All the hard things I found out

The new Springsteen album makes me sad.

I’m sure it’s at least partially because the past and mortality hover over many of the tracks. It’s also because he, in spite of the usual ebullience of the E Street Band, now spends more time looking backward than ahead. And the album's closer, the wonderful “I’ll See You in my Dreams,” sounds like a goodbye – to old friends, bandmates and even his fans.

And while the album overall is quite remarkable, the three oldest songs – “If I Was the Priest,” Janey Needs a Shooter” and Song for Orphans,” are clearly the best things here – and they are nearly 50-years-old. And it reminds me that he’ll very likely never approach that greatness again. These are Dylan-drenched dense throwbacks, newly recorded, and sublime. And to think, he thought they weren’t good enough to release earlier. That’s the mark of a great catalog of songs to choose from. 

And that saddens me to think that his prime – and mine – are long gone. While, of course, he's still hitting some high notes (something I never really did in any respect), his thoughts of mortality call to mind my own – many regrets, poor choices and advancing years.

So I am trying hard to remember those old times, specifically the ones Springsteen-related: My first show in 1975, 117 more shows all over the U.S and even Great Britain, friends that I shared those shows with. Hours upon hours of listening to this music and dreaming. Thinking of the days when Rosie – and me as well – really were jumping a little higher. 

Exposing Jack to this music and getting in his car for a drive, and he immediately cranks up “The Promised Land.”

And, amidst the sadness, I sit back and smile.

The things I had somebody took away

The wildest things we'd ever seen

Odds and Sods.....

I've been listening lately to the vinyl of the best album the E Street Band never made -- Gary U.S. Bonds' "On the Line."

Except they did make it. Bonds is backed by the E Streeters on a remarkably solid set of tunes, seven written by Springsteen himself. And the album's closer, "Last Time" is one of Miami Steve's best efforts. It doesn't quite take me back to Kingsley Avenue in Asbury Park like Southside's "This Time it's for Real," but it does the trick. This was Springsteen at the height of his power, when he could give away songs of this caliber.  An album worth seeking out, vinyl or otherwise.

I've searched all for my life to songs that reflect me, my story. I've posted some of them in this blog. I've attempted to do it myself with my limited musical ability. So I've tried to post them, some in this blog.

But perhaps the best answer is action, you know, speaks louder than words and all that.

I've been thinking about mortality a lot lately. You can't escape it. Wills and the future and what's left behind, if anything. Where does it all end? When does it all end? And does it matter?

I don't see too many new "adult" movies. Tonight I watched "Manchester by the Sea," an unflinching study on profound grief. A grief that can subside but that never disappear.

Sometimes I think that's where I live, the sadness ebbing and flowing. But every day you wake up and it's still there. No pity, as some is self-inflected. But some hasn't been.

The protagonist in "Manchester by the Sea" says that he "can't get past it." For some, it's uphill all the way.

Springsteen was once asked why he keeps going for three hours, night after night, when he could just do a rote 90 minutes, play the hits and get out.

"You can't save everyone," he said. "But you gotta try."

Even if the only person you are trying to save is yourself.

Love on the Wrong Side of Town

'The past is never past. The past is always present." 

Bruce Springsteen

I'm comin' back, back for what's mine"
Little Steven (Miami Steve) Van Zandt

Bringing me back here is release of Little Steven's "Soulfire," a record that harkens back to the glorious sounds of Asbury Park.

My favorite album from that era, Southside Johnny's "This Time's it's for Real," is muddy and drenched in Shore Soul. And it's glorious.

"Soulfire" is an update of those sounds, although with a fresh kick, sonically and otherwise. Of course, covering two gems from that Jukes' album (including the monumental "Some Things Just Don't Change") helps things along material-wise. But it's universally strong, the only flaw is just a bit too much reliance on lyric-repeating backup vocalists.

So, I've gone back to 'This Time," when the world held so much possibility, so much hope.

So long ago.

On this Memorial Day, I am revisiting those days (see my thoughts on the real meaning of Memorial here), while looking to the new chapter about to begin.

"Soulfire" is sort of musical rebirth for Van Zandt. Musically, he didn't need a second chance; his first chance was a home run. With Springsteen, with the Jukes, his solo stuff.

