If Bruce Springsteen had been British he would either have been Leo Sayer or, later, if he hadn't made it the first time round, Alex Harvey.
Now, Leo Sayer's a pathetic little fellow who looks like he's about to lie down and let you tickle him, and Alex Harvey's a cynical old Scot with one of the most offensively calculated stage shows you could hope to see. Bruce Springsteen, when he was finally ready for London, was wonderful, but he wasn't quite what I'd expected – and he had an art that Britain could not have nurtured.
He arrived as the most hyped-up American act in ages. There are other bands with obsessive cults and no sales – Little Feat, Steely Dan – but Springsteen's following seemed to grow from an in-rock family affair to enough people to fill the Hammersmith Odeon twice with black-market chiselers overnight. This was an odd buzz because everyone was expecting something but no one knew what.
Other unseen acts, like Little Feat, had records that were known and loved and the glory of their live show was a bonus, but people weren't that impressed with Springsteen's records. What the hype had done – especially the whisking of Britain's rock press to see the man in LA – was convince us that this was going to be the greatest live act of the 70s. How or why, who knew.
I guess you're used to this sort of spiel, but we ain't. Big American acts don't need Britain much and we get them only as a favour or reward or never, like Elvis. Big British bands need America so bad that they dump any local commitment just to be there and – ever since the Beatles won – the advance strategies for US conquest have been carefully worked. You must be sick of being told that the latest group whose records you haven't bought actually has the most wonderful stage act you'll ever see and has just devastated Britain – Slade? Roxy Music? 10cc? Queen? Alex Harvey? But the Bruce Springsteen campaign was special for us and – because I always believe everything I read in the music press – I was as excited as everyone else, waiting for this cool, tough, city-slick rock'n'roller.
Well, you'd've sniggered too. I mean, he's so bloody small! I know that the average size of a rock star is about 5'1", but on the cover of Born To Run Springsteen is leaning down on this big black man, so it was kind of a shock to see that he actually came up to his nipples. And then he was wearing a woolly hat. Not the kind that West Indians wear, with a gun and a knife and five pounds of stuff hidden underneath, but the kind your mother knits you in case your ears get cold; only his mother had given it to him years before and he'd never quite got round to taking it off though he did keep dropping it. And dirty baggy pants! And almost a beard but not quite! My God, he's Dustin Hoffman being Ratso Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy! This is the future of rock'n'roll??
Later on, I thought maybe and then yes. At the end of one of the encores (and before he got into a tedious routine of old rock'n'roll just like an English band), his band had to carry him off, two by the ankles, two by the armpits, and Bruce had a smile of great joy which you rarely see on a rock star these days. I had seen why you have to see him. The Springsteen stage show is a jumpy, nervous, desperately dramatic affair; not carefully constructed like the Stones', not floppily spontaneous like the Who's, but lived. Bruce Springsteen has seen a future without rock'n'roll and he's hanging on to what he's got.
It took me a while to figure out his persona: his eagerness to please, his love of his band, his eloquence and violent vision. I got there in the end. Like Stevie Marriott a long time ago, like Van Morrison more recently, Springsteen was the kid on the block whose parents didn't give a shit, who lived on the street, raggedy and surviving. He is not the laid-back hero that rock stars like to pretend to be, but neither is he the fearful observer most rock stars actually are. He was just there. Winning some, losing some and always in the action. Cheeky, charming but not pleasant, the big boys protected him but sometimes put the boot in. It was home, and home was rock'n'roll, and Springsteen's secret is his absolute belief in what he's doing. He has to believe it. Without his music, nothing.
The audience clapped and cheered a lot, but the critics were cagey. It wasn't just a determination not to be publicly hyped. Springsteen also broke the two basic rules of British rock: his band weren't very good on their instruments, and his act wasn't stylish. British rockers are obsessed with technical qualities. Musical skill is valued higher than the beliefs and purposes that lie behind it and Springsteen's band was pretty crummy in its technical range and subtlety. They had fun together, though: none of the cold concentration of the English superstar. Shame on Rod Stewart for leaving his lovely loose back-up for the sterile expertise of the Atlantic Crossing session men, but he was only following a long British tradition.
England's other vice is Art. Englishmen are so embarrassed by their emotions that they even play rock behind layers of make-up and silken underwear. The latest talent in the heavily disguised Bowie/Roxy mode is Queen. Their Bohemian Rhapsody is top of the hit parade and lasts for five minutes and every style from the Beach Boys to Gilbert and Sullivan and I still can't work out what the fuck it's about. "Gali-leo," they chant, "Gali-leo," and I can't think why. Or Elton John. He's sung easily about everything for years, but I can't remember anything he's said. We do have visionaries but they grow old or drunk and even our ace punk, Ian Hunter (All The Young Dudes is the nearest thing we've had to the Springsteenian rap) is soft-centered. Like a puppy dog. Like Leo Sayer.
Which brings me back to where I started. If Bruce Springsteen had been British he would have been Leo Sayer. Be thankful for what you've got and I blame the Welfare State.
