Bruce almighty

I’ll try to avoid hyperbole because I’ve always found the overheated enthusiasm of reviewers of Springsteen off-putting, but there is something genuinely noble about the man who looks so much younger than his 59 years. His performance, backed by the tremendous E Street Band with Clarence Clemons blowing beautifully on sax, and Stevie Van Zandt and Nils Lofgren joining the Boss in the often thrilling three-pronged guitar attack, felt like the work of a dedicated artisan really warming to his task.

There is a suggestion of the blue-collar missionary about Springsteen as he whips up the crowd into a state of adoring frenzy, and he actually appeared to be on fire as the sweat from his body vaporised into the night air. ‘The E Street Band has come thousands of miles to fulfil its solemn mission: to rock the hell!’ he declared with the passion of an evangelist preacher. ‘Right here on this field we want to build a house of love...Take the doubt and build a house of faith. Take the despair and build a house of hope. And we want to build a house of sexual healing in all those little tents.’

In cold print it sounds absurd, but as Springsteen sung and played his heart out for almost three hours, ending with a knock-’em-dead succession of his biggest hits, it seemed no less than the truth. Here surely was the keeper of the soul of rock and roll. And I realised with joy, and a sense of wonder, that at its best there is nothing to beat standing in a field with tens of thousands of strangers, and listening to great music. Full of hatred for the festival when I arrived, Springsteen had somehow converted me into a true believer.

Charles Spencer is theatre critic of the Daily Telegraph.