Someone of us need a second chance. But we have to make the conscious decision to go after the opportunity.

All it takes is some guts. May the future have as much clarity as "Soulfire."

Just when I think you're out of my head, I hear a record you played or see a book that you read

Los Angeles, California -
A long way from Hughesville, Pennsylvania

My vinyl has made a reappearance.

This is important in many ways, the least of which is that my relationship with many of these discs has been some of the the longest and most meaningful of any I’ve ever had.

And I hope to pass these on Jack and Ruby, although right now it would only be a physical, and not emotional, transfer. Jack loves to collect things, including old Tonka trucks and Magic cards. But so far, the record disease hasn’t infected him yet. And Ruby is just a bit too young to care, I think.

My original pressings of “Kinda Kinks” and “Meet the Beatles” or my “Darkness at the Edge of Town” picture disc mean very little to them. So far. Jack likes that I have an original Capitol copy of “Help,” which is his all-time favorite album (well, the Parlophone CD is anyway). But in the end, that slab vinyl means very little to him.

But it's precious to me.

I used to say that I could learn everything I need to know about a person by looking at his or her record collection -- long ago times for sure.

But every album on my shelf has a story – memories that can be happy, heartbreaking or those of coming of age. Or reminders of mistakes, loss and triumphs. Listening to my quadrophonic copy of Poco’s “Deliverin'” that I played for hours with the four speakers trying in vain to hear the “quad” difference. Hearing the greatness that is “Rubber Soul,” my first Beatles album. Getting Monkees albums and staring at the photos on the jackets for hours. Listening to “Dark Side of the Moon” over and over and wondering what the fuss was about. Reading “White Album” and “Born to Run” lyrics like scripture – which they were to me. The first record I got after my mom died -- "McCartney" -- and hoping that the album could fill the emptiness. Nice try, but no.

I’m writing this while listening to Jackson Browne’s “Saturate before Using,” a reminder of dipping my toes into the singer-songwriter waters and trying to discover my sensitive side to show off to all the girls. Not many girls in Lycoming County knew about Jackson Browne in 1972, though.

I learned something about myself through this music. Dealing with my mom being gone, I retreated deeply into these records, and my dad felt sorry for me; indulging me and giving me money to buy what I wanted. He may have hated 99 and a ½ percent of what I listened to, but he played a huge role in the development of my musical knowledge.

On to “Schoolboys in Disgrace.” A so-so record that still takes me back.

Thanks Dad.

We're livin' in the future, and none of this happened yet

Been very remiss in writing for awhile, and I need to remedy that.

Because when my kids read this many years from now, they'll wonder what I thought about certain pivot issues.

To wit:

• Springsteen and HB2 (N.C. discriminatory bill)
• The new Teenage Fanclub album
• My upcoming trip to NYC see Teenage Fanclub
• Donald Trump
• The new Springsteen autobio
• The resurrection of my vinyl collection
• My thoughts on various other sundry topics, many of which will only matter to me, unfortunately.

Of course, they may not care, but I'm going to give it to them anyway. 

Maybe someday.

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.

Man, the dope's that there's still hope

New York Daily News
Oct, 12, 1980

The kids and I were looking through a box of odds and ends recently, and we came upon a copy of this quickly yellowing newspaper.

Pack rat that I tend to be, I saved a Daily News with a review of "The River." Jack had no interest in that, but was fascinated by a couple of USSR-related articles ("wow -- reading about the Cold War as it was happening!").

He was also interested in the Mideast article at right, commenting that the headline, if not the whole piece, is something that could be pulled from the news today.

He asked me why, and I, of course, had no answer. I did try to explain how complicated it all is and tell him that the article could have even older than 34 years and the principles and issues would still be largely unchanged.

Jack really loves history; I am hoping that in 34 more years he will not be still be reading articles of a similar nature.

But I fear that he will.

By the way, "The River" review was positive.

You can say what you wanna, but ain't nothin' gonna change my mind

Saw Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes over the weekend, in one of their rare forays into the South. (South goes South, as it were...)

No original Jukes remain, with Mr. Lyon carrying the torch from the Jersey Shore.

The show had it high points, but was endearingly sloppy. Southside at one point said to the crowd: "We're making it up as we go along."

There were several moments when that seemed true, for sure.

