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Shades of Springsteen
Shades of Springsteen POLITICS, LOVE, SPORTS, AND MASCULINITY
✧
John Massaro
ru tger s u n i v er sit y pr e ss New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey, and London
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Massaro, John, 1941–author. Title: Shades of Springsteen: politics, love, sports, and masculinity / John Massaro. Description: New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020043439 | ISBN 9781978816169 (paperback) | ISBN 9781978816176 (cloth) | ISBN 9781978816183 (epub) | ISBN 9781978816190 (mobi) | ISBN 9781978816206 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Springsteen, Bruce—Criticism and interpretation. | Rock music— Political aspects—United States. Classification: LCC ML420.S77 M368 2021 | DDC 782.42166092 [B]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.l oc.gov/2020043439 A British Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Copyright © 2021 by John Massaro All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. www.rutgersuniversitypress.org Manufactured in the United States of America
“I work to be an ancestor. I hope my summation w ill be written by my sons and daughters, with our family’s help, and their sons and daughters with their guidance.” —Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run (2016a, 503) To my descendants: Kyler Massaro (24) Kobi Massaro (21) Grady Massaro Roy (15) Eli Massaro Roy (14) Jasper Massaro Roy (9) Marlo Harry Massaro (6) Remi John Massaro (4) and beyond . . . —John Massaro, December 1, 2019
CONTENTS
Preface and Acknowledgments
xi
Introduction
1
1 Springsteen’s Biography
8
2 Springsteen and Politics
39 39 41 66 68 71 73
Teaching with Springsteen Essay 1. Teaching Politics (and More) with Bruce Springsteen Springsteen and Patriotism Essay 2. “Born in the U.S.A.” and Patriotism Essay 3. “But Was It Right?” Studying Springsteen Essay 4. Image and Reality: A Review of Springsteen’s Autobiography Born to Run Essay 5. A Note on the State of Springsteen Scholarship Springsteen, Class, and Depression Essay 6. Springsteen and Depression Essay 7. Straddling Class and Demons Essay 8. “Used Cars” and the Hidden Injuries of Class Essay 9. Wrecking Ball and Class Warfare? Essay 10. Why I Am a Democratic Socialist and Springsteen Isn’t—Yet Springsteen and Race Essay 11. Racism and “American Skin (41 Shots)” Conclusion
3 Springsteen, Love, and Relationships
74 79 83 83 86 97 101 107 119 120 124 126
Essay 12. A Fitzgerald/Springsteen Pastiche: “Gatsby”
126 134
Down the Jersey Shore Springsteen, Fathers, and Sons
vii
viii ✧ Contents
Essay 13. Springsteen to Springsteen: Speaking of Love Essay 14. Flying
135 138
Essay 15. Pakistani Son, Pakistani Father: An Updated Review of Sarfraz Manzoor’s Greetings from Bury Park: Race, Religion, and Rock ’n’ Roll Compassion and Understanding in Love (and Even in Politics) Essay 16. “Scumbag Bobby” and Springsteen’s “Spare Parts” Essay 17. The Nixon in All of Us Springsteen and Tunnel of Love Essay 18. Springsteen on Relationships in Tunnel of Love Essay 19. Bravery and Honesty in Patti Scialfa’s Rumble Doll Album The Sacred and the Profane
140 146 147 151 154 155 163 165
Essay 20. The Sacred and the Profane: Springsteen, Caravaggio, “Earth Angel,” and “Reno”
166
Essay 21. The Sacred and the Profane? The Love of a Daughter and George Carlin’s “Seven Dirty Words”
174
Essay 22. The Good News according to Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band Essay 23. Springsteen and Apocalypse Sex Conclusion
4 Springsteen, Synchronization, Sports, and Masculinity “Glory Days” Essay 24. Springsteen’s “Glory Days” and Synchronization Essay 25. Synchronizing with Springsteen Essay 26. “Glory Days” and Uncle Phil Two More “Boring Stories” of “Glory Days” Essay 27. Replay Essay 28. The Stuff of Life Springsteen and Fatherhood Essay 29. Fatherhood: From a Different Perspective The Traditional Model of Masculinity Essay 30. The Traditional Model of Masculinity and Me Essay 31. Bruce Springsteen and the Traditional Model of Masculinity Grandpa Bruce? Essay 32. Man to Man in Maine Conclusion
177 179 182 184 184 184 187 190 191 192 194 195 196 200 201 212 221 222 223
Contents ✧ ix
5 Loose Ends
225
Essay 33. Why Write? Some Answers Provided by Bruce Springsteen, Roger Rosenblatt, Lin-Manuel Miranda, and Alexander Hamilton Essay 34. Concluding Statement
226 231
References 235 Index 247 About the Author 255
PREFACE A N D ACK NOW LE DGM ENTS
In 1986, when I was forty-five years old, unemployed, and depressed, my sister Jeanne Massaro gave me a gift of the a lbum Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band Live/1975–85. Fortunately, with the assistance of friends, family, mental help professionals, and Springsteen, I recovered from that depressive episode. In the process, I became a Springsteen fan and researcher. Although my connection to Springsteen did not on its own save my life at that critical time, it did help. Years later, I began teaching the course, “Walk Tall: Politics, Beauty, and Meaning in the Lyrics of Bruce Springsteen” at the State University of New York (SUNY) Potsdam. I taught that course many times before my retirement and move to Wells, Maine, in 2009. I have since offered various presentat ions on Springsteen for general audiences and most recently at Sapienza University of Rome. Connecting with Springsteen has been a seminal event in my life. That connection opened me more fully not only to Springsteen’s world but also to my own surroundings. I started seeing many connections between the Jersey rocker’s music and my own life. Indeed, I began experiencing rich and enriching connections to Springsteen as well as to so many o thers—whether renowned artists or ordinary people. Springsteen’s influence alone did not shape my enhanced vision of the life around me but it did help. That vision moved me to want to understand Springsteen’s stories and the accounts of others. And that same vision has led me to want to tell my own story. In Shades of Springsteen, I do that with an awareness, nurtured in part by Springsteen, that in telling my story I am connecting with o thers and also telling a larger story, our story. In doing so, I am reminded of the ancient Native American saying: “It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story.” I know this book will not determine your life’s course but my hope is that it will help. xi
xii ✧ Shades of Springsteen
At the moment, May 2020 amid the isolating COVID-19 pandemic, I remain aware of the irony of writing a book stressing the need for connection at a time when physical connection has been severely restricted. Still, the pandemic and its wave of isolation amid the current and prevailing political, racial, and social polarization remind us even more of our need for h uman contact. Connecting by writing about our shared stories can never adequately substitute for human and humane contact but my hope is that it can help fill that void for now. It is fitting that in a book focused on h uman connection, I have so eople to acknowledge for having played a meaningful role in my many p life and in the preparation of this book. My fear is that in any listing of specific names I might inadvertently overlook some who should also be included. Permit me then a general acknowledgment of students, friends and colleagues at Assumption College, Southern Illinois University at Carbondale, Nasson College in Springvale, Maine, and SUNY Potsdam as well as friends I have been blessed with in retirement in the Wells, Maine, community. I am immensely indebted to four individuals who have read, corrected, and always improved the manuscript at various stages of development. Thank you Norma Johnsen, George McNally, Summer Massaro Roy, and M Kimberlin Massaro. Despite what I perceive as our collective understanding that we are all responsible for each other, I do, of course, relieve you of that burden in regard to any errors and misinterpretations still present in the book. For always loving and supporting me, I must also recognize my mother, Irene Cirelli Massaro; f ather, Palmo Massaro; brother Frank Massaro and his spouse Valerie Kelly Massaro; my s ister, Jeanne Massaro and, of course, Franky and Johnny. A special nod of appreciation and affection to my children and their spouses: John-Paul Massaro and Karen Saenz Massaro; Bruce Roy and Summer Massaro Roy; and Aries X Massaro and Colleen Hard Massaro. Additionally, I want to recognize all my nieces and nephews as well as my g rand nieces and g rand nephews for being a part of our story and continuing to tell it. I would also like to thank Bruce Springsteen for all the joy, hope, and understanding as well as for all the beautiful and meaningful art he has
Preface and Acknowle dgments ✧ xiii
brought into the world. In dealings with Springsteen through his legal representative, Mona Okada, I trust I have in good faith lived up to my promise to adhere to the fair-use guidelines of copyright. In that regard, I remain an academic, publishing a book with an academic press that seeks to educate the general public and to further elucidate and advance knowledge of the work, life, and legacy of Bruce Springsteen. I also want to thank Sally Potter for her kind permission to quote material from her brilliantly creative film YES and Christopher Phillips, the publisher and editor of Backstreets: The Boss Magazine since 1980, for allowing me to use and update material I originally included in my review for Backstreets of Sarfraz Manzoor’s Greetings from Bury Park: Race, Religion, Rock ’n’ Roll. I must also thank the many patient and professional people with whom I have worked with through Rutgers University Press including Peter Mickulas, Vincent Nordhaus, and Michelle Witkowski. Kudos to Mark Wyville for the dramatic and beautiful photograph that highlights the book’s cover. And a special shout out to the organizers of and participants at the many inspiring Springsteen Symposiums I have attended. Thanks also to the prolific and kind Kenneth Womack who supported this book in its infancy. Lastly, always, and for over fifty-four years I must acknowledge the sweet and fortunate fact that I have been blessed with Kim—my spouse, friend, and rock. March, 2021
Shades of Springsteen
Introduction
✧
Connection. It’s all about connection. In 1910 the novelist-humanist E. M. Forster included on the title page of his classic work Howards End the profoundly simple statement, “Only connect” (Forster 2000). Almost three generations later, a forty-year-old musician-humanist, Bruce Springsteen, also had something to say about connecting. In 1989 Springsteen looked back on a song he had written as a twenty-four- year-old. This iconic song, “Born to Run” (1975), Springsteen’s seminal anthem of youthful angst and escapism, held new meaning for him at that time. He told the audience, “I realized that in the end individual freedom when it’s not connected to some sort of community ends up feeling pretty meaningless . . . so I guess that guy and that girl w ere out there looking for connection . . . and I guess that’s what I am doing here tonight” (Springsteen 1988). Springsteen guessed, but only guessed, that what he and the youthful c ouple of the song w ere seeking in their lives was not at all an escape but rather a connection. Having turned seventy on September 23, 2019, an older and wiser Springsteen now knows well that his “Born to Run” protagonists and he were not so much running away from but rather toward something they could not then completely comprehend. Like all of us, they were and still are seeking a desired and needed connection. Connecting has long been important to Bruce Springsteen. Indeed, connecting has long been 1
2 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
important to all of us. And as I write in isolation while COVID-19 ravages the world and we are paradoxically urged to stay close by remaining apart, the universal need for h uman connection becomes profoundly evident. We all must connect in some way. A connection can be defined, however incompletely, as a relationship in which a person is linked with another. An ideal connection is never a static one-way path linking, for example, a musician to people in the audience. At best, a connection is a vibrant, active avenue linking audience members to the musician and to each other, enriching all participants. A worthy connection implies an active, mutual relationship and exchange among the people so linked. In writing about rock music in general and Bruce Springsteen specifically, the professor of Eng lish, film studies, and American studies Marc Dolan has aptly noted the nature of the mutually beneficial connection that can exist between a performer and the audience. “When rock works, whether live or recorded, a performer connects with an audience and they meet in that vital present, that Now. Sometimes, against all odds, the performer can even connect meaningfully with a fairly broad audience. A remarkable performer can shape the audience’s perception, and together they can be s haped by and even shape the moment itself” (Dolan 2012, 442–443). This creative interchange between the artist and the viewer, the writer and the reader, the musician and the listener, has also been attested to by the novelist and essayist Alain de Botton. In assessing the prolific and gifted writer Marcel Proust, de Botton reports Proust’s view that “every reader is, while he is reading, the reader of his own self. The writer’s work is merely a kind of an optical instrument which he offers to the reader to enable him to discern what, without this book, he would perhaps never have experienced in himself” (de Botton 1997, 25). There are two important caveats regarding the connections I present in the following pages. The first is drawn from what Proust via de Botton suggests above. The connections between an artist and others experiencing the art might not and need not be evident to all who experience the work. Any connection whether or not grasped immediately by others can, nonetheless, be a meaningful one. This is evident in Proust’s observation that the work is merely a kind of an optical instrument that the writer “offers to the reader to enable him to discern what, without
Introduction ✧ 3
this book, he would perhaps never have experienced in himself.” While I am confident that most of the connections presented in this book w ill readily be shared by many o thers, this might not always be immediately evident. I only ask that in t hese instances the reader allows me the chance to present the details of the connections I have experienced through Springsteen’s music. A second caveat relates to the dimensions and the range of the connections I make. I want to connect Springsteen’s music not just to my life but to a larger world. I want to demonstrate that Springsteen’s art of making rock and popular m usic, a genre often unfairly considered inferior, can echo and reinforce ideas, themes, and sentiments found in the more lofty, classical realm and lead to a further enriching of those exposed to both cultural levels. usic I am always reminded of this interconnected popular/classical m phenomenon when I reflect on how, for me, popular culture often serves as a delightfully surprising gateway to what many would see as a more learned, more sophisticated world. Many examples of this will appear in the following pages but three should suffice for now. First, several intriguing coincidences connecting Springsteen and me have in turn led me to the work of the renowned Swiss psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Carl Jung. This link between supposedly low-brow rock music and the lofty Jungian world is discussed in chapter 4. Second, I was delighted to learn that a little known song, the heartbreaking “Same Old Lang Syne,” written and performed by the late soft-rocker Dan Fogelberg had a classical m usic genesis. Fogelberg has noted that he based the s imple but haunting melody of the song on a flourish, a riff in the modern vernacular on Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s “The 1812 Overture” (Fogelberg 1987). And third, my popular culture love of “Beyond the Sea” by the crooner Bobby Darin (1958) delightfully led me back to the Charles Trenet-composed French classic “La Mer” (1956) that comprises the original melody of the Darin hit. Even more delightfully, Trenet’s version linked me later to the great Edith Piaf’s rendition of the song as well as to a moving jazz version by the guitarist Django Reinhardt (Rutledge 2016). My awareness of t hese connections has enabled me to more richly enjoy and appreciate the artistry and accomplishments of Fogelberg and Tchaikovsky; Darin, Trenet, Reinhardt, and Piaf; and Springsteen and Jung.
