Old Stars | Good old freedom

Old white rock musicians on the move. Over the past four weeks, three stars from the 1970s, all of whom rose to fame in the 1970s, have performed at Berlin's open-air concerts: Bruce Springsteen, Iggy Pop, and Neil Young. The Olympic Stadium, the Spandau Citadel, and the Waldbühne were all sold out.

We all know the three of them: rock stars who carry on stoically into old age, like their jazz and blues counterparts. There's nothing surprising about them; these gigs are like a combination of expensive but good food and real-life sightseeing, in a crowd with other people, like, say, the Trevi Fountain in Rome. You can throw a coin in there and think it'll bring you good luck. Or you know the concert's going to be good when Neil Young plays "Hey hey, my my" as the second song (which rhymes with "Rock and roll can never die" in the chorus). Then you sing along like a football fan chant.

During Bruce Springsteen's concert, a woman stands in front of the stage with a sign that says, "30 shows - time for a hug?" And he does: Springsteen comes down a small flight of stairs from the huge stage and hugs her. At one point, he drinks from a mug of beer that a fan holds out to him. This can be seen on three large screens hanging next to and behind the stage. It looks like a concert film, but with pretty bad sound. From my seat directly opposite, the real Springsteen is maybe as tall as my little finger. Next to me sits a woman who occasionally puts cream on her hands, and it smells of chamomile.

Only Neil Young's show at the Waldbühne lacks screens. Instead, there's one of those man-sized "Big Amps" on the podium, the size of a pickup truck. Is it actually real, or just a dummy and symbol? The sound is certainly very loud and very good, the best of all three venues. Music that's too quiet often seems like an insult, dimmed to a harmless level. With Iggy Pop, you get the impression his music is turned up twice as loud as that of his opening act from Berlin, the Losers. They're considered punks, but they're very nice and say "Have fun with Iggy!" twice.

He comes on stage, immediately throws off his leather vest during "T.V. Eye," and—as always—plays shirtless in the shortest concert of these three legends, perhaps 70 minutes, but it's the wildest. Almost entirely up-tempo numbers, 80 percent are Stooges songs from the pre- and proto-punk era , "music that was too early in the late '60s and early '70s and still isn't too late today," as Diedrich Diederichsen called this "adorable material" 20 years ago when he saw Iggy Pop in Berlin.

Nothing has changed, except for Iggy Pop's body; he's no longer as toned as you see on screen. Now his skin hangs off and wobbles as he limps quickly across the stage with his hip problem. When he holds on to the microphone stand, he stretches out his left leg lasciviously, an old sexy pose of his that still suits him well at 78. Rock 'n' roll is about body, that's the message that truly never dies. And you can move it, all the time. Perhaps that's why Iggy's audience is the most diverse: women and men in T-shirts, young and old, like on a timeless Interrail trip, only without backpacks. At 80 euros, these are also the cheapest tickets – everyone has to stand, just like Iggy Pop on stage, who only sits briefly in front of the drums twice.

His entire demeanor is a single argument against age discrimination. Be yourself – that's the traditional motto from the time when Springsteen, Pop, and Young came of age in the nascent revolt of the hippie era, and one that Iggy Pop continues to uphold. Even if most people of his generation might consider themselves too fat, too old, or too weak.

Springsteen turns 76 this year. He's the youngest of the three veteran stars, but he has the oldest audience. Mostly 70-plus, and mostly men. Some look like they've just stepped out of the office, others like they've stepped out of a camper van. Older men tend to dress too warmly. In the crowded, warm subway to the Olympic Stadium, I see them standing in thermal pants, jackets, and wool sweaters, from which the wives sitting in front of them occasionally brush away a lint. Springsteen fans look after themselves; you hardly see anyone smoking or vaping in the stadium. And the 7-euro beer (the standard price for all three concerts) isn't appreciated either.

Bruce Springsteen wears a suit with a vest and tie, which he doesn't take off until very late. Then you see that his shirt is completely soaked with sweat. He doesn't move much, starting promptly at 7 p.m., but then plays for almost three hours, with the break between the end of his regular set and the eight encores lasting maybe 30 seconds. It's never boring. The atmosphere is calmly exuberant. He immediately has the audience under his spell with his raucous soul-rock, delivered to perfection by a dozen people on stage, including Steven Van Zandt as lead guitarist, assisted by Nils Lofgren, even though they were once considered rivals, and Springsteen's wife Patti Scialfa in the second row. There are the hits you'd expect ("Hungry Heart," "Born to Run," "Dancing in the Dark") – only "Born in the USA" is beyond his ability to deliver. He tries to sing it more gently, but doesn't sound as good.

In the US, Springsteen is often busy trying to prevent Trumpists from playing this song (which is by no means the national anthem, as they foolishly believe it to be) at their events. "When the country is ripe for a demagogue, you can be sure one will show up," he explains to the Berlin audience in a total of three speeches against Trump, whom he considers a "criminal clown who sits on the throne and steals what he can never have." Springsteen doesn't say Trump's name, but so everyone can follow, his speeches are translated into German on screens.

It's about good old freedom, the United States' number one promise since time immemorial, which Springsteen celebrates metaphorically in the song "House of a Thousand Guitars." Freedom in the compliant, solidarity-based way, instead of the free-for-all version that Trump promotes, against whom Springsteen comes across as an old, upright social democrat who sometimes presents himself as a kind of counter-president . Trump hates him for this and runs a short video on his social media channels in which he hits a golf ball and knocks Springsteen off the stage with it—it's a montage by one of his supporters.

For Neil Young, whose audience is a cross between Springsteen's and pop (mostly long-haired and bearded men over 50), good old freedom consists of sinking into the anthemic noise with his four-man band, The Chrome Hearts. Spooner Oldham, two years older than Young, who turns 80 in November, is at the organ. In his cap and jacket, Young looks unspectacular, as if he's just stepped off a tractor on a farm. He doesn't give speeches, only asks the audience two or three times if they're okay, and usually gathers in a semicircle with second guitarist Micah Nelson (son of Willie Nelson) and bassist Corey McCormick. They put their heads and instruments together like children in a schoolyard exchanging playing cards, and let these sprawling Neil Young songs flow: as melodic as they are powerful, they sweep you in and take you on long feedback journeys. Hardly anyone else can do that. The audience often cheers too early, before they've even finished. You could say Neil Young is playing into the applause. An uplifting experience.

Although, like Springstseen, he rejects Trump, he doesn't mention him. Iggy Pop doesn't either. But Neil Young plays an encore. It's "Keep on rockin' in the free world." Beforeward, he says, "It's a crazy world, we have to look out for each other." Afterward, he takes a bow in line with the band.