I think I've made my peace with Springsteen and all associated fandom. The factoid about music history that generally gets tossed around when discussing Springsteen is that by writing lyrics that people could relate to he saved rock from extravagant songwriting and lyrics about wizards and dragons. There is a problem with this. I don't relate to people, and sometimes, I don't even like people. And I like fifteen minute suites primarily in 7/8 about wizards with screaming guitar riffs, oftentimes way more than I like hearing about actual people and their actual lives.
But, in my education that is preparing me for a long and distinguished career in the unemployment line (subject matter that was definitely covered by Styx and not necessarily Springsteen, even though the former is seen as indulgent pretentious and the other is seen as real and authentic music for unemployed people) I just finished taking a class called "The Music of Literature and the Literature of Music," where we spent an excessive amount of time writing poems about the death of John Bonham. The consensus, of course was: "it made us all very sad." And although, like any discussion about music with people who have never been good at making music usually goes, we focused mostly on what the music sounds like instead of how it sounds - in spite of this - I was able to get past the philistine opinions of Mainstream (Mainstreet?) America and realize that maybe, at some level, he's a legitimate musician who made some pretty good music, separate from whatever cultural, anti-intellectual trends he might represent. (Because of course, if I simply discredited his music for this reason, for what it represents, I would be going against my one rule of rock appreciation.) And if the Gaslight Anthem likes him, he can't really be bad at all.
But I made my peace not in Jersey but in Tacoma. Tacoma is Oakland of Seattle, the retarded stepsister of a cosmopolitan city, filled with cranes, overshadowed by its more glamorous neighbor. I've been here almost a week, and I'm starting to wonder if it's ever sunny for more than a few hours. Point Defiance State Park is located at the north end, and in addition to a scenic drive where you can look out at the sound, there is a depressing gravel parking lot next to some batting cages and a go-kart track. They also have a cheaply constructed nine hole miniature golf course, obviously made in the proprietor's garage. For two bucks you get to play the nine holes twice, and my friends and I decided we couldn't refuse a deal like that. So we played, with the evening overcast sky slowly darkening and a couple large Filipino families using the batting cages. And over a pair of tinny speakers they were blasting a local classic rock station, and what else comes on but Born to Run. I don't really like the song. His voice sounds like the dick of a fifty something who has taken just enough Viagra to get it at half-mast, and the piano sounds schmaltzier than Billy Joel's overplayed greatest hit named after the same instrument. But as I looked out at the empty gravel parking lot and this little patch of land that passed for entertainment, I realized this is exactly what it felt like to be Bruce Springsteen.
If only I really had been born to run, maybe I wouldn't be in this mess. But more on that later.
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