Magic (2007)
1. Radio Nowhere
2. You'll Be Comin' Down
3. Livin' in the Future
4. Your Own Worst Enemy
5. Gypsy Biker
6. Girls in Their Summer Clothes
7. I'll Work for Your Love
8. Magic
9. Last to Die
10.Long Walk Home
11.Devil's Arcade
12.Terry's Song
For many devotees of Bruce Springsteen, Magic was long overdue. Not since the mid-1980s had the E Street Band sounded so present, so organically entwined with Springsteen’s songwriting. Whereas The Rising offered catharsis wrapped in a thematic shroud, Magic dispenses with concept and instead delivers — or at least attempts to deliver — a no-frills rock record: compact, propulsive, and unburdened by overarching narrative. But the results are, fittingly, mixed.
The opening sequence is nothing short of exhilarating. Radio Nowhere launches the album with a kind of muscular urgency — Springsteen, grizzled and battle-tested, yet not relying on past glories. It is an unmistakably modern track, one which feels aware of its creator's legacy without being beholden to it. You’ll Be Comin’ Down follows, equally confident and notably melodic, underpinned by subtle studio polish that places it in the present day without obscuring its intent.
Yet almost as quickly as the fire is lit, it begins to sputter. Livin’ in the Future, though musically reminiscent of Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out, suffers from a jarring tonal dissonance. Its playful swagger undermines the message — a vaguely dystopian musing buried beneath layers of nonchalance. The satire never quite connects. It's as if the song is unsure whether it wants to wink or weep, and instead settles for smirking.
What follows is a sequence of tracks that, while sonically competent, struggle to differentiate themselves. Springsteen appears caught between impulses: the desire to recapture the youthful fervor of Born to Run, and the wisdom of age that marked Devils & Dust and The Ghost of Tom Joad. The result is an uneven middle section, where several songs blur into one another — more gestures than statements.
But even in this haze, there are moments of clarity. Girls in Their Summer Clothes emerges as a late-career gem: wistful, melodic, and evocative of Brian Wilson’s baroque-pop romanticism. Springsteen’s vocals here are tinged with melancholy, but not regret. The arrangement — lush, sun-drenched, and precise — places the song in a lineage more aligned with Pet Sounds than The River. It is an astonishing piece, and fully deserving of its critical acclaim.
Devil’s Arcade, too, shines. Built around a haunting instrumental motif, the song unfurls slowly, gaining weight with each verse until it reaches its crescendo — an aching elegy for the wounded and the lost. One wishes the album had concluded here, with this spectral, cinematic closer. Instead, it trails off with Terry’s Song, a personal tribute that, while sincere, feels strangely unanchored. In the context of the album’s carefully constructed mood, it lands not as intimacy, but intrusion.
In the end, Magic is an album of contradictions. It is both nostalgic and forward-looking, rousing and restrained, muscular and meandering. It does not represent a full return to form, nor does it reinvent the wheel. But for a brief moment — in its most focused passages — it reminds us why Springsteen remains a vital force. The band is back, the pulse is strong, and even in moments of misfire, there’s still something unmistakably alive in the machine.
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