Bruce Springstein was so right, deciding early on that he would guard that thing, that nugget inside him, the place where all the music comes from. No compromises. Me? I’m worried. Two years into my hyper-fame I’m not hearing new music. New words. Myself. I sing my reliable hits on a stage that keeps growing. The audience is further away. Sitting in bleachers now. In my downtime, I’m driven to the gym, to the hairdresser, to a sound check. While the engineers adjust levels I study my shadow. My constant companion.