Running into the darkness

While I was with the kids last week in PA, “Born to Run” celebrated its 40^th anniversary. I read several remembrances of the album, but have not had a chance to jot down my own. Until now.

I’m often wondered if I can say the album changed my life; the previous effort, “The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle may have had more of an effect on me, at least at the time. That record signified that something major was happening, and was the first time since “Abbey Road” that I felt something that strongly about an album. “Wild and Innocent” made me rabid. But “Born to Run” confirmed that I was right.

“Born to Run” had cornerstones that remain signposts, and still nothing in his catalog (or just about anyone else’s, for that matter) moves me more than “Backstreets.” Add in “Thunder Road,” “Jungleland” and the title track and you have something that reeks of grandeur and brilliance. It is one of the great rock albums. I think it’s THE great American rock album.

I saw an ad in mid-August in “Rolling Stone” that the album was imminent:

I cannot tell you how I felt when I saw this ad

I could hardly control my excitement. I had waited and waited for news about the album, and with no Internet or many news sources, that was hard to come by in Central Pa.

I wasn’t sure exactly when the album was actually coming out, so I took a trip to Wilkes-Barre, about an hour away, to visit a couple of stores. The first one (and I am ashamed that the name is gone from my memory), several blocks south of the Public Square, had an employee unboxing albums.

I can still see this guy and store in my mind. It was primarily an appliance store, with a couple of aisles of albums. But it was known for having the best prices in town.

The employee had opened several boxes and gone off to do something else. I peeked in one, and there it was  -- the Holy Grail. I just grabbed it and headed for the register. He hadn’t even put the price tag on it yet, and that didn’t matter. I would have paid any price they asked. He immediately came back and told me to put it back in the box and wait until he put in the racks. It’s amazing how I can remember the minute details of this, some 40 years ago, but can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday.

I paid (I think it was $4.99), ran to the car, and started my 47-mile trip home in my white-hot '72 Torino. I think I drove recklessly, I know I drove too fast. I picked up a couple of hitchhikers who wondered why I was driving like a maniac. I got a speeding ticket. I may have been out of my mind.

When the needle hit the vinyl on my Sony Quadrophonic system in my bedroom, I knew the wait was worth it. It seemed as if the opening piano and harmonica of “Thunder Road” said more about my life than anything I had heard since the Liverpool invasion. I played the album over and over that day. Into the next week, throughout the year, and to this day. It seemed like the culmination of everything I liked about rock and roll rolled up into 39 minutes and 22 seconds. There’s no need for me to go into each song; that’s been done ad infinitum by people much smarter than me. But it looked important when I stared at the cover. It felt important when I opened the gatefold. And it sounded more than important when I heard it.

You know, yeah, it did change my life.

During the trip, I mentioned to Jack that it was the anniversary of an important Springsteen album. Although he has seen Bruce twice, he doesn’t quite grasp the significance of it all – yet.

And I am well that Springsteen is so very uncool is this hip-hop world, and is so very uncool to the synth-pop crowd, and so very uncool to the death metal, grunge, hipster crowds and you-name-the-trend crowd. And I am well aware that he is referred to as "Dad-rock."

That's just perfect, as least for me. My kids probably prefer the Beatles at the moment. Grandad-rock if you will.

But they like Springsteen, and he is alright in their eyes.

And that’s all right with me.