Absolute proof I can’t stand still at Springsteen concerts

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Between the clapping, the fist pumping, the hand raising, the chest drumming, the pushing away the drunk, the good neighbor drumming, the pogo-ing, the thigh drumming, and the sometimes unrestrainable need to dance, the quality of my photos tonight makes great sense.

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Kitty’s Back was everything I’ve spent the last decade hoping it would be live, and with the Phantom gone and Clarence ailing, the funk took a kickass rock turn. The Nils Joad solo delivered on its fan hype in his hometown (even thought I totally missed the fretcam while watching him spin around), and we all owed a Righteous Brother thanks tonight for writing Little Latin Lupe Lu, one of my all-time favorite Bruce covers and one of the reasons a word like “rave-up” must exist. And Rosalita redeemed herself from Fedex with tight grab-somebody exhaustion… Prompting it? Obama/Rosie campaign sign. Well played, random fan.

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We also got a Hava Nagila intro to Blinded, like Kitty, Lupe Lu and Seeds — the solos sure help there — another one I’d never seen before (my songs-heard-live tally moves to 124). The Greetings craziness was way more solid than throwaway, and Max and Roy were all over the intro, representing. From the new album, The Wrestler was as expected the standout. Had been reading the setlists, didn’t have my hopes up for What Love Can Do. Not on the album, a cover of Stephen Foster’s Hard Times Come Again No More came across as a striped escapee from the Seeger tour, but I liked reading the lyrics later. “Many days you have lingered around my cabin door, oh! Hard times, come again no more…”

Thanks so much to Kristen for partnering in line-wait and rock. (For the many of you playing along at home, the answer’s no, but thank you for playing.) We were dead center, my first time in that sound sweet-spot, happy a few rows behind the rail. Good to run into Matt and Andrew, sorry not to have seen Cat, J. O’Neal, Ken, Katie, and Russell as well.

Tired. Time for the hay-hittin’ sleep-makin’ early-wakin’ legendary me. Now play a dream of what fretcam must’ve been like. Dream as fretcam? Dream dissolves into another: But she’s so soft, she’s so blue, when he looks into her eyes, he just sits back and sighs, ooh, what can I do, ooh, what can I do — crash! A piano falls on me, keys go flying. But I like it.

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