4 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
I remain infinitely grateful to Bruce Springsteen for helping to legitimize the writing I do in the specific area of rock music and the general field of popular culture. When I was turned on to Springsteen’s music in my mid-forties, his work became a modern-day popular culture canon through which I could assess my life and draw inspiration. Following Bob Dylan and others, Springsteen has contributed to elevating rock music by emphasizing its seriousness of purpose beyond the driving beat; the defensive self-conscious, self-reflective theme of rock itself; and the enduring but hardly original motifs of young love found or lost. In this regard, I stand with one of Ireland’s best-k nown writers, Dermot Bolger, who likewise found inspiration in Springsteen’s often s imple but profound blue-collar lyrics. Bolger notes that Springsteen’s songs “helped me to an understanding that my world of Dublin factories and working- class estates was as much the source of literature as Greek mythology or the dreary snobbish Bloomsbury set” (Bolger 2019, 215). The Bloomsbury group was a small, informal association of accomplished English writers, philosophers, artists, and intellectuals who lived and worked in the Bloomsbury district of London, the area around the British Museum, in the years between 1907 and 1930. Although the connections highlighted in the following pages are generally between Springsteen and me, they involve many others including my family, friends, and colleagues. Also included are many more- celebrated personalities. Fittingly, these more-notable personalities are from a wide range of the cultural spectrum, ranging from the classical to the popular. The better known among t hese diverse voices include Thomas Aquinas and Meatloaf, Richard Nixon and Mao Tse-tung, Alexander Hamilton and George Carlin, Patti Scialfa and F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce and the Penguins, Erik Erikson and Phil Jackson, Caravaggio and Carl Jung, William Styron and Stephen Dedalus, Roger Rosenblatt and Sally Potter, Jack Newfield and Kahlil Gibran, Ronald Reagan and J. D. Salinger, Sarfraz Manzoor and Irving Howe, Billy Joel and Ta-Nehisi Coates, Mohamed Atta and Lin-Manuel Miranda, and J. Edgar Hoover and Langston Hughes. It is this expansive list of individuals linked in some way to Spring steen and encountered in this book that has contributed to its title, Shades of Springsteen. The term “shades” likely needs some clarification. It is ere as a plural noun denoting t hose instances in which someone used h
Introduction ✧ 5
or something reminds one of another individual or another thing. For example, a child who resembles the female parent or shares certain characteristics with her can be said to have “shades” of his or her mother. My “shades” of Springsteen, if you will, constitute t hose many instances in which Springsteen’s music triggers in my mind other persons or things; or other persons or things bring Springsteen’s music to my mind. Just as Springsteen’s m usic and lyrics connect with many of us and resonate with our lives, they can also move us in response to write and otherwise share memories and narratives of our own. In doing so, we contribute to the continuing exchange not only with Springsteen but also with an ever-expanding group. We “shape the moment.” We connect. Springsteen’s photographer and friend Frank Stefanko has astutely referred to the phenomenon I note h ere as the “ripple effect” of “how one stone, thrown into the w ater, leads to r ipples that spread farther than one can know” (Stefanko 2019, 44). In Shades of Springsteen, I want to share some of my links to Springsteen’s work that have influenced and moved me to tell my story. I suspect many followers of the Jersey rocker’s music have similarly been influenced and moved to tell their stories. Linking Springsteen’s stories to our stories not only helps universalize them but reminds us that we are not alone in the emotions we feel and express. We all have stories to tell and Springsteen rightfully urges us to tell them. He says as much near the end of his 2016 autobiography Born to Run when he offers the hope that his book will “rock your very soul and then pass on, its spirit rendered, to be read, heard, sung and altered by you and your blood, that it might strengthen and help make sense of your story. Go tell it” (Springsteen 2016a, 505). In the following pages I will, indeed, respond to Springsteen’s call to use his work to tell other stories. I was heartened to learn of two recent efforts to do just that. First, a group of playwrights have responded to Springsteen’s call in their book, When the Promise Was Broken: An Anthology of Short Plays Inspired by the Songs of Bruce Springsteen. Fifteen noted playwrights pre sent short plays inspired by Springsteen’s m usic. What struck me was just how aware the playwrights were of their determination to respond to Springsteen’s call and add to the ongoing discussion. In the book’s foreword, Craig Werner speaks directly to this point by urging us to “call
6 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
these plays responses” (Herrington 2018, 1). He notes the contagious fruitful nature of t hese “responses”: “When the artist presents the call to an audience or community, the individual responses become calls of their own, energizing the process that allows a community to make sense of what’s g oing on. That’s the foundation of Springsteen’s concerts, an interaction with the crowd that transforms it from consumers into participants” (1–2). Two Springsteen scholars, Jonathan D. Cohen and June Skinner Sawyers, have recently edited a book in which twenty-five prominent writers have contributed essays addressing a single but expansive question: “Why Springsteen?” Cohen and Sawyers call on these authors to answer that question by responding with their own “personal stories” of their connection to Springsteen and by expressing how he has influenced them (Cohen and Sawyers 2019, 6). Cohen and Sawyers go on to emphasize the concept that lies at the very foundation of Shades of Springsteen. They note that Springsteen is correct in his assessment that “people listen to your m usic not to find out about you but to find out about themselves” (3). And while Cohen and Sawyers generally include the observations of notable professionals reflecting on Springsteen’s music and c areer, they clearly assert that readers can also learn and benefit from the observations and stories shared by fans and other less notable people. That conclusion stems from their unqualified notion that all fans “have the chance to incorporate Springsteen’s songs into their own life in their own way. The power of his music lies in its ability to serve many functions, to provide each of his listeners with what they need” (4). Shades of Springsteen builds on one fan’s observations and stories as well as the connections linking an artist with the audience and the community. I know Springsteen’s body of work has touched me. In that sense, we are already connected. This book w ill document that linkage, but it also aims to extend, enrich, and broaden that relationship. I seek to speak back to Springsteen but also to speak directly to his fans and to all others who might come across this book. I want to relate what Springsteen’s art has meant to me by sharing the thoughts, ideas, and emotions stimulated in me by that art. This book is in essence my “response” to Springsteen’s “call.”
Introduction ✧ 7
I explore several interrelated themes in the following pages. These are usic, politics, love, sports, and masculinity. Similar to Springsteen, m these themes have long played a defining role in my life. While I am not a musician, I have lived my life with a deep appreciation of m usic. I have had a long career as a teacher of politics. I have loved and been loved as a son, brother, husband, parent, grandparent, teacher, and friend. I have lived as an athlete and as a boy/man searching for the ideal essence of manhood. Music, sports, masculinity, politics, and love have shaped me. What I can add to our understanding of these themes, especially politics, love, and masculinity, is hardly ever original. Still in this time of the Trump presidency where the fundamental meaning of t hese themes is seemingly being subjected to significant, even dangerous revision, a reminder of their essential meaning can be beneficial. Shades of Springsteen is not another biography of Springsteen. One can find enjoyment and insights in this book even without being familiar with Springsteen’s life and work. Because it is likely, however, that some readers are not at all familiar with his life and m usic, I have prepared a relatively brief biography of Springsteen. While interested readers are encouraged to read Springsteen’s published autobiography Born to Run (2016a), or one of the many excellent biographies presently available, I believe the biography presented in chapter 1 should suffice for most.
