Tonight’s outing was pretty rough for the Boss: long on rehearsed stage banter, short on any spark of musical spontaneity. He can still write great music, but this Washington Post article on one fan coming to terms with Springsteen’s halftime appearance seems apt:
I had covered three Super Bowls in nearly 20 years as a sportswriter. Each time, it marked a low ebb in my feeling about my work, with reporters crammed elbow to elbow frantically filing identical stories about a steroid-fed circus masquerading as a sporting event. The only reason anyone in the press box ever glanced at the field during halftime was to mock the lip-syncing artifice being passed off as entertainment as cheerleaders gyrated in unison and hordes of preselected teens rushed the stage on cue.
Surely, Bruce wouldn’t play the Super Bowl. Then again, I had stopped counting the times he had let me down over the years. Slumped in front of my laptop in Beijing, I let out a groan from the depths of my soul.
The only decent halftime show I can remember is Prince’s epic rendition of “Purple Rain.” I suspect this is because the Super Bowl’s glam rock stylings are a pretty great match for his extravagant weirdness.
As for the game itself, I was pretty disappointed until the fourth quarter. My initial reaction is that Santonio Holmes deserves the MVP – Harrison’s interception return was clutch, but I think his egregious unnecessary roughness foul disqualifies him from consideration.