen conjures that sound here by submerging himself in the misery of his characters' collective plight, burrowing so deeply into the sorrow-filled details of their lives that the only voice he can summon is a kind of beaten-dog moan -- as if the words hurt when they're coming out. It's a sound that recalls that of both the Louvins and another era, a time when prewar bluesmen such as Skip James, Charley Patton, and Robert Johnson would lose themselves in the torment of their tales and blur their words, creating a high, lonesome wail pulled from the nether recesses of the soul.
It is within those recesses that the occupants of Tom Joad dwell A a place where all hope has been shit-canned, where any glimmer of romance or relief is destroyed by hardship. Even the highways cherished by past Springsteen characters now contain only broken glass and gasoline (as the wayward salesman in "Highway 25" discovers), while the homeless in "The Ghost of Tom Joad" have been ground down to the point that they know there is no convenient escape route to be found along the endless gray ribbon.