1
Springsteen’s Biography
✧
Bruce Springsteen was born (to crawl and then run?) September 23, 1949, in the working-class town of Freehold in southern New Jersey. He has two younger s isters, Virginia and Pamela. Springsteen’s Irish and Dutch father, Douglas Springsteen, worked sporadically at a rug mill, as a jail guard, and as a cab and bus driver. Douglas Springsteen has been described as an “embittered man” who had few friends (Alterman 1999, 11). While Bruce and his father would develop a love and appreciation of each other in later years, the earlier years w ere hardly pleasant. The elder Springsteen often berated his young son for wasting both his time and his life on music. Bruce has frequently noted, “When I was growing up, there were two t hings that were unpop ular in my house: one was me, the other was my guitar.” Eric Alterman concludes that primarily b ecause of Doug Springsteen, Bruce’s formative years at home w ere “dark and depressing, filled with menacing authority” (Alterman 1999, 11; Springsteen 2016a, 28–29). In stark contrast to his father, Bruce’s Italian m other, Adele (Zerilli) Springsteen, provided him a safe and supportive haven (Springsteen 2016a, 33–37). She has been described as a strong but gentle and loving soul who, as a legal secretary, was the constant hardworking breadwinner in the Springsteen h ousehold. She set a positive example for her son. Bruce claims she was “just like a Superwoman.” It was Adele who interceded when the frequent conflicts between f ather and son reached a 8
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 9
volatile point. And it was Adele who borrowed $60 so that young Bruce could purchase his first real guitar. Alterman notes Bruce’s later reflections on this meaningful event: “It was a very defining moment, standing in front of the music store with somebody who’s going to do everything she can to give you what you needed that day and having faith that you were going to make sense of it” (Alterman 1999, 13–14). There’s a telling line in Springsteen’s “The Wish” (1998), a song honoring his mother that succinctly and accurately appraises Doug and Adele’s influence on their son. If pa’s eyes were windows into a world so deadly and true, You c ouldn’t stop me from lookin’ but you kept me from crawlin’ through, Springsteen’s school days w ere hardly idyllic. He attended both Catholic and public schools. In his youth, he has been described as a “loner,” a “social leper” with a face scarred by acne and a “personality crippled by shyness” (Alterman 1999, 10). He was teased and abused in school both by the nuns and his schoolmates. In third grade, a nun stuffed him into a wastebasket proclaiming that is where he belonged. Alterman reports that when Bruce was in the eighth grade, he was sent down to the first- grade classroom for “wising off.” Springsteen was then: “forced to sit at a desk made for a child a fraction of his size. When he accidently smiled at the nun who forced him into the tiny seat, she turned to one of the students and commanded, ‘Show this young man what we do to people who smile in this classroom.’ To young Bruce’s horror and amazement, ‘This kid, this six-year-old who has no doubt been taught to do this, he comes over to me—him standing up and me sitting in this little desk— and he slams me in the face. I can still feel the sting’ ” (Alterman 1999, 15). Switching from Catholic grade school to high school at public Freehold Regional did l ittle to improve his treatment. One of his teachers suggested to his classmates that for the sake of their own “self-respect,” Bruce should not be allowed to graduate given the indecency of his long hair. Springsteen has noted that at this time, “I didn’t even make it to class clown. I had nowhere near that amount of notoriety. I d idn’t have, like, the flair to be the complete jerk. It was like I d idn’t exist. It was the wall, then me” (Alterman 1999, 16).
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Springsteen did, however, graduate and even attended for a short time Ocean County Community College. He soon left, ending any further commitment he had to formal education. Throughout his troubled school days, the young Springsteen worked diligently honing his musical skills and guitar playing. Music had given him some direction, some self-esteem, and likely saved his life (Springsteen 2016a, 42–43, 48–49). “The first day I can remember looking in a mirror and being able to stand what I was seeing,” Springsteen has stated, “was the day I had a guitar in my hand.” For him, rock music “was the uman race” liberating t hing, the out . . . my connection to the rest of the h (Alterman 1999, 17–18). And while he was attracted to the carefree nature of rock, he was ambitious and wanted to make not just music but great music (Alterman 1999, 19; Marsh 2004, 86). Schooled on the Beatles and Bob Dylan, Springsteen believed even at this time that while rock should be fun it was also capable of conveying serious ideas and that the people who played and listened to it were searching for something. In 1967, when his parents and younger sister moved to California, the then eighteen-year-old Springsteen stayed behind, moved to Asbury Park, New Jersey, and continued his apprenticeship with various Jersey bands. Once upscale, Asbury Park had fallen on hard times but still featured access to a local bar scene where struggling musicians like Springsteen could sharpen their skills and eke out a living. Springsteen soon became a notable presence at Asbury Park’s hottest bar at that time, the Upstage. His skills became so recognized and admired by the many other musicians who grooved after hours at the Upstage that they began calling him, “The Boss.” That name has, of course, stuck with Springsteen, even though he reportedly dislikes it, sensing it disregards his ties to the working class (Alterman 1999, 25–26; Carlin 2012, x). Springsteen has testified to the confidence and joy that performing m usic with his guitar provided him at this critical time, noting, “Before long, I began to feel the empowerment the instrument and my work were bringing me, I had a secret . . . there was something I could do, something I might be good at” (Springsteen 2016a, 66). The young Springsteen played with a series of bands including the Castiles, Steel Mill, Dr. Zoom and the Sonic Boom, and the Bruce Springsteen Band, which later morphed into today’s Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Th ese bands performed in an eclectic assortment of
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 11
venues including local swim clubs, school dances, Elks Clubs, the Roller- Dome, Sing Sing Prison, Asbury Park’s the Student Prince, and the local insane asylum, but also at the more prestigious Café Wha? in Greenwich Village. As originally constituted, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band included Springsteen, Steve Van Zandt, Danny Federici, “Mad Dog” Vini Lopez, Garry W. Tallent, and David Sancious (Alterman 1999, 22–28). The Bruce Springsteen Band eventually became the house band at the Upstage, playing t here every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night over eople. Alterman notes that at this time, filling the club’s capacity of 180 p 1971, “The Bruce Springsteen Band” stood “among the greatest anonymous, unrecorded bands in the history of pop music” (1999, 28). That was about to change. In 1972 Springsteen signed a contract, reportedly on the hood of a car, making Mike Appel his manager and giving Appel a share in any future success (Springsteen 2016a, 168–169). In signing with Appel, the young and naive Springsteen believed that anything was better than what was happening at this time. Future events would prove some of this assessment wrong as the contract Springsteen signed with Appel would come back to both haunt and hurt him. That contract not only afforded Appel an exorbitant percentage of Springsteen’s earnings but also, and even more critically, denied the Jersey rocker, who had no experience in business, the one treasure for which he cared most: ownership of his songs (Alterman 1999, 34–35). Appel, nonetheless, worked tirelessly to promote Springsteen, even reportedly mortgaging his own home to sustain the rocker’s c areer. In May 1972, Appel secured an audition for Springsteen with the legendary producer John Hammond of Columbia Records. Hammond had discovered or played a key role in advancing the careers of Bessie Smith, Aretha Franklin, Leonard Cohen, Pete Seeger, and Bob Dylan. Spring steen so impressed Hammond that Columbia worked out an agreement with Appel that gave the recording g iant exclusive access to Springsteen. Alterman notes that according to the Appel–Columbia Records agreement, Springsteen “would make a total of ten a lbums, and Appel’s com pany which he then owned with his partner, Jim Cretecos, would receive a lion’s share of all profits.” The CBS lawyer who drew up this contract, Alterman reports, “called the Springsteen–Appel partnership deal ‘a
12 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
slave contract’ and promised Appel that ‘your artist—if he makes it—is going to hate you’ ” (Alterman 1999, 39). Springsteen’s first album for Columbia, Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J., released in January 1973, made l ittle impact, although Springsteen learned much about the differences between live performance and studio recording (Springsteen 2016a, 176–178). The second a lbum, The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle, released later that same year also met with little commercial success even while winning the praise of some critics. Th ese two commercially underwhelming attempts raised hether Columbia would even give Springsteen a third the issue of w chance (Springsteen 2016a, 194–195). What sustained him at this disappointing time were the fans who flocked to his concerts where, at least in Alterman’s view, he may already have developed into rock ’n’ roll music’s greatest performer (Alterman 1999, 49). On May 9, 1974, at a small theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Jon Landau, perhaps the most influential rock critic writing at that time, saw Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band perform an unrecorded song, “Born to Run.” Landau was blown away by the performance. Writing a review later published in the May 22, 1974, edition of Boston’s the Real Paper, Landau unabashedly included a statement, often misquoted, that has underscored Springsteen’s c areer ever since. Landau wrote, “I saw rock and roll future and its name is Bruce Springsteen” (Carlin 2012, 180; Lifton 2014; J. Marsh 2004, 115). Landau’s review and the growing fan-to-fan acclaim of Springsteen and E Street’s concert performances driven by the still unrecorded “Born to Run” prompted Columbia to push for a third a lbum (Springsteen 2016a, 202–203). In 1975 several changes in the E Street Band membership occurred. The multitalented keyboardist and guitarist David Sancious and the drummer Vini Lopez departed to be replaced by Roy Bittan and Max Weinberg, respectively. Steve Van Zandt rejoined the band. Reconstituted, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band continued to draw raving crowds to its concerts even without having a widely recognized a lbum to its credit. Springsteen notes in his autobiography that at this time he wanted not just to make music but to make essential m usic. Influenced by Bob Dylan and other serious musical artists, he committed himself to writing music
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 13
through which “a true, unaltered, uncompromised vision could be broadcast to millions, changing minds, enlivening spirits, bringing red blood to the anemic American popular landscape and delivering a warning, a challenge that could become an essential part of the American conversation” (Springsteen 2016a, 184). In that spirit, he wanted to make “the greatest rock ’n’ roll record of all time” (quoted in Alterman 1999, 60). He clearly approached, or even met, that standard with the release of the Born to Run a lbum on August 25, 1975. While Mike Appel continued to be Springsteen’s agent and gained the largest share of Born to Run’s monetary success, Jon Landau had become involved in shaping the album over Appel’s objections. This would eventually create irreparable friction in the Springsteen camp. For the moment, Springsteen and the band celebrated the sensational success of this a lbum. The famed rock critic Greil Marcus proclaimed that Born to Run is “a magnificent a lbum that pays off e very bet ever placed on him [Springsteen].” He classically described the a lbum as “a 57-Chevy running on melted-down Crystals records” (Alterman 1999, 64). Less classically but no less exalting, the Who’s Pete Townshend pronounced Born to Run, a “fucking triumph” (Alterman 1999, 64). Four of the a lbum’s songs—“Born to Run,” “Thunder Road,” “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out,” and “Jungleland”—have become classics. National Public Radio lists the Born to Run a lbum among the one hundred most impor tant American musical works of all time. Perhaps the definitive sign of Born to Run’s impact in almost instantaneously catapulting Springsteen into super rock star status is his startling appearance on the covers of both Time and Newsweek the same week, October 27, 1975 (Carlin 2012, 206–209; Springsteen 2016a, 223–224). Springsteen cautiously rejoiced in the acclaim. He was gratified but also troubled by his newly found fame. Regarding the simultaneous covers of Time and Newsweek, he protested, “I don’t deserve that. That’s for presidents” (Alterman 1999, 77). Additionally, Springsteen remained wary as to how fame had destroyed so many other rock stars including his idol, Elvis Presley. Shortly before Elvis’s death in 1977, Springsteen and some buddies unsuccessfully tried to sneak into Elvis’s compound in Nashville. Alterman has captured the irony of a newly acclaimed young rock star still starstruck enough to seek out his idol: “The leader
