It's hard to understand why you'd drive 2,000 miles in 36 hours to see him twice in two days, or spend hard-earned college money on six "Reunion" tour shows or spend hours reading critical appreciations and scouring YouTube.com. I can't explain it, because I'm not that good of a writer, but there's something about it all that rankles the soul like few things can. There's a little bottle rocket that goes off inside every time music is performed the way it was meant to be seen. When rock & roll was invented, from Jelly Roll Morton in Chicago's music halls and Ledbelly in the cotton fields to Alan Freed's late night A.M. radio and a street corner in Memphis called Sun Studios, this was how it wanted to look and sound.
And that's the true essence of rock & roll, isn't it? When you think that no one else understands, there's some guy on stage that's you projected on a big screen (much improved guitar skills over the last 30 years and mega bucks, these are just icing on the cake). It's like air guitar for the soul. I'm talking about growing up with parents who taught us that one of the most important things we could do is share, especially if it means that someone never had to go hungry, and there's Bruce calling for his audience to help the food bank of whichever city he's in every night. There's no Bono-esque attention-seeking stunts or Tom Morello-esque "Fuck Bush!" audacities. Just music doing the talking through astute song selections, and eloquence that makes you think even as you chuckle.
And in case you might think that attending a Springsteen show is like watching Charles Dickens' "Bleak House" performed as a rock opera, we have our share of frat rock fun and laughter, too. When Rosie comes out and Sherry goes home, man, you can't jump a little higher or say hey, hey, hey loud enough. And when Bruce shares a mic with Little Steven van Zant, you think about all the Bobby Jeans in your life. If I ever wanted to tell someone important how I really feel about him or her, I wouldn't send a card. I'd play "Backstreets" in my car as we go driving down Lake Shore Drive.
My professional hero Peter Fleischer told me that the highlight of his concert-going career -- the Ramones at CBGB, Bruce on the Jersey shore in the early 1970s, the New York Dolls at Roseland, etc. -- was "My City of Ruins" at Jazzfest. I haven't been to enough shows in this lifetime to have a highlight just yet, but on the Seeger Sessions tour, it was last Wednesday in Milwaukee. They're re-opening the vote to bring the death penalty back to Wisconsin and Bruce asked for everyone to think through the issue before making their decision. Then he sang "My City of Ruins."
How can a poor man stand such times and live?
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