Loving Bruce

My husband and I have an ongoing . . . argument? Game? Conversation. In which we try to determine which of us gets "custody" of which musical artists. For example: I get Elvis Costello on my imaginary team because Caleb had only been vaguely aware of the existence of Mr. Declan McManus before meeting me, whereas I had a substantial back-catalog of his albums - on vinyl, no less - and my budding love for Elvis C.'s acerbic music actually prompted me to dump my college boyfriend because it seemed to fit in with my life-soundtrack ("My Aim Is True"). Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Caleb tries to claim Bruce even though he is, to use an appropriate metaphor, the QB in my musical lineup. Before we dated, Caleb thought Bruce was cheesy and only knew the 80s-era synthy hits.

How does a Gen-Xer come to Bruce? For me, it was through my mom, whose musical tastes have drifted all over the place for as long as I've known her. She went through a brief Bruce phase during which she bought (1) Tunnel of Love, and (2) the 3-disc live set, both of which she gave me when she moved on to less-Boss pastures. I was sucked into T. of L. despite its hokey of-their-time production values. It's his "divorce album," full of deeply sad songs. This was back when MTV played actual videos, and his one-shot close-up video for "Brilliant Disguise" won me over. "Tunnel" was the gateway drug that led me to his earlier, grittier stuff. Last night, I was loving the fact that a man who recently put out an entire album of Pete Seeger covers can put on a goofy Superbowl halftime show full of acrobatics and silliness. Bruce seems capable of simultaneously inhabiting all points of the pop-cultural compass. Cool/dorky, high/low, mass-audience/NPR crowd, stadium-anthem/bleak ballad. And he can rock a pair of leather bracelets at age 59. And how DID he know I was eating guacamole while watching the game? Maybe Bruce is omniscient, too . . .