14 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
of the world’s greatest rock ’n’ roll band was nothing more than [a] starstruck twenty-six-year-old kid trying to jump the fence at Graceland to get a glimpse of his hero” (1999, 79). A fter the success of Born to Run, and likely with Elvis’s history in mind, Springsteen reflected on the seemingly inevitable pitfalls of success and fame. He tells us he learned “that unless you are very aggressive, very proactive about what you want, what you’ve created can be co-opted and taken from you, whatever the results. It’s nothing personal. You will simply be stripped bare, for better or worse, at the altar of the great marketing gods, who have a dynamic and an agenda guided by the DNA of commerce” (Springsteen 2016a, 231). Springsteen cautiously pulled back from the lure of fame. He refused to do television appearances, reportedly turning down a million dollars to do a one-hour show. He objected to playing in halls with more than three thousand seats. Reports circulated that his being considered by some as a “one-hit wonder” bothered him significantly. He also feared that too much fame and the requisite financial need to perform in massive arenas would lead to a loss of intimacy with his audience (Alterman 1999, 84–85). And although there was some truth in these reports, the reason for Springsteen’s curious withdrawal at this time and for his not immediately producing another a lbum after the tremendous success of Born to Run lay elsewhere. Appel and Landau, never close, began to clash as Springsteen gravitated more toward Landau. Appel became alarmed that Landau was trying to take Springsteen away from him. Not unexpectedly, the controversial aspects of the contracts Springsteen had signed with Appel resurfaced (Springsteen 2016a, 246–253). U nder the contracts’ provisions, Appel tightly controlled all the money that Columbia Records would give to Springsteen. When Springsteen consulted with Mike Mayer, the attorney Jon Landau recommended, about the nature of his contracts with Appel, the singer fully realized how naive and uninformed he had been. Springsteen notes in his autobiography Mayer’s conclusion that the Appel/Springsteen contracts w ere the worst he had seen since Frankie Lymon’s. Parenthetically, and although the details of Lymon’s contract are not readily available, some insight into the nature of that agreement can be gained from the following. Lymon’s contract reportedly involved his recording company receiving most of the royalties from songs writ-
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 15
ten by Lymon and other members of the group “Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers.” These royalties included the group’s 1956 blockbuster hit, “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” that would go on to yield millions in royalties (Baltimore Sun, 1992; Song facts, n.d.). Springsteen also reported Mayer’s comment that “the Lenape Indians (our Jersey tribe) got a better deal when they sold Manhattan for twenty-four dollars than I would if I w ere held to t hese [original] provisions” (2016a, 248). Alterman also reports an auditor hired by Springsteen concluded that Appel’s professional conduct, however legal, was “slipshod, wasteful and neglectful . . . a classic case of the unconscionable exploitation of an unsophisticated and unrepresented performer by his manager” (Alterman 1999, 85). On July 27, 1976, Springsteen fired Appel and sued him for “fraud and undue influence.” Appel immediately countersued, obtaining a court order restraining Springsteen from recording any future a lbums with anyone but Appel. Rather than record under Appel’s terms, Springsteen chose not to record at all (Marsh 2004, 176–177). Consequently, and much to the financial chagrin of Columbia and the disappointment of Springsteen’s fans, there would be a three-year gap between the 1975 blockbuster Born to Run and his next a lbum. The ugly legal dispute was eventually settled. The legal but notably one-sided and borderline unconscionable nature of the contract clearly led to a settlement that still favored Appel. Appel received $800,000 in cash, a perpetual share of profits from Springsteen’s first three a lbums, a five-year production deal with Columbia, and an additional $425,000 payment from Springsteen for the former manager’s share of Spring steen’s publishing rights. Springsteen gained what he most cherished, the rights to his catalog of songs both past and future and authorization to record with any producer he chose (Alterman 1999, 90; Marsh 2004, 184; Springsteen 2016a, 258). This opened the door to what would become Springsteen’s long-term relationship and friendship with Jon Landau as his manager. Furthermore, Springsteen was awarded the right to a new agreement with Columbia replacing the agreement Appel had signed in his regard (Alterman 1999, 89–90). The greatest nonfinancial result stemming from the bitter contract dispute was its effect on Springsteen’s psyche. His sense of optimism and youthful resiliency so recently displayed as the themes of the Born to Run album abruptly dissolved. He learned that trust is meaningless in the face
16 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
of an authorized legal agreement. And although he became wiser, he also grew less trusting and more cynical. These sentiments would be reflected in the characters on his next a lbum Darkness on the Edge of Town. Springsteen’s development of t hese characters can be traced in large part to his personally sad and draining experience with Appel and the contracts. In describing the genesis of these characters, Springsteen has noted: “I was on new ground and searching for a tone somewhere between Born to Run’s spiritual hopefulness and seventies cynicism. That cynicism was what my characters w ere battling against. I wanted then to feel older, weathered, wiser but not beaten. The sense of daily strug gle increased: hope became a lot harder to come by. That was the feeling I wanted to sustain. I steered away from escapism and placed my people in a community u nder siege” (Springsteen 2016a, 262–263; see also Alterman 1999, 90–91). Interestingly, Springsteen would write a song, “The Promise,” for the Darkness a lbum that also reflected his anguished feelings and his loss of innocence and sense of trust due to the contract dispute. “The Promise” did not, however, appear on the Darkness album, very likely because it resonated so clearly and significantly with the contract issue. Listeners can easily discern Springsteen’s hurt in the song. “The Promise” reflectively references lines drawn from “Thunder Road,” the optimistic ere lead song on the Born to Run a lbum: “Thunder Road, oh baby, you w so right. Thunder Road, there’s something dying down on the highway tonight.” And then Springsteen sings of the hard lessons clearly drawn from the legal dispute: When the promise is broken, you go on living But it steals something from down in your soul. Like when the truth is spoken, it d on’t make no difference, Something in your heart turns cold. (Springsteen 2010, “The Promise”) Springsteen soon followed up the Darkness a lbum with the release of his first double a lbum, The River, in October 1980. The River, produced by Bruce Springsteen, Jon Landau, and Steve Van Zandt, was an eclectic a lbum highlighting not only Springsteen but also the E Street Band. The River came closest to capturing the fun and poignancy, the sound
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 17
and spirit, of a concert performance by Springsteen and the E Street Band. It contains a riveting mixture of hard rock like “I’m a Rocker” and “The Ties That Bind,” a potential defiant anthem or two such as “Ramrod” and “Out in the Street,” mournful Darkness–flavored outtakes like “The River,” “Independence Day,” “Stolen Car,” and “Wreck on the Highway,” and out-and-out novelty songs including “Crush on You” and “Sherry Darling,” the last even including a nagging backseat mother-in-law. As The River tour began in October 1980, the very successful Bruce Springsteen, now thirty-one years old, seemingly became restless and disillusioned by what broad acclaim had brought his way. Signs of this malaise had appeared e arlier. When he had turned thirty in 1979 and performed at the No Nukes concert at Madison Square Garden, he was in a surly mood and behaved in a boorish, macho way that remains a distinct embarrassment to him (Marsh 2004, 218–220; Sandford 1999, 3–4; 170–171). The disturbing incidents at the No Nukes concert will be addressed later in chapter 4, Essay 31, “Bruce Springsteen and the Traditional Model of Masculinity.” Springsteen, at thirty-one and at the start of The River tour, seemed to have it all. He had assumed that once he was f ree a fter the break with Appel, he would be happy. And even as The River reached number one on the Billboard charts, produced a great single hit in “Hungry Heart,” and highlighted a concert by Springsteen and E Street that sold out the 18,000 seats at Madison Square Garden for sixteen nights, Alterman reports that at the close of the tour, Springsteen was “depressed and dispirited” (1999, 128). Springsteen has since confirmed this assessment by describing himself after The River tour as “a guy who was rarely comfortably in his own skin, whatever skin that might be.” His procrastinating about decisions to purchase a car, a home, or a shirt admittedly filled him “with distrust and a bucket load of grief.” He wryly noted that at this time his crippling indecisiveness and self-doubt made him uneasy about himself and convinced him he had “not mastered the s imple principle that to live shy of insanity, to paraphrase Freud, sometimes a cigar needs to be just a cigar” (Springsteen 2016a, 296). One can only speculate here as to what was causing this unexpected downturn. Springsteen can be such a workaholic that otherwise rewarding and fulfilling work can at times provide no real joy. Springsteen
18 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
could embrace and be embraced by his bandmates and fans, but he had no special individual to provide a lasting love, someone with whom to build a family. Turning thirty and beyond can be unsettling even for an acclaimed rock star. His mood swings were also a beginning sign of his own grappling with the m ental depression that had afflicted his f ather (Hainey 2019, 76–77). Additionally, Springsteen likely realized what it seemed he had always suspected—that wealth, fame, and materialism do not guarantee happiness. And finally, one other cause of Springsteen’s malaise might have been that Ronald Reagan, perceived by many as the champion of American acquisitiveness and an uncaring opponent of workers, was inaugurated as president in January 1981. Springsteen retreated to his Colts Neck, New Jersey, home alone and lonely. Not surprisingly, his next a lbum, Nebraska, reflected themes of despair, disconnection, and malaise. Springsteen has aptly described the songs on this a lbum as being the opposite of the rock m usic I’ve been writing. They w ere restrained, still on the surface, with a world of moral ambiguity and unease below. The tension r unning through the m usic’s core was the thin line between stability and that moment when the things that connect you to your world, your job, your family, your friends, the love and grace in your heart, fail you. I wanted the music to feel like a waking dream and to move like poetry. I wanted the blood on the songs to feel destined and fateful. (Springsteen 2016a, 299) fter a failure to satisfactorily record the spare, dark songs proposed for A Nebraska with the E Street Band, Springsteen’s friend Steve Van Zandt encouraged him to release the a lbum as he had originally composed it, alone. Springsteen agreed, wanting “that austere, echoey sound, just the one guitar—one guy telling his story” (Alterman 1999, 129). eople who are so beaten down by Nebraska tells the stories of t hose p the system they either give up all hope or erupt into a violent rage. And so, on bleak Nebraska we meet t hose for whom it would probably never be morning again in Reagan’s America: serial killers, minor mobsters, outlaws, the downtrodden, the unredeemed, the desperate, the hopeless, the underclass.
