There are gigs that rattle the floorboards, and then there’s Bruce Springsteen at Anfield. A thunderclap of heart, hope and rock ’n’ roll muscle. On Wednesday night, Liverpool felt less like a stadium and more like a revival tent, with 60,000 souls packed in and every last one converted, if they weren’t already lifers.

Taking the stage just before 7.40pm, The Boss opened with My Love Will Not Let You Down, charging headlong into Lonesome Day and Land of Hope and Dreams—a triple-hit introduction that laid down the mission statement early: community, conviction, and a refusal to give in. Backed by the ever-formidable E Street Band, bolstered by a brass section and backing singers the show was a rolling, righteous three-hour sermon in the Church of Rock.

Springsteen, now 75, remains a man of mythic stamina. There’s grit in his growl and purpose in his gait. What’s remarkable isn’t just the physical feat of a near non-stop set, it’s the emotional dexterity, the way he can pivot from the crowd-surfing joy of Hungry Heart to the sobering stillness of The River without ever losing his grip on the crowd.

It was Atlantic City that first turned the set electric. A deep cut from Nebraska, its sparse, noir storytelling crackled to life against the full might of the band. Later came Murder Incorporated, the guitar duel between Springsteen and Steven Van Zandt drawing yelps of approval. Nils Lofgren, meanwhile, reminded us why he’s one of the most quietly thrilling axe men in American music, unleashing a spiralling solo that felt almost transcendent.

And then there were the messages. Springsteen has never ducked the political—and tonight he didn’t whisper his discontent, he roared it. Without ever naming names, Death to My Hometown, Rainmaker, and House of a Thousand Guitars all came laced with a fury aimed squarely at rising authoritarianism. The latter, a standout from Letter to You, becomes something larger live, a rallying cry draped in gospel overtones and a defiant final verse that dares to dream aloud: “We’ll rise up singing, with faith in our hearts.”

Yet for all the fire, there was room for fun. A young girl on shoulders got a harmonica duet during The Promised Land. Springsteen made multiple laps of the barricade, clasping hands, sharing smiles. For No Surrender, Van Zandt’s guitar gleamed in the blue and gold of the Ukrainian flag. Details, yes, but loaded with meaning. Every moment deliberate. Every song in service of something greater.

The encore was a joyous eruption. Stadium lights flared, revealing a sea of limbs and saltire flags, strangers dancing arm in arm as Born to Run, Dancing in the Dark, and Bobby Jean gave way to a raucous Twist and Shout, a nod to Liverpool’s musical heritage and the influence that once changed Springsteen’s life from the backseat of his mother’s car. It closed, tenderly, with Dylan’s Chimes of Freedom. A final benediction, offered in full voice to the night.

By the end, Bruce looked moved. Spent, but not weary. Liverpool had offered up its lungs, its hearts, and in return received a masterclass in what live performance can still mean. From The Kop to the last beer-stained step of the upper tier, everyone left believing a little more in the redemptive power of music.

Bruce Springsteen didn’t just perform at Anfield—he left it burning bright with purpose, joy, and the kind of connection only true legends can conjure.