Often, shows are emotional experiences. People say that the shows have “changed their lives forever” or talk about the euphoria they felt at the climax of a set, feeling “washed” or “cleaned” by the band channeling energy into sound and somehow through that affecting the audience’s hearts and minds. But how often are shows emotional experiences for the band?

A friend of mine told me about the Silver Jews show last week. I wasn’t there, but according to her it was essentially witnessing a messy breakup on stage. As the band fractured and the members scowled, the songs got commensurately more intense, and the audience was held in thrall by the drama of the situation. This sort of experience, she said, made the show really memorable and probably improved its emotional effectiveness, but it also made the show uncomfortable and awkward for those attending.

This reminded me of when I saw the Brothers Unconnected over the summer. Alan and Richard Bishop, two-thirds of the Sun City Girls, did a “memorial tour” for the other third, their recently deceased drummer, Charles Gocher. If something’s a “memorial tour” then obviously it was going to be emotional, but I wasn’t really prepared for what happened.

The night started off with a showing of Gocher’s experimental films, a significant side hobby of his. These were bizarre, lots of them featuring multiple Gochers superimposed on one another via pointing cameras at TVs.

Many of Gocher’s avant-garde poems were set to music played by the Brothers Unconnected, and these were often extremely vulgar, sufficiently so that I cannot reproduce them here. The Bishops yelled them, angry and sneering, between more subdued SCG songs, and often I was genuinely uncomfortable with the images they painted and the intensity with which they sang, but I was also extremely intrigued. The crowd seemed alternately amused and frightened, but its attention absolutely never wavered. All eyes were always fixed on the stage.

After the show, I had no idea whether or not I liked it but I knew that I would absolutely not forget it and I was glad I went. I’m still not totally sure, months later, whether I had fun at all. Every time I talk about it with a friend, though, I lean toward yes. It was so raw and uncomfortable that it was tough to take, but isn’t that what art is about?

In the surrealist worlds that Silver Jews frontman David Berman coaxes us into entering, it smells like beer most of the time, but then there’s a light shower and we’re rewarded with a grandiose view of Virginia, fields and fences all bathed in yellow light. We think of the things in water and the things in the sky. We recall machines and transportation. This is what he gives us. This is what we are invited to receive.

And when we look at David Berman, we can see all those things inside him, and it all just makes sense. In a recent interview for Pitchfork TV, Berman reads “Top 10 Redneck Moments,” and he shows us what we want from him: attention to oversights, cynicism, and quickness. He plays a few songs in front of the camera, balancing fleeting moments of “hamming it up” with a seeming discomfort about the whole thing. And watching these things, I begin to feel like Berman is trying to get at something he didn’t care as much about before.

The evidence becomes clear when you open up the jewel case for their release from early summer, Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, which came with an insert of “silver chords” and a booklet of lyrics with chord progressions. So maybe it’s the sobriety, or the way of getting older, but David Berman wants to make music for everyone to listen to. It’s not a novel concept, but there’s something that seems sincere and important about Berman’s mission. There’s something riding on this, and I can’t put my finger on it.

Then I listen to the last part of the interview, and he says it, and I can’t believe that he’s saying it. He’s trying to speak to the young people because there are things he knows that are important. That will help us. Because there is some crisis up the road, and he sees it coming. “I will be your general if you want to be my privates. But first we have to start now, before the crisis.” And we realize that this album is no longer a gift of strange worlds. It is his token, his treaty, and his bid for our trust. And I’m caught between degrees of disillusionment in the world, and my question over his sincerity is only a passing thought, because if there’s anyone I would like to follow, I think I would like to follow David Berman, wherever that would go.

In light of E Street band member Danny Federici’s recent death, it is only prudent to highlight the ever-fading relevance of Bruce Springsteen.

For many Americans like me, The Boss brings to mind a rush of vignettes: hot dogs on the barbecue, the Jersey shore, a mug of lukewarm beer, faded cutoff jean shorts, a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your T-shirt sleeve, driving a car with the windows down, an American flag bandana.

But for many others even more cynical than I, the mere mention of Springsteen and his music elicits sarcastic eye rolls. In writing here in the past, I’ve discussed my hesitant love for ABBA, which since then has developed into a full-blown passion without any sarcasm. As I age, I feel the same genuine emotion growing for many other things I should be embarrassed of in order to save my hipster cred.

Being honestly into Springsteen is unfashionable. Even his bond with indie darlings the Arcade Fire could not remedy the instantaneous repulsion that so many children of the ’80s have. Though I’ve heard it countless times since a young age, I have only recently decided “Born to Run” is one of the greatest rock songs ever recorded.

Although “Born to Run” sounds like a bar anthem at first listen, its lyrics become more potent after a few more listens over a pint. The entire song’s lyrics are amazing, but the last two minutes are the most powerful, following a raging horn, when Bruce’s voice strains, serious and genuine: “Beyond the Palace hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard/The girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors/And the boys try to look so hard/The amusement park rises bold and stark/Kids are huddled on the beach in a mist/I wanna die with you, Wendy, on the streets tonight/In an everlasting kiss.”

Everyone around him is still enjoying youth, working on impressing one another for a fleeting sexual encounter. Bruce, though — Bruce wants more, and sees the power Wendy holds, melting away police sirens with her embrace. Bruce continues after another brassy blast, clanking piano, exploding symphony: “The highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive/Everybody’s out on the run tonight/But there’s no place left to hide/Together, Wendy, we’ll live with the sadness/I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul/Someday, girl, I don’t know when/We’re gonna get to that place/Where we really want to go/And we’ll walk in the sun/But till then tramps like us/Baby, we were born to run.”

Maybe becoming an adult is really the reason why Bruce speaks to me. After I leave here, I don’t want to strap on my sensible heels and march into my cubicle. I want to grab a lover and run to a place that may only exist in my imagination.