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 19
Nebraska was released on September 30, 1982, in the midst of an economic recession in the United States and with unemployment at a shocking 11 percent. In Springsteen’s view, the a lbum’s message reflected the scene at least for the seemingly forgotten working class and nonworking underclass in the United States. He tried to answer the question, “What happens to people when they are alienated from their friends and their community and their government and their job?” He would answer by concluding that as these once binding connections are broken, desperate and isolated p eople “start to exist in some void where the basic constraints of society are a joke, then life becomes kind of a joke, and anything can happen” (Alterman 1999, 129; Humphries 1996, 50–51). Despite what some may have thought of Nebraska’s timely message, the a lbum was not well received initially. It sent a message in the United States of Ronald Reagan that many did not want to hear. It became Springsteen’s worst-selling a lbum of the post–Born to Run period. Nevertheless, many fans and critics, including this writer, have come to love and praise this unadorned and once unadored a lbum. It resonates antithetically with the theme of this book, the saving grace of human connection. One of the more accurate observations concerning Nebraska in the context of the Reagan presidency was provided by Rolling Stone. The music magazine’s review noted that Nebraska stood as “a violent, acid- etched portrait of a wounded America that fuels its machinery by consuming its p eople’s dreams” (quoted in White 2014, 110). Springsteen’s next album, the blockbuster Born in the U.S.A., released June 4, 1984, would propel him from star to superstar status. Spring steen decided in preparing Born in the U.S.A. not to shy away from commercialism, publicity, and pop m usic itself. He saw this a lbum as his farthest move to date into the pop mainstream (Springsteen 2016a, 316). In answer to charges that his authenticity and pure rocker integrity would be undermined by what some might see and, indeed, did see as a sellout, Springsteen provided his own justification that again spoke to his need to connect and take risks essential to advancing his artistry. My heroes, from Hank Williams to Frank Sinatra to Bob Dylan, were popular musicians. They had hits. There was value in trying to connect with a large audience. It was a direct way you affected culture. It let you know how powerf ul and durable your m usic
20 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
might be. But it was also risky and forced you to confront your music’s limitations as well as your own. (Springsteen 1998, 167) Among the popular hits on Born in the U.S.A. are the iconic title song as well as “Darlington County,” “I’m on Fire,” “Dancing in the Dark,” and “Glory Days.” Born in the U.S.A. became a rousing success, Columbia’s biggest-selling record to date. Springsteen reached not only his usual fan base but also a much greater audience, which brought him popularity and recognition he had never known. This was success and stardom at the highest level. Some comparison of the worldwide acclaim Born in the U.S.A. brought to Springsteen is provided by the fact that as of 2012 it has sold over 27 million copies. This represented a whopping increase over Springsteen’s other blockbuster a lbum, Born to Run, that had sold only 9 million copies. Alterman has tried to explain how this fantastic recognition and success happened. He ascribes some of it to Springsteen’s willingness to take on a more media-friendly image. The once scrawny, bedraggled Jersey rocker bulked up and became a sex symbol, had his teeth fixed and removed the gold rings from his ear, became better coifed and groomed, and now wore extremely tight Levi jeans. Indeed, a photo close-up of Springsteen’s tight buns decked out in the Levis before a large U.S. flag served as the iconic cover shot on the a lbum. And even h ere, Alterman notes, Born in the U.S.A. was given “the full Annie Leibovitz celebrity treatment.” The aforementioned pop music aspects of this album are also perhaps best epitomized in the controversial video, directed by Brian De Palma, of the a lbum’s “Dancing in the Dark.” In that widely distributed video, a clean-shaven, manikin-like Springsteen does something he has never done before. He lip-synchs the pop song’s rushed, prosaic lyrics (“I need a love reaction”) as he mugs and dances ever so chastely with the young pop princess, Courteney Cox (Alterman 1999, 154–155). Still, as Alterman reminds us, “looks alone do not move units” (155). Despite the a lbum’s lack of a clear unifying theme and some compromises on lyrical material, Born in the U.S.A. was a g reat listen, worthy of all the raves it generated. Born in the U.S.A. marked a major elevation of the esteem in which millions of fans and many rock critics held Bruce Springsteen. Spring steen has written, “Born in the USA changed my life, gave me my largest
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 21
audience, forced me to think harder about the way I presented my music and set me briefly at the center of the pop world” (Springsteen 2016a, 317). Alterman’s assessment at this time of Springsteen’s place in the rock pantheon was anything but a lone voice: Springsteen’s multifaceted achievement at this point in his c areer may be unique in the history of American popular m usic. Elvis was a great singer and charismatic performer; but he was no writer, much less thinker. The same is true of Frank Sinatra. Bob Dylan was a powerful poet with immeasurable influence on the culture of the sixties and early seventies, but his records never sold a fraction of the number racked up by Born in the U.S.A., and much of his later work proved indecipherable. Michael Jackson’s Thriller topped Springsteen on sales alone, but his lyrics seldom had any depth. But Bruce Springsteen was everyt hing at once: a hugely popular performer, a thoughtful poet, and a potent political/cultural force. (Alterman 1999, 153) Leading up to the creation of the Born in the U.S.A. a lbum, Spring steen’s focus appears to have taken another critical turn. He was becoming more and more attuned to the political scene and responsive to it. This belated political awareness had at least several causes. Before the a lbum’s release, Springsteen had met and befriended two politically active Vietnam War veterans whose experiences he has credited with inspiring his writing of “Born in the U.S.A.” The first was Ron Kovic, the author of Born on the Fourth of July, a scathing account of the veteran’s disillusionment with and outright anger at a government that sent him and other young p eople to die, become crippled or psychologically wounded, and then abandoned them. The second was Bobby Muller, founder of the Vietnam Veterans of America. Springsteen not only learned from both t hese men but also spoke out in their behalf and raised funds for their c auses, now his own (Alterman 1999, 166; Sandford 1999, 177). Another factor in Springsteen’s political growth at this time may have been due to the influence of his manager and now close friend Jon Landau. Landau, in effect, encouraged Springsteen to read widely in order to learn more about the social and political culture of the United States (Marsh 2004, 306–307). Springsteen has acknowledged that at this time
22 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
he read and absorbed Henry Steele Commager and Allan Nevins’s A Pocket History of the United States, a progressive, counterestablishment account of the history of the United States (Alterman 1999, 164–165). The Born in the U.S.A. concert tour that began in 1985 was a tremendous success that included 155 shows, and clearly made Springsteen an inescapable icon in American culture. He seemed to have it all or almost so. Despite the acclaim, he felt something was missing and he began to fall into another post-tour funk. Springsteen came to understand that the sense of community he had when he was performing onstage was a feeling that came through his music but not through him as an individual. It seems his obsession with his m usic, although it addressed the need to connect, was a way to avoid the difficulties of the very connections featured in his lyrics. As Alterman notes, therapy would later teach Springsteen that his obsessions with his music and performing “were a form of escape from trying—and failing—to make the human connection he desperately sought” (Alterman 1999, 180). Reflecting on this a fter the Born in the U.S.A. tour, Springsteen concluded, “I wanted something serious. I wanted to get married” (Springsteen 2016a, 331). On May 13, 1985, Springsteen, ready to try a personal and intimate connection, married the former fashion model and aspiring actress Julianne Phillips, whom he had met the year before. Still, almost from the start of his marriage, Springsteen worried about his inability to sustain a long-term relationship. As he forthrightly notes in his autobiography, “I knew I’d never made it past a two-or-three-year period in any of my other relationships. Usually that was when the image of myself, physically and emotionally, would be punctured, and my flaws revealed” (Springsteen 2016a, 332). Given his marriage to Phillips, many anticipated that Springsteen’s next a lbum would be something approaching a love sonnet to his young wife. It was not. On October 9, 1985, Springsteen released his eighth studio a lbum, Tunnel of Love. And although there is a nod to his bride in the a lbum’s robust, feminist-flavored recognition of the need for equality within any intimate relationship, the main message of the album is hardly optimistic. Tunnel of Love primarily underscores the roadblocks and difficulties confronting all relationships and the cold likelihood that many, however promising at the start, will not survive.
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 23
One might have concluded at this time that the nascent Springsteen/ Phillips marriage was not a happy one. U2’s Bono, for one, seemed to have perceived this in the a lbum and somewhat cryptically noted that Springsteen was struggling as a newly married man and had possibly fallen in love with another w oman. Bono astutely described Tunnel of Love as “a remarkable bunch of tunes, where our leader [Springsteen] starts having a go at himself and the hypocrisy of his own heart, before anyone e lse could. But the tabloids could never break news on Bruce Springsteen. Because his fans . . . he had already told us everything in the songs. We knew he was spinning. We could feel him free-falling. But it wasn’t in chaos or entropy. It was in love” (quoted in Alterman 1999, 192). In the a lbum, Springsteen emphasized the uncertainties and ambiguities linked to the responsibilities of a marital relationship he was experiencing at this time. He identified the major, binding theme of the album as the “struggle to uncover who you are and to reach that moment and hold on to it, along with the destructive desire to leave it in ruins” (Springsteen 1998, 191). And in his later autobiography, Springsteen reflected that the Tunnel of Love album, “captured the ambivalence, love and fear brought on by my new life.” Leaving little doubt that married life in general and his in particular was a struggle ambivalently combining both blessings and heartaches, Springsteen added that in marriage: “You walk, now, not just at your partner’s side, but alongside your own mortal self. You fight to hold on to your newfound blessings while confronting your nihilism, your destructive desire to leave it all in ruins. This struggle to uncover who I was and to reach an uneasy peace with time and death itself is at the heart of Tunnel of Love” (Springsteen 2016a, 349). While fans did not flock to the somewhat sedate Tunnel of Love as they had to the rocking Born in the U.S.A., the critics loved its honesty and maturity. Alterman, for one, has come to see Tunnel of Love, as have I, as “a beautiful a lbum, an extraordinary journey into the netherworld of intimate conflict—internal conflict, marital conflict, the conflict between faith and flesh, between love and desire, between the desire to love and the ability to do so” (Alterman 1999, 183). While Springsteen and the E Street Band toured in 1987 to promote Tunnel of Love, imagination yielded to reality. Paparazzi soon published a photo of Springsteen on a balcony in Rome in his jockey shorts snuggling the singer Patti Scialfa, New Jersey born and a member of the
24 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
E Street Band. Phillips and Springsteen split soon a fter in April 1988, and in August 1988, Phillips filed for divorce and ended her three-year marriage to Springsteen (Alterman 1999, 192; Marsh 2004, 657–659; Springsteen 2016a, 350–352). Springsteen subsequently took major if not complete responsibility for the failure of his marriage to Phillips. Addressing this issue in his autobiography, he forthrightly notes: “I dealt with Julie’s and my separation abysmally, insisting it remain a private affair, so we released no press statement, causing furor, pain and ‘scandal’ when the news leaked out. It made a tough thing more heartbreaking than necessary. I deeply cared for Julianne and her family and my poor handling of this is something I regret to this day” (Springsteen 2016a, 351). And adding: Julianne was young, just getting her c areer started, while at thirty- five, I could seem accomplished, reasonably mature and in control, but, inside, I was still emotionally stunted and secretly unavailable. She’s a woman of great discretion and decency and always dealt with me and our problems honestly and in good faith, but in the end, we d idn’t r eally know. I placed her in a terribly difficult position for a young girl and I failed her as a husband and partner. We handled the details as civilly and as graciously as possible, divorced and went on about our lives. (351–352) The divorce ushered in significant changes in Springsteen’s life. He continued his relationship with Scialfa and bought a $14 million Hollywood home they shared. They planned on starting a f amily. On October 18, 1989, Springsteen telephoned the members of the E Street Band and ended his relationship with them (Alterman 1999, 194–197; Springsteen 2016a, 375–376). With Scialfa at his side, he was starting down a new path. These changes also reflected the development of yet another downward swing in Springsteen’s psyche. As he turned forty in 1989, he felt exceedingly lonely and restless and soon confronted a full-blown midlife crisis. With Patti Scialfa’s loving support, Springsteen began seeing a therapist and taking antidepressant medication (Alterman, 1999, 203; Springsteen 2016a, 484–487). He withdrew from the public scene to deal with his mood swings and insecurities.
