Tramps Like Us
September 28, 2005
Columbia Records is coming out with a 30th anniversary edition of Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run.
(A moment of silence while I reflect on how old I am getting.)
I am a big fan of Bruce. He is my man in popular music—the one rocker I will still overpay to see in concert. I own all his records, have t-shirts from a few concerts over the years, a poster or two, ticket stubs, and some other memorabilia. I have seen him enough times to have lost count. I have seen him in Boston, Providence, Worcester, and New York. I have seen him at least six times here in Boston, including at the “Old Garden” and the Fleet Center (now the “New Garden”), the Music Hall (now the “Wang Center”), and, blessed be, Fenway Park. Seeing Bruce at Fenway was as close to nirvana as I will come.
In 1975, though, Bruce was only vaguely on my radar screen, and what I knew of him I resented. See, I was 16 and I was into Dylan, and there was that whole “new Dylan” thing and that whole “cover of Time and Newsweek thing.” I heard his songs and some small part of me grudgingly realized I liked them, but I was 16 and I was sticking with Dylan.
But in March of 1977 my older brother Dan came home from classes at BU one day and told me had scored two tickets to see Springsteen that night. It was either the third or last night of a four-night run at the Music Hall. When he asked me to come, I wasn't going to say no, despite my anti-Springsteen compunction. I was a teenager. Teenagers go to concerts.
We get there, and see that they are great seats. The Music Hall was a fine venue for rock--about 4000 seats I guess, great acoustics, great sight lines, comfortable seats. We are on the floor, about 10 rows from the stage, dead center. Most people are seated already as my brother wades into the row in front of me, and then I hold up as he realizes someone is in our seats. I brace for some kind of confrontation, but little or nothing is said. It is a boy and a girl, probably college age, and they are really trashed. They quickly get up, brush by us, and we go to sit down.
It takes us no time to realize the girl was really trashed: she had puked all over the floor in front of her seat. Being the little brother, I take the puke seat, trying my hardest to hold my sneakers an inch above the mess. My mood is souring quickly. I start telling myself that I really didn't want to come to this concert. Fuck Bruce Springsteen. Fuck the new Dylan. Fuck the cover of Time and Newsweek. There's a sea of puke under my shoes and the goddamned concert hasn't even started yet.
But then the concert starts. The band runs onto the stage. Ten rows back and dead center, I am close enough to see Springsteen's molars. He is a little, wiry, hairy thing, but his voice booms out some primal greeting--I make out "Boston.... ready... rock...tonight..."--and then the band explodes into sound. We are lifted, en masse, onto our feet, and then onto our chairs. It's a freaking miracle!
I have the benefit of this great web site that tells me exactly what songs the band played that night, how long they took, and what order they played them in. With the exception of the song "Born to Run" itself and covers of several rock classics that came at the end, I had never heard any of this music before. But I was lost in it. Everyone was singing and clapping and screaming and waving their hands. We stayed standing on our seats the entire night, high above the puke. Everyone else seemed to know every word, every note, every cue--when to sing along, when to be reverently quiet. I just followed along, happy as a clam.
The night ended with a ten-plus minute version of "Higher and Higher"--a song that had been recently made a hit by Rita Coolidge of all people. But I would learn later it was a Jackie Wilson classic.
You know your love (your love keeps lifting me)
Keep on lifting (love keeps lifting me)
Higher (lifting me)
Higher and higher (higher)
I said your love (your love keeps lifting me)
Keep on (love keeps lifting me)
Lifting me (lifting me)
Higher and higher (higher)
I knew the words. I could sing along. And sing along I did. Springsteen had us doing some goofy combination of bows and waves, swaying side to side, forward and back, screaming the chorus at the top of our lungs. It was a silly, simple, joyous song. It wasn't Dylan. It was fun, damnit. And as I stood there on my chair, head back, arms waving, I knew for maybe the very first time my heart was singing.
Posted by Bill Trippe at September 28, 2005 10:47 AM
