The Ties That Bind: My Life-Long Connection With Springsteen

The month of July found me saying "good luck, goodbye" to someone I felt I was just getting comfortable enough to really say "hello" to. Granted, it was only roughly a six-hour drive away to Destin, but there is something to be said of the ones you love when they are around. Before departing for the Florida coast, she brought me a gift, a book certainly fit for a music geek of my size, a book entitled Bruce Springsteen's America: The People Listening, A Poet Singing by Robert Coles. What can I say, she knows me pretty well. Enclosed in its pages were numerous insights on the music of the Boss from everyday folks like me, weaving a pseudo-philosophical tapestry out of his body of work. I was so enamored with the many varied interpretations of Bruce and his songs that I felt obligated, as a life-long fan in good standing, to contribute my own memories, reflections, and personal feelings involving Springsteen. If I were allowed to insert my own chapter into Coles' piece, it might go a little like this...

The cradle sat in one corner of the nursery where I spent my first few years. Pictures in numerous family albums showed the standard mobile that would linger overhead. On the the wall adjacent to my crib was a quilted characterization of the ever-so-popular Paddington Bear, complete with a yellow hat and blue jacket. Across the room, two eyes peered towards me day and night from a poster scripted with painted blue font. It was the album cover of Bruce Springsteen's 'The River', his now-classic, breakthrough double album. Floating around in the attic of the house I live in now is a cassette tape narrated by my father. As he talks into the old maroon RCA Tape Recorder deck (approximately the size of the last VCR's I saw before DVD took over completely), he points around the room to show off the prowess of my newly-developed first words. Pointing to himself, he asks, "Who am I?", to which I responded "Dada". Proudly, my father then points over to the 'River' poster and says "Now, who is that?". My second word, was "Bruce".

My dad and mom love to tell the stories of my toddler years as a music geek. They came up with games for me while playing records in the living room. My favorite story, and one that to this day we don't know how it worked, involved my dad's collection of .45's. For those who may not know, the .45 was the small record with one song per side (unless, of course, it was an EP). Every .45 from the same record company had identical labels on the record, meaning that any given record released by Columbia Records looked exactly the same as EVERY other release on Columbia Records. Only the artist and title information distinguished them. For their own amusement, and to their wonder, my parents would sit my dad's crate of records on the floor. They would then ask me to find them a certain record by a certain artist, usually Springsteen. Even though I was unable to read, I was somehow able to distinguish the difference between all the different orange Columbia singles labels and find the song they wanted to hear. Maybe that's part of the reason why I am so nerdish about my music even now, but that's just what they told me.

Bruce's music was just a piece of environment from thereon. He was another voice of authority and experience, like that of an older brother. I guess what drew me into the bond was simply the sound. I remember distinctly hearing the opening, swaggering chords from "Glory Days" as the music video played. I remember Max Weinberg's snare cracks that accented the synthesized chorale of "Born in the U.S.A.", and the rasp in the anthematic words that Springsteen preached. There was the gentle harmonica that introduced "Thunder Road", and the rolling wall of sound that plastered "Born to Run".

Clarence Clemons' saxophone cried beneath the roads of "Jungleland" like that of a gospel call.

Relating to Bruce came naturally as I grew up. Granted, that sounds bizarre, being that my life in South Carolina in Georgia does little to mirror the boardwalks and dark alleys on Bruce's Jersey shore. What I have found is that there is a universal need to find that thing that you can be a part of that is bigger than you. For some it is faith, others are in love, and for others it is that one chance to escape, lashing out at whats holding you back, fighting the good fight. It is all there in the Springsteen lexicon. He personifies the anti-hero in all of us who gladly throws caution to the wind, no matter how high the stakes. Hope is found in the ability to face the "Darkness on the Edge of Town". The tragedies are in the resignations of the 'Nebraska' album. Even when he is going against the grain, the commitment to his ways is what twists these romantic fables into morality tales. Instead of a sword-wielding knight, he carries a Fender Telecaster. Instead of a damsel in distress, it's the girl down the street, with the angry father who doesn't want his daughter falling for a rock and roller. Instead of a noble steed, it's a '69 Chevy. That type of chivalry is what I longed for my whole life. Listening to Bruce Springsteen made me feel like maybe I was the sidekick, with gambling of my own to do. I don't have the guts to be this man, but he's the hero I thought I had to be. Of all the promised lands I have yet to find, I imagine them to be filled with souped up cars, with girls named Mary or Wendy in the passenger seat. I feel closer now than I have ever been, but I haven't gotten there yet. I'm on my way though, and I find that this highway is jammed with broken heroes like me.