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Therapy would eventually teach Springsteen that he was terrified of intimacy, in part because he hated making himself vulnerable. Yet he also began to understand one can never truly love another without making oneself vulnerable. Ironically, he came to realize that he was significantly better at writing songs about relationships as in Tunnel of Love than he was at dealing with his own relationships. Because he perceived that his music was decidedly better than he believed himself to be, he asked whether he was a fraud. Most important, he realized that he had to get beyond his fear of failing in a relationship if he wanted to make a relationship work. Patti Scialfa would remain by his side through this and following difficult times (Alterman 1999, 203–205; Springsteen 2016a, 359, 484, 500). Indeed, Springsteen has confided that staying with Patti and confronting the negative thoughts about himself saved him from the abyss. He asked himself at this critical time: “Where the hell do you think y ou’re going? The road? The bar?” I still enjoyed them, but it w asn’t life, I’d been t here thousands of times, seen all they had to offer. What was conceivably going to be different? Was I g oing to get back on that hamster’s wheel of indecision, of lying to myself that it would all never grow old (it already had), and throw away the best t hing, the best woman I’ve ever known? I stayed. It was the sanest decision of my life. (Springsteen 2016a, 358–359) Not surprisingly, Springsteen did not produce an a lbum for almost seven years while this healing of his psyche progressed. He began learning to enjoy life without being a workaholic, to balance his music- driven work ethic with a play ethic. Signals that he was absorbing this message are reflected in his paradoxical but understandable observation: “Two of the best days of my life w ere the day I picked up my guitar and the day I learned how to put it down” (Alterman 1999, 204). And, as he later noted, this message would soon be reinforced by the genuine needs of his three c hildren: For a long time, I’d felt the greatest sin a family member could commit was interrupting me while I was working on a song. I felt
26 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
usic was fleeting and once you let it slip through your hands, it m was gone. Through Patti, I learned that their requests came first and how to stop what I was d oing and listen to them. I came to understand that m usic, a song, will always be there for me. But your children are h ere and gone. (Springsteen 2016a, 392) When Patti Scialfa told Springsteen that she was pregnant with their first child, it constituted a critical, meaningful, and transformative moment that he poignantly recounts in his autobiography: I turned from Patti and looked into the mirror on our closet’s door and felt different. This, this was what I’d feared and longed for, for so long. I felt the frightened part of me make its bid to steal the moment . . . but no . . . not now. Then a lifting light entered me, something that felt so good, I tried to hide it. My back was turned, my face hidden, all was still. Then my mouth, subtly, almost imperceptibly and beyond my control . . . as I caught a splash of red hair over my shoulder in the mirror, a smile slipped out. There, for the eternal moment, with Patti leaning over me, her hair cascading along-side my cheek, her arms around my chest, her belly full against the center of my back . . . we sat . . . t he three of us. Our family. Patti whispered, “I saw you smile.” (Springsteen 2016a, 363) An eternal moment and the start and continuation of an eternal connection. Scialfa and Springsteen’s first son, Evan, was born on July 25, 1990. Later in 1991, Springsteen and Scialfa united in marriage. Two other children followed, Jessica Rae, born December 30, 1991, and Sam Ryan, January 5, 1994. And while Springsteen produced no a lbums between 1985 and 1992, he did do several benefits and became more open to his fans and audiences about his joys and trepidations. In d oing so, he revealed more about his fears and his life-sustaining need of and longing for connection and community. “I’ve always been fighting between feeling really isolated and looking to make some connection or find some community to belong to. I guess that’s why I picked up the guitar” (Alterman 1999, 208). Parenthetically, it is Springsteen’s very invocation of
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 27
the profound importance of connection and community in one’s life that has led to the book you now hold in your hands. On March 31, 1992, Springsteen broke the long drought in album production, releasing both Human Touch and Lucky Town. Th ese represented the first a lbums he recorded without the E Street Band. That omission—a long with the perceived hardrocking grittiness of previous albums that was perceived by some as lacking on both these 1992 a lbums as well as Springsteen generally expressing his newly positive take on love, marriage, and fatherhood—undercut sales even while some critics moderately endorsed the two albums, especially Lucky Town. The albums sold about 1.5 million copies each, constituting half the sales of Tunnel of Love and 10 percent of Born to Run (Alterman 1999, 216). Evidence of the influence of Springsteen’s new outlook on the significance of and need for connections in one’s life surely arose with the birth of his first son, Evan. His song “Living Proof” on the Lucky Town album lovingly expresses this sentiment. Accepting the gift of love while also understanding how it inevitably makes one vulnerable and fearful of losing that love, Springsteen has noted that Evan’s birth gave him a renewed, empowering feeling. He later put it as only a parent can: Making life fills you with humility, balls, arrogance, a mighty manliness, confidence, terror, joy, dread, love, a sense of calm and reckless adventure. Isn’t anything possible now? If we can populate the world, c an’t we create and shape it? Then reality and diapers and formula and sleepless nights and child seats and yellow custard shit and cream cheese vomiting set in. But . . . oh, these are the blessed needs and fluids of my boy and at the end of each headachy, tiring new world of a day, we are exhausted but exalted by new identities, Mom and Pop! (Springsteen 2016a, 368) In the wake of that birth, Douglas Springsteen and his son Bruce began to draw closer to one another and connected as they never had before. Seeing each other as fathers solidified this renewed connection. Springsteen has noted that seeing his Dad with his kids has been “prob ably one of the nicest gifts of my life” (Alterman 1999, 205). Springsteen went on a worldwide tour from mid-1992 to mid-1993, along with his newly constituted band, playing songs from both recent
28 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
a lbums as well as classics he had performed with E Street. The tour was not as commercially or critically successful as past tours, probably due to the lukewarm reception of Human Touch and Lucky Town and the absence of the E Street Band (Springsteen 2016a, 385–386). Springsteen kept busy. He helped produce his spouse Patti Scialfa’s first a lbum Rumble Doll, which was released in 1993. He also wrote and performed the song “Streets of Philadelphia” featured in the director Jonathan Demme’s landmark 1993 film, Philadelphia. Released as a single in 1994, the song was a critical triumph and went on to win the Acad emy Award for Best Original Song as well as four Grammy Awards. In noting how “Streets of Philadelphia” rejuvenated Springsteen’s c areer both critically and commercially, Alterman adds that this song also reflected Springsteen’s growing political understanding and sensitivity. Alterman deftly describes “Streets of Philadelphia” as “the first hit single ever sung by a heterosexual man in the voice of a homosexual one, a voice that draws added power from Springsteen’s former image as a macho man, now traveling ‘a thousand miles just to slip this skin’ ” (1999, 224). At this time, Springsteen began reflecting more on the impression he hoped his music would have on his fans and listeners. These reflections point to his embracing of the central theme of this book, the universal human need for connection. In this vein, Springsteen noted, “I always wanted my m usic to influence the life you were living emotionally, with your f amily, your lover, your wife, and at a certain point your c hildren” (Alterman 1999, 241–242). Alterman adds that Springsteen also proclaimed, “I set out to find an audience that would be a reflection of some i magined community that I had in my head, that lived according to the values in my music and shared a similar set of ideals” (244). In 1995 Springsteen released The Ghost of Tom Joad, his second acoustic a lbum. Reminiscent of the Nebraska a lbum in tone and subject matter, this release focused on the dire state of the working class and the unemployed in the aftermath of the Republican presidencies of Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush and during the neoliberal Democrat Bill Clinton’s tepid time in the White House. Drawing inspiration from John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and Woody Guthrie’s “The Ballad of Tom Joad,” this a lbum’s songs take a contemporary look at homeless people sleeping on grates, male hustlers, drug mules, Mexican migrant workers, unemployed steelworkers, and a South Vietnamese émigré to
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 29
the United States trying to survive as a shrimp boat operator in Galveston, Texas. Springsteen reflected on this 1995 a lbum and somewhat prophetically, yet hopefully, anticipated the continuing difficulties migrants would come to encounter in the f uture presidency of Donald Trump: The Ghost of Tom Joad chronicled the effects of the increasing economic division of the eighties and nineties, the hard times and consequences that befell many of the p eople whose work and sacrifice created America and whose labor is essential to our everyday lives. We are a nation of immigrants and no one knows who’s coming across our borders t oday, whose story might add a significant page to our American story. H ere in the early years of our new century, as at the turn of the last, we are once again at war with our “new Americans.” As in the last, people will come, will suffer hardship and prejudice, will do b attle with the most reactionary forces and hardest hearts of their a dopted home and w ill prove resilient and victorious. (Springsteen 2016a, 403) While only moderately successful, The Ghost of Tom Joad did win a lbum (Alterman 1999, 1997 Grammy for the Best Contemporary Folk A 256). Springsteen began a solo acoustic tour of small halls of less than three thousand seats playing many of the Tom Joad songs and reconstituted favorites from previous a lbums. Notably, he began playing a somber, pared-down reconfiguration of “Born in the U.S.A.,” now clearly conveying its angry indictment of a country that had betrayed its veterans (Springsteen 2016a, 404–405). Springsteen’s father, suffering from severe paranoia amid some sweet moments of lucidity and reconciliation with his son, died on April 26, 1998, in California (Springsteen 2016a, 406–414). F ather and son had solidly reconnected, but Doug Springsteen did not live long enough to see his son inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio, on March 15, 1999 (430–431). Bono’s remarks at the induction ceremony focused on what Springsteen had meant to him and the f uture of the unfailing optimism of rock ’n’ roll. In d oing so, Bono recalled that 1974 was the era of soft-rock and fusion. The Beatles was [sic] gone, Elvis was in Vegas. What was goin’ on? Nothin’ was goin’ on. . . .
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America was staggering when Springsteen appeared. The president just resigned in disgrace, the U.S. had lost its first war. There was going to be no more oil in the ground. The days of cruising and big cars w ere supposed to be over. But Bruce Springsteen’s vision was bigger than a Honda, it was bigger than a Subaru. Bruce made you believe that dreams w ere still out there, but after loss and defeat, they had to be braver, not just bigger. He was singing, “Now you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we a in’t that young anymore,” b ecause it took guts to be romantic now. idn’t mean you d idn’t still take the r ide. Knowing you could lose d In fact, it made taking the ride all the more important. (Alterman 1999, 264–265) In Barcelona, Spain, on April 14, 1999, a fter a fifteen-year split, Springsteen reunited with the E Street Band on a world tour. The tour continued through July 2000. Springsteen was pleased with the tour and his reconnection with the band. He noted, “It was not a reunion but a revival and the band played hard and well” (Springsteen 2016a, 433). Alterman observed that the “frenzied reaction” to this tour “proved that the power ful bond Springsteen had forged with his fans during the past quarter of a c entury had only intensified” (1999, 262). On the tour, Springsteen and E Street played their old standards as well as new material including the controversial “American Skin (41 Shots)” (Carlin 2012, 400–406; Springsteen 2016a, 433–436). George W. Bush became president of the United States on January 20, 2001. And then came 9/11—the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and the crash of Flight 93 in Somerset County, Pennsylvania. Less than a year l ater in a step t oward healing the wounds of 9/11 and in a call for global understanding and cooperation, Springsteen released his monumental and moving a lbum The Rising on July 30, 2002. The Rising was a critical and commercial success and was hailed as a triumphant return for Springsteen and the E Street Band. Time once again featured Springsteen on its cover on August 5, 2002, this time headlining the message, “Reborn in the USA: How Bruce Springsteen Reached Out to 9/11 Survivors and Turned America’s Anguish into Art” (Tyrangiel 2002, cover page and 52–59). Based on his positive reaction to The Ris-
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ing, the New York Times film critic A. O. Scott declared Springsteen “the poet laureate of 9/11” (Carlin 2012, 417). Even traditionally conservative publications, including the National Review and the New York Post (the latter of which played a lead role in sparking the “American Skin” controversy), published rave reviews (Carlin 2012, 417). The initial reviews of The Rising testify effectively to its power and grace, but Springsteen’s l ater assessment of the sentiments that inspired the album are even more meaningful and informative. For example, here is his assessment of the origination of “The Rising,” the eponymous song on the a lbum: Of the many tragic images of that day, the picture I couldn’t let go of was of the emergency workers going up the stairs as others rushed down to safety. The sense of duty, the courage, ascending into . . . what? The religious image of ascension, the crossing of the line between this world, the world of blood, work, family, your children, the breath in your lungs, the ground beneath your feet, all that is life, and . . . the next, flooded my imagination. If you love life or any part of it, the depth of their sacrifice is unthinkable and incomprehensible. Yet, what they left b ehind was tangible. Death, along with all its anger, pain, and loss, opens a window of possibility for the living. It removes the veil that the “ordinary” g ently drapes over our eyes. Renewed sight is the hero’s last loving gift to those left behind. (Springsteen 2016a, 441) And Springsteen later invoked the special role of the E Street Band in the creation of The Rising and its key part in helping to heal a nation in the wake of 9/11: Our band was built well, over many years, for difficult times. When people wanted a dialogue, a conversation about events internal and external, we developed a language that suited those moments. We were there. It was a language that I hope would entertain, inspire, comfort, and reveal. The professionalism, the showmanship, the hours of hard work are all very important, but I always believed that it was this dialogue, this language, that was at the heart of our resiliency with our audience. The Rising was a renewal of that
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conversation and the ideas that forged our band. (Springsteen 2016a, 443) With President Bush’s invasion of Iraq on March 20, 2003, Spring steen became even more politically engaged. He publicly defended the Dixie Chicks a fter the lead singer Natalie Maines, a native of Lubbock, Texas, announced, “We’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas” (Nichols 2003). And when some disc jockeys organized protest events during which tractors destroyed Dixie Chicks a lbums and pronounced that the group’s songs would be banned from their “Chick- free stations,” Springsteen spoke out. He proclaimed that the Dixie Chicks were not unpatriotic at all, they w ere “terrific American artists expressing American values.” He added: “The pressure coming from the government and big business to enforce conformity of thought concerning the [Iraq] war and politics goes against everything this country is about—namely freedom. Right now, we are supposedly fighting to create freedom in Iraq, at the same time that some are trying to intimidate and punish people from using that same freedom h ere at home” (Nichols 2003). In the 2004 presidential election, Springsteen publicly supported the Democratic candidate John Kerry over the incumbent Bush. Springsteen wrote an August 5, 2004, op-ed in the New York Times. While numbering his guitar-playing self among the relatively wealthy few benefiting from the Bush/Cheney tax cuts, he nonetheless denounced their policies, noting, we “dived headlong into an unnecessary war in Iraq, offer omen u nder circumstances that ing up the lives of our young men and w are discredited. We ran record deficits, while simultaneously cutting and squeezing services like afterschool programs. We granted tax cuts to the richest 1 percent (corporate bigwigs, well-to-do guitar players), increasing the division of wealth that threatens to destroy our social contract with one another and render mute the promises of ‘one nation indivisible’ ” (Springsteen 2004). While Bush and Cheney prevailed in the 2004 election, it was clear that Springsteen’s political understanding, allegiances, and involvement were developing. He was no longer the politically naive, even apolitical figure he had been in his younger days.
