Bruce Springsteen • Western Stars
 t’s
easy to be a bit jaded about another Bruce Springsteen record -- after The Boss's 18
albums, numerous biographies, sold-out tours and even a run on Broadway. But Western
Stars, Springsteen’s 19th release, is worth some special attention. Just before
turning 70, Springsteen managed to produce a commercially successful concept album that
simply begs to be handled, admired and played back on the medium of vinyl. Western
Stars is also that rare double record that doesn’t collapse under its own
weight; instead, it stands up to close scrutiny. This album is a bespoke work of art,
tongue-and-groove craftsmanship evident at every connecting point, replete with layers of
production polish that bring out tonal colors and fine detail. Its compact, conversational
lyrics highlight the rougher grains of everyday life that lie just beneath the surface of
the portraits Springsteen has painted.
I can’t listen to Western Stars without thinking of the great photographers and filmmakers who’ve tried to capture America’s struggles and vast promise -- Ansel Adams, Dorothea Lange, Anthony Mann, and John Ford. The scenery throughout the songs and Danny Clinch’s sumptuous photo layout are dappled with golden, iridescent desert light and set against the silhouettes of cactus and sagebrush. On the album’s opening cuts (“Hitch Hikin’” and “The Wayfarer”), Springsteen channels Steinbeck and Kerouac as he describes the pull of the open road. For the title track and songs like “Drive Fast” and “Somewhere North of Nashville,” he mines Larry McMurtry territory, where fading heroes mourn the loss of what might have been. Western Stars presents a fascinating gallery of people who are broken yet holding on for a better future. It’s a bittersweet potion that lingers and haunts long after the record is over. Fans of the majestic orchestral pop of Jimmy Webb, Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Springsteen and co-producer Ron Aneillo have infused Western Stars with the kind of elegant string-and-horn arrangements that lend a dignity to characters and vignettes normally covered in dust and grime. Then on “There Goes My Miracle” they pull out all the stops for a soaring paean to lost love that sounds like it was custom made for Roy Orbison or to be played over the rolling credits of a great love story. And then there’s “Tucson Train,” where Springsteen and Aneillo enlist the help of conductor Scott Tibbs to create a catchy refrain that calls to mind Aaron Copland’s most addictive arrangements. Another bit of Western Stars’ magic comes courtesy of the pedal- and lap-steel work of Mark Muller, Marty Rifkin and Greg Leisz. Their shimmering and simmering tones capture the echo of canyons and fading western sun in ways that no other instruments could. If I have any quibble with the production choices, it would be the use of some overtly synthesized string effects on a couple of tracks, because they detract from the album’s old-school, analog feel. Springsteen’s lyrical script is brought to life on Western Stars by a veritable who’s-who of industry professionals. The album’s chief engineer and production manager, Toby Scott, has been recording Springsteen since Greetings From Asbury Park, and the sound on this album is among the warmest and most inviting of Springsteen’s career. Springsteen assigns credit to Ron Elmhirst of Electric Lady Studios for the luxuriously layered final mix and gives a particular shout-out in the liner notes to “our lifetime Zen Master of mastering” Bob Ludwig. Even though he worked from high-resolution files here, Ludwig masters with the same gut-punching dynamics and big, open spaces his best analog work is known for. In fact, the vinyl edition reviewed here shows how the Tidal stream falls short of capturing the rich detail and expansive soundstage of the recording. Chris Bellman cut the lacquers, and my copy on 150-gram vinyl, wherever it was pressed, is dead quiet and utterly flat. God forbid this is Springsteen’s last album, but if
it were, Western Stars would be a fitting capstone to a remarkable career. |
