From a perspective of three and a half decades now, it’s wholly fair to ask if Tunnel of Love (released 10/9/87) is the single most direct expression of emotion that Bruce Springsteen has ever committed to a long-playing album (only Darkness On The Edge Of Town comes close). The demonstration of vulnerability contained in his eighth long-player would certainly make sense: it came out around the time of the dissolution of his first marriage (to actress Julianne Phillips who’s given passing thanks in the credits for the record) and with only scattered contributions from the E Street Band (from whom he was also separating).
Thus, the billing to ‘Bruce Springsteen’ alone was perfectly appropriate, even more so than following the ‘official’ dismissal of his accompanying unit prior to the simultaneous 1992 release of Human Touch and Lucky Town (titles meant ironically?). Photographed in a man-child pose on the outside cover that’s a direct contrast to a post-adolescent in disarray in the centerfold of the enclosed twelve-page booklet, Springsteen (mostly) drops the third-person narratives and characters through which he’d so often spoken during the course of his career to that point.
It’s quite clear who’s talking here, right from the beginning of the gospel-rooted acapella on “Ain’t Got You.” Tunnel Of Love inexorably morphs into a collective catharsis lasting some forty-eight minutes. Or at least that would appear to be the aim: the naggingly familiar metaphorical devices Bruce adopts here in “Spare Parts” are means to the ends of a begrudging self-discovery. The blues elements carried primarily by the raw sound of harmonica prevalent on the former number are hardly an accident either.
Such stylistic flourishes may be the most purposeful acts of self-awareness on Tunnel of Love. Designed in part perhaps to counterbalance the distinctly Eighties components of drum machines and synthesizers, the sonic contrast of the instruments emphasizes the schizophrenic undercurrent in so much of the material: songs that might otherwise become anthems, like the defensive “Tougher Than The Rest,” sound like nothing so much as braggadocio, equal parts doleful and hollow.
To that end, the heart of this album lies in three couplets placed at various junctures within the dozen tracks. “Cautious Man” and “Walk Like A Man” present the two sides of human nature, while with “Two Faces” and “Brilliant Disguise,” Springsteen proffers the paradox of personal identity. The thought haunts as deeply as the overlap in sentiment between “When You’re Alone” and “Valentine’s Day:” as much as he seems to flinch at the thought of intimacy, his muted singing conveys some measure of hope.
The sparse arrangements here accentuate the plaintive, solitary air of the songs. With one notable exception of the pop-oriented title song, keyboardist Roy Bittan, percussionist Max Weinberg and multi-instrumentalist Nils Lofgren invariably appear as the sole contributors besides Bruce himself: it’s almost as if ‘The Boss’ is reticent to doff the role of bandleader and let even those closest to him hear his deepest feelings.
Still, he’s rarely sounded more human than here. This is despite the composer/performer’s unwillingness to accept the superficial and simplistic sentiment of “One Step Up.” It’s no coincidence the most prominent instrumental sound of accompaniment there is that oft-cliched sound of a Farfisa organ: that purposeful backup is as trite as the tune’s point of view.
This is banality from a man whose conflicted persona here is far removed from the carefully-configured macho image that permeated The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle. And because Springsteen has never sounded more like the anti-hero than on Tunnel of Love, there’s a definite logic to the fact this pain-ridden music ultimately becomes liberating, if only tentatively so. “…one step up and two steps back…’ indeed.
The front and back cover photos further foster that perception with an unsmiling figure leaning against his vintage auto, on the beach at the oceanside. Decidedly ill at ease, he hardly appears the icon he’d become with the release of 1975’s Born To Run (and the simultaneous cover appearances for Time and Newsweek magazines), an elevated status to which he would return in latter years of renewed touring and recording with the E Streeters plus his one-man Broadway run.
But with the benefit of thirty-five years of hindsight, that almost doesn’t matter. At this particular milestone, this record of the man’s not only stands quite apart from the rest of his discography but also quite removed from the passage of time itself.
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What pretentious slop