The Springsteen Chronicles

The Springsteen Chronicles

A few weeks after I turned twelve and graduated from grade school, my family moved from Inwood, in Manhattan, to Closter, New Jersey, the hub of the Northern Valley. Formerly a semi-rural truck farm community, most of my friends lived in the post-World War II ranch house and split-level developments that covered the eastern side of town. My family lived in the older section, walkable to the small downtown. A new shopping mall boasted a supermarket, a Grandway, a movie theater and a pizzeria. I called it, the land time forgot.

Junior High is never a treat. I entered school and quickly and sadly discovered that scholarly interests were less than cool. I was most unhappy and remained that way. I wanted to be someplace hip and sophisticated. I wanted to be someplace where things happen. Yet, with a brief hiatus in Massachusetts for college and law school, I have spent almost my entire life in New Jersey.

Adolescence wasn’t all terrible. When I was in the eighth grade, my friend Cindy’s parents were campaigning for Gene McCarthy for President. Cindy and I handed out leaflets door to door and went to rallies with her parents. Thus started my political life. After eighth grade, my mother took pity on me and sent me to a high school that was not the neighborhood school and a much better fit.

I have always loved folk music, the residue of summer camp, perhaps. And I am terribly sentimental. It’s no surprise then that in my late teens or early twenties when I first heard Bruce Springsteen I was smitten. Here was a Jersey Guy who got it, the feeling of being trapped in a place where people don’t get it and there’s nothing to do. I was hooked and can save for another day the other singers whose music, at various points, has been there for me.

I didn’t hear Bruce in his earliest days. While he was busking under the boardwalk, I was getting my degrees. But then we, I married young, moved back to Jersey, and we saw him for the first time in 1981 at the Byrne Arena in the Meadowlands. My friend Nick, a public sector lawyer, had a second job as a Meadowlands parking attendant. Nick got us tickets behind the stage. It was an intoxicating evening. Bruce is the great performer he is reputed to be. He even turned around from time to play to us folks in the back.

Bruce has become, perhaps, the quintessential pop culture metaphor of our time. Metaphor as much as icon. I am a sucker for popular culture. I took my daughter with me to Memphis for my 50th birthday, a few months after my husband died. We went to Graceland and to the National Museum of Civil Rights, and maybe that’s all you need to know me. Sometimes I think that if I got to do it over, I would have become a social historian.  There are secrets to understanding people. If I could decode those secrets, I would understand the world. At least that’s a core belief for me. There are other songwriters whose work I might even prefer, but they don’t bring the same cultural package as Bruce.

Over the years I’ve seen Springsteen about half a dozen times. I’m not one of those superfans who have seen him dozens and dozens of times. I did spend a lot of money to see him on Broadway, and I don’t regret it. It’s a life experience. All the other times were at Giants Stadium, once in Philly. For me, seeing Bruce is inextricably tied with the notion of home.

Plus, Bruce shows up in some of my poems. Through the courtesy of google I learned that one of those poems is in the Springsteen archives at Monmouth University. I’m not a storyteller like Bruce. My poems are more meditative. My favorite Springsteen song is, Atlantic City. It’s sad, sad, sad. The irony that a snippet of it blares from every loudspeaker on the Atlantic City board walk never escapes me.

A couple of weeks ago my son sent me a link from the Star Ledger (the best name for a newspaper, ever) that I’d not yet seen announcing Springsteen tour dates. Most important, Bruce would be playing at the Prudential Arena, in Newark! It’s not an enormous football stadium. It’s in New Jersey, the same date as my 70th birthday. Clearly, I had to go.

I developed an elaborate strategy to try to get tickets. That turned out to be unnecessary. I asked several people to enter the purchase ticket lottery and promise me one if successful. While I was not successful, my children were. They logged in at precisely the right time and got me tickets. I am going to see Bruce Springsteen in Newark, New Jersey, on my birthday. As you can see, I continue gloating.

Yes, I remain in New Jersey, the place where nothing happens. I like it here.

Don’t forget to join us Thursday, August 11th at 7 PM at the Rosendale Theatre, 408 Main Street, Rosendale, NY. Tickets, trailer, and information are all right here:

https://www.rosendaletheatre.org

The next issue of ALTE will be our music issue. Email Larry directly: lawrencebush@earthlink.net.

If you have nothing to do on Tuesday, August 2, 2022 at 7 p.m., I’ll be the featured reader at The Writer’s Roundtable. Unitarian Fellowship, 1 West Nelson Street, Newton, New Jersey. Open reading to follow.