Still, any show that contains this is worth getting off your couch for:

I dearly love this song, so I will post this as well, if only for the staggering energy:

When I lost you honey, sometimes I think I lost my guts too

Behold, the best cover of a Springsteen song to date.

Exemplary work, all around.

Wash these sins off our hands....

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

- The closing sentence of “The Great Gatsby”

Jack and I went to a Springsteen concert in Charlotte near the end of April. We ate barbecue in Lexington on the way there, took light rail to the show, and had great pre-concert burgers at a little joint down the street from the arena. He told the waitress that it was the best burger in the world.

And then the fun began.

Me in my too-big jacket, and Jack, in his shirt that fits just right

We had seats side stage, only about a dozen rows from the action. Jack was enthralled – he sang along, he danced (!), all while wearing his dad’s vintage River-tour t-shirt that doesn’t fit the old man anymore.

The set list was eclectic, one of the best of the tour, with many highlights.

But none ranked higher for me than “Racing in the Street,” a song that deals with growing up and realizing that childhood dreams wash away and adult realities bring difficult choices and sometimes harsh consequences. As I grow older, that resonates more and more with me.

How could I have imagined on that night at the Spectrum in 1978 hearing "Racing" for the first time that 36 years later I would hear it again with my own son, and subsequently develop an even deeper appreciation of this gem.

A son, who at almost 11 and just beginning to work on his dreams, certainly couldn’t grasp the depth of the song, much as I couldn’t on that May night so many years ago.

No matter. Someday, he will, and it will undoubtedly be a live version with that marvelous outro – Roy Bittan’s piano, ringing guitars and crescendo after crescendo of tension and tremendous beauty, crashing over and over again like waves crashing on the rocks – that will bring it all back home for him.

And perhaps it will remind him, as it does me, of how time forever goes on, and the past becomes new, all over again.

I am the hunter of invisible game

Upon the release of “Tunnel of Love” in October 1987, I wrote a very lukewarm review of the record for the UNC weekly newspaper. I felt it was too introspective and the themes too adult for someone who really wasn’t ready to grow-up – me.

As time passed, my maturity grew and my experiences widened, and it was just those themes that resonated with me, making it an essential and vital recording. To this day, I think that album is the finest rock and roll example of what it means to be a grown up and struggle in adult relationships.

So, I am wondering if I will grow in my appreciation for “High Hopes,” Springsteen’s new album, which somehow was released two weeks early by Amazon on its mobile site for a few hours yesterday. I was in the right place at the right time, and grabbed it.

This collection of a couple of covers, a re-record and a handful of leftovers is not one I had high hopes for. And for the most part, it meets those not-lofty expectations.

For starters, there is no need for a studio electric “Ghost of Tom Joad.” Despair works better than anger for this song’s theme, and the whole affair comes off as overblown, despite and because of Tom Morello's guitar work. The covers are well done, but pointless, and while it’s nice to have a studio version of “American Skin,” there is nothing there that will make me want to go back to listen to this rather than a live version.

That leaves us with the “new” songs. “Down in the Hole” is told from the perspective of a loved one left behind in the wake of 9-11 and is a musical rewrite of “I’m on Fire” Ghostly effects and a children's choir make this somewhat interesting but it's a topic he ultimately tackled much better on "The Rising." “Frankie Fell in Love” is catchy, but mostly unremarkable other than the fact that Springsteen equates himself and Steve van Zandt with Einstein and Shakespeare. “Heaven’s Wall” is an attempt at gospel, but comes off as generic and repetitive (and not infectiously repetitive as found in a lot of the best gospel).

“Harry’s Place” stands as the low point on the album, a 80’s sounding Miami Vice-like track that Glenn Frey would have left in the vault. An added detriment is the addition of F bombs. Crude, coarse, unnecessary, and particularly lazy for an artist with his lyrical gifts.

Much better are “The Wall,” an acoustic remembrance of a hometown musical forebearer killed in Vietnam, and “This is Your Sword.” A mournful trumpet finish adds a taps-like feel to the former, and it is heartfelt and touching. The latter has an Irish feel and is a lilting call to the power of persistence, love and faith.

