Show a little faith; there's magic in Bruce Springsteen | MARK HUGHES COBB

Melanie was a fan, but had never seen Bruce Springsteen live before last Friday, my birthday gift to us, in the Atlanta (especially after having been gouged by Ticketdisaster, I'm sickened by corporate-named venues and bowls) arena. The show of the show was what most tickled her: Miami Steve decked out in scarves, swathed in something of a flowing purple robe-cape-batwings creation, like a Transylvanian pirate hooker pimp, pasting on enough mascara to qualify as camoflage, wearing boots with toes pointed enough to kill cockroaches in corners.

Spectacles: The swinging five-person horn section swooping to life like a Looney Tunes orchestra; the four background singers swinging and swaying; the old-timers — makes me laugh to talk about "new kids" like keyboardist Charles Giordano, who's only been with the E Street Band since 2006, after the death of Danny Federici — setting the stage, almost literally, before those sweet accents arrived a little later in the night.

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It's a family affair, though Bruce's wife Patti Scialfa was absent, after having sung at the Tampa show — kickoff date for Bruce and the E Street Band's first tour in six years — just days before. Might explain why they didn't do "Brilliant Disguise," though setlists can vary for other reasons, including whim and whimsy. Some decades ago, attending a record-music convention in Birmingham, I thumbed racks of bootleg CDs, discs mostly cut from live shows. A few were rough, patchy things trapped on handheld portable devices by audience members begging for a visit from the FBI, CIA, BMI or ASCAP, whoever's responsible. Others drew directly from soundboards, remarkably sharp.

As we should have learned from J.M. Barrie's "Peter Pan," Number Six from "Battlestar Galactica" or Buddhist/Hindu samsara, all of this has happened before, and all will happen again. Jam bands such as Phish and Widespread Panic pride themselves on mixing up lists, as they have developed the kinds of followings that are literal, flocks and herds and patchouli-stinks of people who'll see more than one show per tour. Sometimes many. We also call these "the trust-fund unemployed," or "the part-time bong/burrito manufacturers."

But seriously, in a study showing how often they switch things up, matching with how often they go live, the four most-diverse players were the Grateful Dead, Bob Dylan, Umphrey's McGee and Bruce Springsteen.

Both Tampa (tour kickoff) and Atlanta (second show) were 28 songs long, with a segment called an encore, though the guys and dolls only walked off a moment, to hydrate and wipe sweat. None of this phony '70s "We're pretending to go away so you'll scream, stomp and chant our names until we pretend to be drawn back by the power of your love" goop. Just a breather, then back for a six- or seven-song closer mixing some of the most-familiar — "Born to Run," "Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)," "Glory Days" and "Dancing in the Dark" — concert staples and radio hits, with a somber yet celebratory "I'll See You in My Dreams," performed acoustic-solo, to finish up.

Along the lines of "Terry's Song," and "Last Man Standing," it's inspired by those who've gone on, broad enough to be about you, and you, and you, all those we see only now in imaginings, and possibly someday in a better world. Through his "Springsteen on Broadway" residencies, and in his 2016 autobiography "Born to Run," he spun out many of his long-ago show tales, with a few he'd saved up, so Friday's concert was more music, less talk.

He did share a bit about the 2018 death of George Theiss, who drew Bruce into his first band, the Castiles, and thus launched a now 50-plus year saga. Bruce, the last of that band still standing, does still deliver, at 73 Though his movements may not be perhaps as free as in '73, they're as effusive. He's worn wrist braces this century, said to stave off tendonitis or carpal tunnel syndrome, and he sometimes walked as if his back were a tad stiff. But the more they played, the looser he moved. Show a little faith; there really is magic in the night.

Hope Patti didn't get a sore throat. I know mine felt tender after three hours singing along, preceded by another three talking in the car on the way to Atlanta, followed by another four or five hours chatting as we wound down toward sleep, raising all the emotions, the history and inner life shared music can stir up, and illuminate.

Bruce mugged — to the whole arena, of course — so I had to re-share with Mel about Starkville, during "The River" tour, when I was standing back against the arena wall, stage left, house right. In the midst of "Rosalita," Bruce clambered up onto "Professor" Roy Bittan's grand piano, flexing that now-even-more-scratched-up butterscotch Telecaster. He was looking in our direction, and I stopped dancing long enough to point down at him. Why? Dunno. Something atavistic. I see you! I acknowledge your mastery, your strides, your heartbeats!

He stopped playing just long enough to point right back. It was like that Michelangelo painting, "Two Muscular Guys Touching Fingers."

There was a WHOLE lotta pointin' goin' on in Atlanta. Obviously, he remembered me.

The most poignant family tale: Jake stepping up in 2012 to take over the sax from departed uncle Clarence "The Big Man" Clemons, a figure physically, musically and poetically larger than life, Bruce's counterpart since the start. Bruce has written songs about pals who've gone on, but his tribute to Clarence comes live, fittingly.

At the penultimate song, "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out," the horn section laid out fire. At to the lyric "When the change was made uptown/and The Big Man joined the band," as Jake wailed, archival images projected on the immense screens. With the two of them rocking and rolling, swaying and singing, cutting up and acting out, playing with all the madness in their souls, I can't lie, I wept.

Hard to explain to someone who didn't grow up my way, who hadn't lived with this, from its thousand-syllables-per-second through wall-of-soul romance through dirty and downhearted fury through dark heart of Americana travails, and rebirth, reinvention, absorption, contraction and expansion and release again. His music and myth weave through me. It's almost absurdly personal. Those bonded images, the affection, the giddiness, the ferocity, the above-all love, couldn't help but trigger feelings about my lost father, my lost brothers.

Mel even misted up, and she's far less soppy than me.

I'd chosen our seats wisely as possible, off to one side rather than far back, and on the aisle, at the front of the second level, so no one could block our view. No one, that is, until Ms. Drop It Like It's Melting Down, who took selfies every time Bruce played a song she knew, having wriggled down beside my aisle seat and shoved more hip in my face than several ex-girlfriends combined.

Mel asked if I wanted to change seats, and I laughed, as I really didn't. It occurred to me young MHC would have flirted with her, or asked her politely (the first time) to give way, and asked the ushers politely, to remove her (the second time). But old me, birthday me, picked up the contagion.

We could be Spanish Johnny and Puerto Rican Jane, Crazy Janey and her Mission Man, hero-walking Terry and Zero, Mary Queen of Arkansas and the Angel with eyes like rain; Bad Scooter searching for his groove with the Candy whose sadness was hidden in that pretty face; Cat watching Kitty slink back from the big city; Rosie and the guy whose poppa tried to ban him 'cause he don't have any money; Sandy and the aurora-watcher down on the boardwalk wondering why the angels won't set themselves on fire for them anymore; Mary letting the screen door slam, running to the guy with the car door open, the one who thinks she's not a beauty, but hey, she's all right; kids flashing guitars like switchblades, the hungry and the hunted, exploding into rock 'n' roll land.

Reach Tusk Editor Mark Hughes Cobb at mark.cobb@tuscaloosanews.com, or call 205-722-0201.

This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: Show a little faith; there's magic in Bruce Springsteen | MARK HUGHES COBB