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On April 26, 2005, Springsteen released Devils & Dust, his thirteenth studio a lbum and his third acoustic one after Nebraska and The Ghost of Tom Joad. Many of the songs on Devils & Dust had been written long before they appeared on the new a lbum, which achieved moderate success. Notable songs in addition to the title track were “All the Way Home,” “Maria’s Bed,” “Leah,” and “Matamoros Banks.” Springsteen has described the songs on the a lbum as being about “people whose souls are in danger, who are at risk” (Pareles 2005). And yet the a lbum’s title song, “Devils & Dust,” suggests that these personal crises can stem from a nation’s political decisions to undertake a war and reduce desperately needed public serv ices. Hank Kalet’s review of the a lbum captures that vibe: “This is the disc that had to be recorded now, the a lbum that the times called for, an a lbum for the age of George W. Bush and the war on terror. Devils & Dust is, at its core, a political allegory, a musical exploration of the theme explored by Langston Hughes in his poem, ‘Let America Be America Again,’ a poem that mourns the nation’s unfulfilled potential” (Kalet 2005). On February 8, 2006, Springsteen won the Grammy for Best Rock Vocal for “Devils & Dust.” In performing the song at the Grammy broadcast, Springsteen left little doubt as to the political genesis of the song. At the song’s conclusion and with President Bush’s Iraq War clearly in mind, Springsteen simply shouted, “Bring ’em home!” (Dolan 2012, 396). The song that perhaps sparked the most resounding controversy was Springsteen’s “Reno.” Starbucks had been considered a possible retail outlet for the a lbum as the famed American coffee company had recently done the same with a newly released Ray Charles album. Starbucks, however, declined to sell Springsteen’s new a lbum in part b ecause of the graphic sexual lyrics on “Reno” as well as perceived public, left-leaning stances Springsteen had taken on corporate politics (Roberts 2005; White 2014, 198). “Reno” is more fully discussed in chapter 3, Essay 20. Springsteen’s next studio a lbum, Magic, his first with the E Street Band since The Rising in 2002, was released on September 25, 2007. The a lbum clearly expressed his disillusionment with the state of American society a fter more than six years of the Bush/Cheney administration. Indeed, Springsteen has proclaimed that the Magic album was his “state of the nation address over the Iraq War and the Bush years.” He further
34 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
noted that “he aimed everywhere on Magic for the political and the personal to meld together. You can listen to the w hole thing without ever thinking of the politics of the day or you can hear them ticking deadly through the internal thread of the m usic” (Springsteen 2016a, 255–256). Particularly disturbing to Springsteen at this time was the continuing war in Iraq and Bush’s apparently inept, indifferent handling of Hurricane Katrina’s devastation of New Orleans. Regarding the latter, Springsteen began publicly referring to Bush as “President Bystander” (Dolan 2012, 401). It is difficult not to interpret the a lbum’s title song “Magic” as a description of e ither Bush or Cheney—probably both—as the indifferent if not cruel trickster. The lyrics imply that they deceived the people of the United States by pursuing the Iraq War and undertaking policies that hurt the working class in order to further enrich the wealthy. Employing an obvious metaphor for the Bush/Cheney duo, Springsteen writes, “I got a shiny saw blade (a shiny saw blade). All I need’s a volunteer. I’ll cut you in half while you’re smiling, ear to ear” (Springsteen 2007, “Magic”). Elsewhere on the a lbum, Springsteen invokes John Kerry’s words about Vietnam and applies them to the Iraq War, asking, “Who’ll be the last to die for a m istake?” (Springsteen 2007, “Last to Die”). The a lbum’s distinct political flavor can also be seen in Springsteen’s explanation that the song “Livin’ in the Future” references both the extraordinary rendition and illegal wiretapping of the Bush administration: “Don’t worry, darlin’. Now baby, d on’t you fret. W e’re livin’ in the f uture and none of this has happened yet” (Springsteen 2007, “Livin’ in the F uture”; White 2014, 220). Notably, and despite the fact that Magic sold over a million copies in the United States, the right-leaning media led by the conservative pundit Bill O’Reilly attacked the a lbum (White 2014, 220). On April 16, 2008, Springsteen announced his endorsement of the Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama and campaigned vigorously for his election. In his support, he noted that Obama “speaks to the America I’ve envisioned in my m usic for the past 35 years, a generous nation with a citizenry willing to tackle nuanced and complex prob lems, a country that’s interested in its collective destiny and in the potential of its gathered spirit. A place where [quoting from the Magic
Springsteen’s Biography ✧ 35
song “Long Way Home”] ‘Nobody crowds you, and nobody goes it alone’ ” (Carlin 2012, 427). On January 27, 2009, less than a week after Barack Obama replaced George W. Bush as president of the United States, Springsteen released his sixteenth studio a lbum, Working on a Dream. The a lbum would sell more than three million copies. Obama’s ascendancy to the White House lifted the singer’s political spirits. Springsteen clearly signaled that he was more hopeful, less despondent than he had been on the Magic a lbum. The a lbum title alone captures its optimism about the country’s future under its first African American president. Employing the Springsteen trope of a hopeful personal relationship reflecting a broader national optimism, “Working on a Dream” (2009) notes, “Though trouble can feel like it’s here to stay, I’m working on a dream our love will make it real someday.” And again, on “This Life” (2009), a song reflecting his love for Patti Scialfa, we see a hint of the newfound sense of political optimism occasioned by Obama’s inauguration, metaphorically noted as “a blackness then the light of a million stars.” Despite his musical and financial success and his friendship with President Obama, Springsteen always seems to remain aware of his own failings. He has often noted that at times he has personally fallen short of the compassionate and humane ideals he expresses in his music. He once told the rock critic Kurt Loder: “You know the old saying: ‘Trust the art, not the artist.’ I think that’s true. I think somebody can do real good work and be a fool in a variety of ways. I think my m usic is prob ably better than I am. I mean, like, your m usic is your ideals a lot of times, and you don’t live up to those ideals all the time. You try, but you fall short and you disappoint yourself” (Loder 1984). Despite this earlier admission by Springsteen, many were surprised when news accounts of Springsteen’s reported extramarital relationships surfaced about this time. These disturbing reports called into question both his marital fidelity and his “good-guy” reputation. As early as 2006, reports emerged that Springsteen and Scialfa had separated a fter Springsteen developed a “friendship” with a w idow of one of the 9/11 victims. In 2009 another report noted that in divorce papers filed in court by Arthur Kelly of Red Bank, New Jersey, Kelly stated that his estranged wife “has committed adultery with one Bruce Springsteen
36 ✧ Shades of Springsteen
at various times and places too numerous to mention” (Stark and Stark 2009). Th ese reports and other accounts of Springsteen’s frequenting of strip clubs and his notorious flirting—he reportedly told one potential conquest that she had the “nicest ass” in the athletic club—fed the fires of rumor and doubt (Dolan 2012, 404–405; Traister 2010). In 2009 I received an email from a journalist friend who at one time had been a devoted supporter of both Springsteen’s work and his personal character. My friend was disturbed and expressed genuine disillusionment regarding Springsteen’s marital fidelity, noting: “I’ve lost a lot of faith in Bruce lately. I know he is just a man and it’s about the music but you don’t realize how much you look up to someone until you are disappointed. I heard he cheats or has extensively cheated on Patti for years. Depressing or what?” Not u ntil the 2016 publication of his autobiography, Born to Run, would Springsteen, however obliquely, broadly address t hese accusations. Even in the book, however, he never confesses to infidelity but rather to more general and unspecified failings. He notes at these times doing “other distressful things” and being “reckless with myself” (Springsteen 2016a, 486). He also writes about returning to his “old ways and thoughtless behavior” about which “Patti was patient . . . to a point” (356). Elsewhere in the book, he hints at yielding once again to the temptations of “my favorite harpies, the ones I count on to flit and nibble around the edges of my beautiful reward” (413). He also goes on to warn us in the final pages, “I haven’t told you ‘all’ about myself. Discretion and the feelings of others don’t allow it” (501). On March 6, 2012, Springsteen released his seventeenth studio a lbum Wrecking Ball. Rolling Stone named it the best a lbum of 2012, and a single cut, “We Take Care of Our Own,” was nominated for three Grammy Awards. Whether the a lbum was a b itter reaction to the United States’ massive bailout of its banking and auto industries, a supportive shout- out to the grassroots Occupy Wall Street movement, a pent-up frustration at Republicans for their all-out effort to block even the moderate policies of President Obama, or something e lse, Wrecking Ball is filled with working-class rage. Springsteen has said about this a lbum: “After the crash of 2008, I was furious at what had been done by a handful of trading companies on Wall Street. Wrecking Ball was a shot of anger at the injustice that continues on and has widened with deregulation, dys-
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functional regulatory agencies and capitalism gone wild at the expense of hardworking Americans. The middle class? Stomped on. Income disparity climbed as we lived through a new Gilded Age. This was what I wanted to write about” (Springsteen 2016a, 468). One critic noted, “Wrecking Ball is about loss. The characters have lost homes, jobs and pensions. Gone is a basic sense of fairness and decency, the bedrock of the American core Springsteen has been mining since the 1970s” (White 2014, 249). Despite t hese justified testimonies to the vehement and threatening anger expressed, much of Wrecking Ball, and perhaps even its reported call for class warfare, Springsteen, nonetheless, moderates the anger in the closing communitarian songs of the a lbum. In doing so, he applies the essential balm of compassion and togetherness needed if we are to ever make it through this tsunami of economic injustice. Wrecking Ball is more fully discussed in chapter 2, Essay 9, “Wrecking Ball and Class Warfare?” Springsteen capped off a long tour promoting the Wrecking Ball album with the January 14, 2014, release of his eighteenth studio a lbum High Hopes. This a lbum features the E Street Band and the guitarist Tom Morello with prerecorded contributions from the deceased E Streeters Clarence Clemons and Danny Federici. High Hopes is a collection of cover songs, outtakes, and rebooted versions of tracks from past a lbums and other works. The album features “Dream Baby Dream,” a cover song Springsteen often used in closing his live performances. There are also new Morello-assisted versions of both “The Ghost of Tom Joad” and “American Skin (41 Shots)” (White 2014, 263–265). Not showing any signs of slowing down as he turned sixty-seven, Springsteen’s long-awaited autobiography, Born to Run, appeared on September 27, 2016. Simon and Schuster reportedly paid Springsteen $10 million for the rights to publish it (Sancton 2016). The book received critical acclaim and quickly rose to the top of the New York Times Best Seller list, with sales of more than 117,000 copies in the first week (Maloney 2016). On November 22, 2016, Barack Obama presented the Presidential Medal of Freedom to Springsteen. This award is the highest honor a civilian can receive and is presented to individuals who have made especially meritorious contributions to the security or national interests of
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the United States, to world peace, or to cultural or other significant public or private endeavors. In making the award, Obama in a touching and clever tribute, modestly noted, “I may be the President, but he is ‘The Boss’ ” (Obama 2016, 5). In 2017 Springsteen made his Broadway debut in Springsteen on Broadway, essentially a solo show with a brief appearance by Patti Scialfa, at the Walter Kerr Theatre. The show featured Springsteen playing guitar and piano, performing his m usic, sharing funny and poignant stories, memories, and observations drawn in part from his 2016 autobiography, and performing other reminiscences written for the show (Greene 2017). Having turned seventy on September 23, 2019, Springsteen plans to continue to record and perform. Despite earlier rumors, he appears happy and content in his marriage to Patti Scialfa. Their children are progressing in positive ways. His older son Evan is a singer/songwriter presently working as a program director and festival producer in radio. His d aughter Jessica, a graduate of Duke University, is an elite equestrian and show jumping champion. His younger son Sam graduated at age twenty from the Monmouth County Fire Academy in Howell, New Jersey. Somewhat ironically and poignantly given Bruce Springsteen’s lasting tribute to firefighters in “The Rising,” Sam serves as a firefighter in southern New Jersey (Springsteen 2016a, 497–498). Michael Hainey interviewed Springsteen and wrote the following for Esquire: “Sitting h ere with me now, talking about his brood, he [Springsteen] radiates joy. A f ather, proud of his c hildren, grateful.” Springsteen tells Hainey: “My kids . . . we’re lucky. Th ey’re solid citizens” (Hainey 2019, 79–80). At the moment (November, 2020), Springsteen is taking some time to recoup a fter the daunting schedule of Springsteen on Broadway. His solo a lbum Western Stars was released on June 14, 2019, and in October 2020 he and the E Street Band released the album Letter to You. It is always difficult to anticipate what might come next from this unpredictable and creative talent. One expects it w ill have something to do with connecting. We turn now to Springsteen and politics, the subject of chapter 2.