But the real standout here is “Hunter of Invisible Game,” wherein Springsteen searches (at heart, he is always searching) for something that will redeem his faith. A waltz (!) featuring infectious strings and a nice hook give this a unique and welcome addition to his catalog. Still, it’s not going to place anywhere near the top echelon of Springsteen’s work.

“High Hopes” is his version of The Who’s “Odds and Sods;” a scattered effort with no core and not quite enough substance. These are songs that would have all fit better on "Tracks 2," his next grab bag of songs/ideas/lost arguments that do not fit anywhere else.

In essence, I highly doubt there will a reappraisal of "High Hopes" in the manner of "Tunnel of Love." But Springsteen, at 64, still remains a relevant artist, and there will invariably be high hopes for his next work.

Sometimes you just gotta walk on....

A while back I posted how thrilled I was that New York City Serenade was performed in Rome with a string section.

The version I included was audience shot, and it was good, even great.

But this officially released version is a revelation, and confirms its stupendousness (not a real word, probably, but I don’t care).

It is quite possibly my favorite performance of any song for the last 5 years. Maybe longer.

Good Lord it is magnificent. Words cannot do this justice.

Special mention to the great work of the band, and especially the efforts of Mr. Garry W. Tallent, whose bass playing here is beyond exemplary.

The older you get, the more it means

I've got stuff runnin' around my head, I can't live with or live down

This clip is a prime example of when a live version eclipses the studio version – and in this case, by a staggeringly wide margin.

Springsteen has quite a few examples of these (“Real World” Christic Institute show anyone? More on that in a future post), but none more than this.

Simple, direct and stunning.

Play it Steve

 I found Steve Simels. And that’s a big deal to me.

I don't think he looks like this anymore

Not that he was lost or anything.

Who, you may ask, is Steve Simels?

Maybe not a household word to you, but he played a major role in not only my love and appreciation for rock and roll, but in inspiring me to write about it, even as sporadically as I have done for many years. Simels used to write for “Stereo Review” (among other pubs) back in the day, and I found his opinions to be in concert with mine maybe more than any other critic. In fact, it was his line regarding side two of “The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle” that stated “it’s been giving me goosebumps for weeks.” That was the clincher that convinced me to head out to buy the album. (Yes, I bought Springsteen’s second album before the first – news traveled more slowly to the Badlands of PA).

He was right, and then some. Side two has been giving me goosebumps for nearly 40 years.

But I have not kept up with him; in fact, to my embarrassment I hadn’t even tried, and he fell completely off my radar. Especially since it has seemed to me for years that that serious rock criticism is going the way of the dodo bird (just like rock music itself), and the fact that other responsibilities have meant I don’t religiously pore over every review the way I used to.

While searching for his long lost “Wild and Innocent” review, I found his blog. Which has been in existence for NINE YEARS.

Where in God’s name have I been?

In reading over 15-20 posts, he seems to be the same Steve Simels I remember (I’m sure he would glad to hear that), and I am thankful for that. He has already caused me to give The Shoes yet another listen. Again, he’s probably right.

But I now have literally hundreds of posts to catch up on – not everything on the site has been posted by Simels himself, but overall, it seems to have a cohesive feel to it.

Now, excuse me, but I have some PowerPop to read (and listen to)…..

And some day this boy'll be gone

For me, the Springsteen live experience peaked sometime between '75 and '88. Not that subsequent tours have not been vital or memorable or simply great,. But that energy, that youthfulness, that "at any given moment you might see and hear something you may never happen again," was often harder to come by.

Of course, some of that fault lies with me, or my inflated expectations that I want every show to be '78 at the Capitol Theater in Passaic (I wasn't there but feel like I was due to the hundreds, no thousands, of listenings to the "Piece de Resistance" boot) or the July '81 Spectrum run of five shows in seven nights (I was there, for the whole stand).

A recent moment in Rome, though, takes me back. The rare 'New York City Serenade" with a local string section hits all the right notes. And then some.

Great sound and a staggeringly beautiful performance all around, made even greater by the surprise of it all.

Listen to your junk man; he's singing.

Tomorrow there'll be sunshine and all this darkness past.....

Death paid another visit to my circle this week – an old friend long ravaged by MS finally “slipped the surly bonds of earth,” which are words from his obituary. I hadn’t seen him in quite awhile, but we spent many, many hours together: baseball, rock and roll, and girls.

