Worst Songs Ever: Bruce Springsteen – ’57 Channels (And Nothin’ On)’

Bruce Springsteen’s “57 Channels (And Nothin’ On)”
PEAK CHART POSITION: #68 in May 1992.

No lurker on Springsteen message boards, I have no idea how die-hards regard Human Touch and Lucky Town these days. When Springsteen released this pair in March 1992, he faced the steepest backlash of his career. Never mind the fact that Soundscan, which had changed the way in which the industry accurately tabulates sales, would have affected the chart trajectory of any project released after the summer of 1991.

What Soundscan did was at last register how many Americans bought Garth Brooks, Michael Jackson, and Def Leppard albums in their first week; it registered, at last, the true popularity of hip-hop; and Americans were not interested in a Springsteen album, let alone two, when Adrenalize glimmered behind its longbox cover (Americans weren’t much interested in Adrenalize after its duly appointed month atop the Billboard 200 either, at least not when Hysteria and Pyromania existed).

In short, Human Touch and Lucky Town were bound for The Nice Price cutout bin by the time Bill Clinton sewed up the Democratic nomination and looked like a sure bet against Poppy Bush. A decade ago at Stylus, the magazine at which I once served as features editor, I had no one proselytizing for the secret beauties of those Springsteen albums as I did for Tunnel of Love, which, unbelievably, needed a little help. They remain the mutts in his catalog, unloved and passed over in silence after a polite clearing of the throat. Dumping the E Street Band in exchange for the El Lay likes of Jeff Porcaro and Randy Jackson infuriated the acolytes. The earring and bad hair infuriated me. In the intervening years I’ve heard Human Touch once; it struck me as an album that would have made Jude Cole or Richard Marx proud of the shrewdness with which they directed their studio colleagues into fleshing out songs whose titles embrace conventionality like Floridians do air conditioning. The exception: the title track, a callback to the ruminative, worried Springsteen of Tunnel of Love‘s “Brilliant Disguise,” garnished with a typically scabrous guitar solo that impressed me even in 1992 (I haven’t heard Lucky Town beyond “If I Should Fall Behind” live in 2000 and the overwrought “Better Days,” the latter released as a double A-side with “Human Touch”).

“I bought a bourgeois house in the Hollywood Hills,” Springsteen sings in the gruff talk-sing with which he’d spooked most rock critics on 1982’s Nebraska. The bass, played by Springsteen, thumbs familiar chords.  A synth does the echo thing that Springsteen synths do well. He’s good at spareness — one of the few rock and rollers whose innate sense of harmony and well-calibrated impatience result in songs of impeccable concision. So far, so familiar. Things go wrong with the mention of a “Japanese car,” ho ho. Trade deficit. Poppy Bush yakking on the lap of Prime Minister Kiichi Miyazawa. Rising Sun a best-seller. No stranger to the topical, now Springsteen was merely modish. From the comfort of the Hollywood Hills, another member of the bourgeoisie with discreet charm, Springsteen faced a dilemma on which Joni Mitchell, David Bowie, and DJ Quik could’ve enlightened him: when you’re not in the studio but the royalty checks keep coming, torpor becomes subject and disease.

There’s something cute about The Boss luxuriating in Häagen-Dazs and Melrose Place with Patti, and he could’ve limned the Bored Millionaire archetype had he disavowed the instinct to retreat into the studio like a penitent into a confessional. But “57 Channels” has nothing more to say about being a sated Bruce Springsteen than — cable sucks. Searching the room for a piece of furniture that might trigger a suitable ending for this plaint, Springsteen returns to the image table scraps of Nebraska. The target isn’t a state trooper — it’s the hapless TV, blown away by a .44 Magnum, you know, like Elvis did. The judge goes easy on him.

“…I have no idea what we were aiming for in this one outside of some vague sense of ‘hipness’ and an attempt at irony,” Springsteen wrote on Facebook years later, according to Wikipedia. “Never my strong suit, it reads now to me as a break from our usual approach and kind of a playful misfire.” He’s right. Few people remember “57 Channels (And Nothin’ On).” Maybe it’s not the worst single ever. But it’s the worst Springsteen ever.