Hi, I"m Bill. Totally goy, FYI, but I compensate for that with a mean brisket. In lieu of a proper profile, here is a lil' blurb I wrote a couple years back on a concert I'd recently attended. What's the skinny on Herr Boss's performance at the ACC last Thursday? It was one of the rockin'ist--and whitest--rock extravaganzas I've attended. More on the latter in a moment. The first thing you need to know is that the Boss is earnest. And aptly named. When he bellows his intention to "build a house of rock and roll"--not with "bricks, not with mortar," but rather (get ready) with "guitars!," "drums!," and "soul!"-- you have no choice but to cast off your wry detachment and start digging right there with him.Like the twelve-dollar sippy-cup beers, the experience is compelling and infantilizing at the same time. Thank God Springsteen's Everyman persona, unflappable idealism, and infectious choruses are wedded to vaguely left-of-centre politics. Because they'd make excellent recruitment tools for national socialism. ("Glory Days" indeed!) Especially given the demographics of the crowd. There were so many white people in attendance that when the house lights when on, I didn't even notice. It was as if someone had turned the Annex on its side and dumped it into the ACC for three hours. Seriously. Before the band went on, I surveyed the near 20,000-strong crowd with Wheres Waldo intensity, and spotted exactly five visible minorities--a feat which I later redeemed for thousands of Shoppers Optimum points. But I have to tell you folks, it wasn't just surreal, it was frightening. I did what anyone faced with such an embarrassment of Caucasians would do: I panicked. The joint had a conspiratorial vibe. There's no telling what so many juiced, riled-up crackers will do. They might organize a bake sale, or lobby the city for better lighting in the parking lot.