Almost like a Springsteen song, and we sure listened to plenty of those together.

There are many, many songs to commemorate his life; he loved Dylan, Neil Young and Bruce, among many others.

But one night while we driving around, this came on the radio, and he instantly bonded with it.

RIP Mick, you finally found your way home.

 

A Love So Fine

Saw “20 Feet From Stardom” yesterday, which was notable for two reasons: 1) it was the first grown-up movie I have seen in about 11 years in a theater, and 2) it was outstanding, hitting all the right notes on the challenges and triumphs of those who so often stand and sing from the shadows. I especially liked the background on Merry Clayton’s “Gimme Shelter” performance with the Rolling Stones, which stands as one of the greatest records and performances ever. And any Darlene Love is welcome. I was fortunate enough to see her do one of her annual Christmas appearances on the Letterman Show in the late 90s – what a powerhouse.

Love’s appearance has also reminded me of the brilliance of the best Spector records. He called them “little symphonies for the kids,” and while not every one went off the charts artistically, the best are monuments to the beauty and potential of pop music. “Da Doo Run Run,” “River Deep, Mountain High,” “Be My Baby,” “Black Pearl'" "A Fine Fine Boy" (below).

I am including the original as well as a 2009 version because I am amazed how the E St. Band was able to approximate the Wall of Sound. So close, in fact, I wonder if there was some studio trickery involved? Perhaps it is more an indication of how Phil Spector laid the foundation for the that classic E St. sound: the dense instrumentation, the horns, and the glockenspiel. Not to mention the passion.

And I still marvel at the vibrancy, the joy and the youthfulness in this music. Like Motown, this was also the Sound of Young America.

Whatever the Sound of Young America is today, I’m fairly certain it's not this brilliant.

With a love so hard and filled with defeat

I have no idea what a “soft-infested summer” is.

No matter.


Darkness to a Dream
Photograph by Danny Clinch

Whenever I hear the opening lines (or even the devastatingly beautiful keyboard intro, influenced by Dylan but forever married to the Jersey Shore) to “Backstreets,” I am forever back in the summer of the mid-to-late 70s, dreaming and getting lost in the mysteries and promise of the world that existed outside of my sleepy little town.

Yes, the song is about lost love, lies, hurt, anger, memories, regrets and escape.

But I hear so much more; a world that carried that one moment when you lock eyes with the one girl, the one dream, the one instant when it all might come true.

The possibilities. Redemption.



I still hear echoes. And dreamers. And thoughts of tuning the dials of the car radio night after night after night, looking for the great lost note from rock and roll’s past that just might portend your future -- because that one song might understand. Understand the loneliness, understand that time was fleeting but there was still a chance, understand that maybe there was someone else out there that lived inside the same dream that you did. That there was someone who too might understand, and could put their arms around you, take away the hurt, the pain, the confusion, and who knew that maybe things would never be what they should be, but that things could still be all right. Sitting in your room for thousands of hours, dreaming, wondering where and why it all went wrong but knew that all right could still happen. If only, if only, if only. If only you could turn it up a little louder and drown out everything that was real. Hoping that if you listened even harder, maybe you might gather your courage and push yourself to amount to something. Something more, somewhere, somehow. Driving with the windows down and wings open, because there was something out there, and hoping and dreaming that it could be yours. And that you could hold her in your arms all night long.

Of course, you can argue that all of this applies to the entire "Born to Run" album. And you would be correct. But for some reason I hear it all more clearly in "Backstreets:" the sound, the feelings and the emotions it conveys are staggering to me.

I am including a live tour de force of "Backstreets" that is one of his (or anybody else's - talk about a band on a mission) greatest performances, as well as the studio version, which is the one I go home to, time after time.

As for the “soft-infested summer,” I may not be living in one now, but I am fairly sure I am not quite ready to give up looking for it.

Even if I don’t know what it is.

Only fools are alone on a night like this

I can remember how good I felt inside
When the preacher said "Son you may kiss the bride"
But as I leaned over to touch her pretty lips I felt it all slip away through my fingertips
And I'm driving a stolen car through a pitch black night
I keep telling myself everything is gonna be alright
But I ride by night and I travel in fear
No matter what I do, or where I drive
Nobody sees me when I ride by....