Under the watchful eyes of Abraham Lincoln’s towering statue, two American legends stepped into the fading dusk and gave 50,000 candle-bearing souls the hope they came searching for. Joan Baez, 84, and Bruce Springsteen, 75, didn’t just sing—they resurrected the fire of protest, unity, and soul-healing music that once defined generations.

Clad in black and radiating quiet defiance, Baez approached Springsteen during the hushed intro to “The Ghost of Tom Joad.” She wrapped him in an embrace that felt like a passing of the torch—and a reclaiming of it. “America’s hurting,” she whispered, “but your voice heals us.” When their voices joined in harmony, bolstered by a gospel choir, it wasn’t just a performance. It was an anthem, a plea, a prayer.

Their duet on “We Shall Overcome” drew tears from thousands. The crowd, holding candles and signs, sang along as if history was unfolding again in real-time. “This is our stand!” Baez cried out, as X (formerly Twitter) lit up with #SpringsteenBaezUnity.

The event, called Voices for America, wasn’t a concert. It was a call to action. It was what democracy sounds like when stripped bare and set to song. Bruce closed with an acoustic “Born in the U.S.A.”—no fireworks, just grit.\

Backstage, they traded mementos. Baez gave Springsteen a pendant she’s worn since 1968. He gave her his guitar pick. “Keep going,” she said. “I will,” he replied.

Baez, once the voice of the Civil Rights era and still very much its conscience, is no stranger to standing up when it matters. In a wide-ranging conversation with Rolling Stone, she pulled no punches on Trump, democracy’s fragility, and the power of music.

“This country feels like torn fabric,” she said, sipping coffee from her California home. She’s painted portraits of heroes—Gandhi, Fauci, MLK—and posted them outside until the city demanded permits. “Someone snitched,” she laughs. Instead of arguing, she climbed her treehouse and blasted opera in protest. “Civil disobedience,” she called it.

Baez remains fearless. She’s spoken out against ICE detentions, joined legal-aid campaigns for immigrants, and released a new protest song with Janis Ian titled “One in a Million.” Still painting, still marching, still raising hell—she dances daily, often with drag queens, and posts it. “Enjoying yourself has become an act of resistance,” she says. “Action is the antidote to despair.”

She remembers her jail time during Vietnam protests fondly. “Now? Jail’s dangerous. The machinery is cruel. And I take too many meds to go back in. But I won’t stop fighting.”

Baez worries about how fast authoritarianism is spreading. “People think this is like the Sixties? That was a garden party. This is a machine.”

Asked what keeps her going, she smiles. “My granddaughter Jasmine. She’s going to be a constitutional lawyer—assuming we still have a Constitution.”

As for music, Baez has embraced her lower vocal register and still sings the old civil rights songs. “We Shall Overcome” hits differently now, she says. She’s on the lookout for a new anthem. “It has to come from somewhere deeper,” she muses.

Artists like Lana Del Rey and Taylor Swift have brought Baez into their worlds, introducing her to younger audiences. She recalls dancing in a San Francisco club with Lana’s sister while the pop star watched shyly. “She gave me a necklace that said ‘Joanie’.”

Baez also reflects on her complicated legacy with Bob Dylan. She recently saw A Complete Unknown, the Dylan biopic. “They got the feeling right,” she said. “It’s a fun movie. Bob could’ve looked dirtier, though.” She even wrote Dylan a letter years ago, finally letting go of past hurt. “It was gratitude,” she says. “No more resentment. Just thank you.”

At 84, Joan Baez isn’t fading quietly. She’s still challenging the powerful, lifting the weary, and dancing her way through darkness.

“Don’t wait for 30,000 people to show up,” she urges. “Grab a friend, make a sign, wear a shirt that says ‘I’m an illegal immigrant.’ Show up. Stand up.”

Because as long as voices like hers sing out, America still has a fighting chance.