Why I've seen Bruce Springsteen more than 70 times Patti Scialfa - his beautiful wife and long-time E Street band member - was a fine host. Springsteen was charming, first telling Tim how much his kids "liked the Lion King stuff," and then, responding kindly to my nervousness, stopped short of asking me how the Hampshire cricketers were doing in the County Championship. Which was a relief, because we were four losses from four. They say you shouldn't meet your heroes. Maybe they are right. I wanted to tell him that whenever I was down at heel, his music lifted me back up and carried me to the clouds. But it was beyond me to get the words out. I wanted to tell him that, on tour to Sri Lanka in 1986, I had walked to the wicket as captain of an England 'A" team that was battling to save an unofficial Test match in Kandy. Mike Selvey, the former England bowler and lifelong fan himself, fixed it for Hungry Heart and No Surrender to be played on the PA during the tea interval. Inspired, I made a few runs and we saved the match. Those words failed me, too. Nor could I tell him that it was a difficult tour, that the Tamils had spread fear throughout the country and into elements of our team, a number of whom wanted to return home immediately. I believed we should stay and wrestled with the contradictions. In my room, headphones on, volume up, the music kept me sane and gave me confidence. And I doubt I shall ever be able to thank him for that, either. Why should Springsteen, who has become the conscience of his American land, matter to me? Why does everyone from Manchester to Melbourne rise up and, with tribalist abandon, scream "I was...BORN in the U-S-Ayeeee"? Powerful and passionate whether in concert or on record, there is something of the preacher in Springsteen - and something vaudevillian. He is also edgy, enthralling and evangelical, offering serious appraisals of American life while also bringing light relief. After the Hyde Park concert a year ago, a friend of mine said: "It was a good night at church." This is not so ridiculous as it sounds, for there are moments in the shows when he marches into the congregation and demands something in return. "Is there anybody alive out there?" he asks. Is there anybody alive out there? Later, he urges: "C'mon up for The Rising," and "Raise your hands!" The stories that Springsteen tells are relevant to our own lives. He makes strong points about things for which we care - freedom and fairness, democracy and community - and, when the time is right, he celebrates the things we love: romance, rebellion, fast cars and hard living. The unlikely characters in his songs are as much a part of our life as of his: Crazy Janey, Spanish Johnny, many Marys, the Magic Rat and Outlaw Pete, to name a few. In his post-9/11 redemption masterpiece, The Rising, he speaks for America's grief, before inviting us all to "Mary's place" where "we're gonna have a party." Whenever Springsteen performs with his E Street Band, magic happens. "Collectively, it's a formidable thing," he has said. The core of band was formed in the late Sixties and early Seventies, but has recently been refreshed by circumstance. First, Danny Federici, the keyboard and accordion player, died of melanoma, and more recently Clarence Clemons, Springsteen's saxophonist and soulmate, passed away from a stroke. Clemons was irreplaceable: "He was something elemental, like the air or the rain," says Springsteen. So rather than replace him, the Pied Piper added more followers in the form of a five-piece horn section that included Clemons" nephew, Jake, on sax. It is a frightening responsibility. Ten days ago in Coventry, Jungleland, the epic anthem that closes Born to Run and which features a virtuoso sax solo, was performed before a British audience for the first time since Clemons's death. Jake did not let us down. The moment when the solo reached its crescendo, The Boss held his legendary Fender guitar aloft to the sky - and the crowd were breathless in awe. Springsteen's live shows have a tension akin to watching your hero bat; you're consumed by the fear of his dismissal. Will he be back? The prospect of such loss is nerve-shredding. This is addiction, and I cannot bear the thought of being without it. When the band strikes up, the pleasure washes over me. A flood of ecstasy drowns both my mind and soul, in which are embedded the lyrics, rhythms and sounds of a lifetime. A few beers and I leap about manically, sleeves rolled up, hammering at my air guitar in reverse strokes and belting out the words. Sober, I just stand there, spellbound by his every move, adoring, overcome. It is hard to quantify this emotion - indeed, it may be better not to. People ask why I want to see the same show over and over. I answer that I see the same artist, not the same show. Yes, his concerts have a carefully considered and rehearsed format, but the band can turn on a dime, whether at the whim of The Boss or at the crowd's request. Setlists have been known to go out of the window as he walks to the stage. Requests are taken, kids sing into his microphone, adults swoon. The new horn players say, "He's like an old jazz cat," willing and able to try anything, so you better be paying attention. Heaven knows how long the magic will last. There are still tickets available for tonight's gig, so you can see it for yourself. It might be Jake Clemons's sax, or Roy Bittan's gorgeous, staccato piano solo from Racing in the Street. It might be Stevie Van Zandt's subtle ukulele that opens The Land of Hope and Dreams, or Nils Lofgren's searing guitar on Because the Night. Indeed, you may be seduced by any member of a thrilling orchestra absolutely at the peak of its game. Most likely, it will be Bruce himself and, perhaps, the haunting vocal that concludes The River, a moment so sublime you feel weightless, and nothing else in the world truly matters. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are at the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, London E20, tonight (hardrockcalling.co.uk)