You will not want to like this album. The title, Working on a Dream, is so nakedly optimistic and Obama-ready that it may make your gorge rise. The lyrics aren't so hot, either. And in his sinewy middle years, Brucey's voice is more warbly and strained than ever. But then "The Wrestler" will come on and you will forget everything about the album that irked you. No, instead you will listen to it again and marvel at how the Boss has managed to condense a lifetime of regret, exhaustion and failure into one stripped-down, crippled melody. And you will swallow hard, swipe at your watery eyes, and think, "Fuck you, Bruce Springsteen."