2
Springsteen and Politics
✧
Teaching with Springsteen My primary connection to Springsteen originates in the field of teaching in higher education. I have been a teacher of politics since beginning my teaching career in 1971 at Nasson College, a now closed small liberal arts college in Springvale, Maine. I have also taught at the University of Southern Maine (1982–1984) and at State University of New York (SUNY) Potsdam (1986–2006). I retired from SUNY Potsdam in 2006 but continued to teach the courses the Politics of Basketball and Beauty, Meaning and Politics in the Lyrics of Bruce Springsteen u ntil my spouse’s retirement in 2009 and our move to Wells, Maine, shortly thereafter. While in Maine, I continued to write and teach about Springsteen in various settings. On a trip to Rome in 2018, I was invited to make a pre sentation on Springsteen to teachers, administrators, and students at the University of Rome Sapienza. The Springsteen course I began teaching in 2001 is likely the first term- usic. long course ever offered dealing exclusively with Springsteen’s m Authorization to teach the course did not come easily. While my politics department colleagues and others encouraged and supported my development of the course, the SUNY Board of Trustees and some members of the New York Legislature did not. The SUNY Board of Trustees was on the lookout for what some members saw as “frivolous courses,”
39
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and my Springsteen course was reportedly on that infamous list. I am happy to report that nothing further ever developed in that regard. When the New York Daily News published a favorable piece about the course in 2005, there was some objection. The self-described opera and classical music fan State Senator Frank Padavan (R-Bellerose, Queens) opined in the newspaper account that the course “seems like a shallow approach to political science” and “a waste of money” (Lucadamo 2005, 30). Despite t hose criticisms, I continued to offer the course on a yearly basis. I like to believe that I gained some vindication from later developments. At the end of the 2005 academic year, I was awarded the rank of SUNY Distinguished Teaching Professor, the highest rank in the SUNY system. I believe I received that promotion not in spite of my Springsteen course but in large part because of it. As if in response to Senator Padavan and other critics of my Springsteen focus, my Distinguished Teaching citation reads in part that my Springsteen course “may seem unworthy of serious study, but in John’s hands, it becomes an avenue for the exploration of gender, power, patriotism, social stress, the work ethic, religion and h uman relationships among others. [The course serves to] open students’ eyes to the pervasiveness of the political dimension in human experience” (SUNY 2005). I remember appearing at the first Springsteen Symposium in 2005 at Monmouth University in Long Branch, New Jersey, to discuss how one might best go about teaching a semester-long course on Springsteen. I provided t hose in attendance that day with the syllabus and offered comments and advice about the course. Since then three more Springsteen Symposiums have taken place, in 2009, 2012, and 2018, and each one has attracted more and more academics who are using Springsteen in their courses, several of whom offer semester-long courses dealing exclusively with Springsteen. Teaching with Springsteen has come a long way. Not unexpectedly, much of my writing about Springsteen relates to my use of his music and lyrics in my course. I present some of that writing in Essay 1. In my politics courses, I often have students who profess that they know nothing about politics or have l ittle to no interest in the topic. A fter spending a class session or two defining politics as essentially the study of power, I ask students about their own “political socialization” or “personal political development.” I use t hese terms interchangeably. My
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query is frequently met with silence if not a scornful look implying, “What the hell does he expect from us so early in the course?” Once I explain that the terms “political socialization” or “personal political development” can be described as one’s personal way of politi cal learning or, more formally, as the process through which one acquires personal political orientations, knowledge, feelings, and evaluations regarding the political world, I start to get some thoughtful responses. Still, some students w ill protest that they know nothing about politics, could care less about politics, and therefore they insist they have not been politically socialized. I emphatically indicate to these students they have, indeed, been politically socialized. In their cases, they have been taught, or led, or otherwise induced to disregard learning about politics but even that, I emphasize, is a form of political socialization. I then ask the students to consider which individuals, institutions, or occurrences in their lives have s haped their tastes in and appreciation of music, film, literature, food, sports, or other endeavors that interest them. They usually have l ittle trouble doing this. Then, I ask them to do that same type of recollecting by asking them who or what has s haped their approach regarding politics. Not surprisingly, most students then freely, often confidently explain the ways in which their parents, grandparents, siblings, peers, and teachers separately or collectively s haped them politically. And sometimes students go beyond that usual format, but they all have little difficulty in telling the stories of their own politi cal socialization about which they alone are the experts, The following essay provides a look at some critical aspects of my Springsteen course.
Essay 1. Teaching Politics (and More) with Bruce Springsteen Beginning in 2001, I taught the course Walk Tall: Beauty, Meaning and Politics in the Lyrics of Bruce Springsteen at SUNY Potsdam. Beyond my desire to make my students more aware of the politically relevant messages present in some rock lyrics, my reasons for offering the course ranged from the self-indulgent to the scholarly. I am a professor of politics and a Springsteen fan. Springsteen and I stand on some common ground. We were born and raised in New Jersey, share an Italian heritage (Bruce’s m other’s maiden name was Zerilli,
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my mother’s was Cirelli), our fathers once worked as bus drivers, we both had severe cases of acne as teenagers, and we spent many years “down” the shore “chasin’ the factory girls under the boardwalk.” I suspect Springsteen was a g reat deal more successful in that last endeavor than I. Both Springsteen and I have had past battles with depression and the need for therapy and medication and have now found some peace in the uplifting love of a spouse, children, and f amily. Self-indulgence aside, my major justification for the course is that Springsteen’s lyrics powerfully express how one’s personal political consciousness, one’s political socialization develops—or, at least, can and should ideally develop. In this essay, I present an overview of my Springsteen course and introduce the overarching theme of the course: Springsteen’s lyrics and personal political development. Discussion of both the overview of the course and its dominant theme will, I believe, support the view that an understanding of Springsteen and his m usic can be both political and helpful, to not only understanding politics but also to how one lives one’s life. “Politics” and Political Themes in Springsteen’s Lyrics At the outset, I should make clear what I mean by the term “politics.” The political scientist Robert Dahl has described “politics” as existing wherever one can discern “any persistent pattern of human relationships that involves, to a significant extent, control, influence, power, or authority” (Dahl 1991, 4). Dahl’s definition of the political is an admittedly broad one that includes not only matters involving governmental institutions and atters involving power, influence, authority, or conbehavior but also m trol in connection with most nongovernmental institutions. The fact that politics broadly involves both governmental and nongovernmental institutions is evident in Dahl’s reference to the “ubiquity of politics” and his warning that “many associations that most people do not ordinarily regard as ‘political’ possess political systems: private clubs, business firms, labor u nions, religious organizations, civic groups, primitive tribes, clans, perhaps even families” (Dahl 1991, 4). One might appropriately add to Dahl’s list the term “musical associations” and even the lyrics of a particular rock performer. In keeping with Dahl’s definition, as long as one can make a solid case for the presence of persistent patterns of power, influence, control, or authority in any phenomenon,
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even in the phenomenon of Springsteen’s m usic, one has arrived at the political. I note below other political topics that are highlighted in the course. These include: Populism; Democracy and the American Dream; Work and Play Ethics and Politics; Community; Patriotism; Manhood, Womanhood and the Politics of Love; The Underclass; and Politics and Our Better Angels. Listening without Hearing: The Politics of Lyrics One often unrecognized way in which Springsteen’s music and all popular m usic can be political stems from a common failing in the way most of us “listen” to musical lyrics. More than 60 percent of p eople listen to rock ’n’ roll without paying any attention at all to the lyrics (Gracyk 1998, 65). This suggests that many listeners of popular m usic and Springsteen might never become cognizant of the political nature of the lyrics or, for that m atter, any message reflected in the words of a song. To say that many p eople are generally oblivious to the messages in music, Springsteen’s work included, is not to say that these themes and messages do not exist. More careful listening—perhaps listening associated with treating t hese lyrics as a primary text for a college class in which the instructor can offer helpful direction—can bring t hese messages to the surface. Parenthetically, it should be noted that in my class I require each student to have in front of them a lyric sheet that they can consult as we listen to an extensive array of Springsteen’s m usic. This same general obliviousness to the lyrics in popular m usic on the part of many also enables any potential message manipulators to more easily interpret the lyrics of rock to support or otherwise reinforce their agenda, and this can also be political. Manipulating messages forms a significant part of contemporary political life with its attention to propaganda, “spin,” and sound bites. President Ronald Reagan’s classic misinterpretation of Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” (1984), which depicts the federal government’s callous and indifferent treatment of returning Vietnam Veterans, provides a useful example h ere. In clearly criticizing the government’s cold mistreatment, Springsteen refers to the returning vets as being t hose who “end up like a dog that’s been beat too much ’til you spend half your life just coverin’ up.” While campaigning for reelection in New Jersey in
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1984, Reagan missed that message. Influenced by conservative columnist George Will’s reporting that “Born in the U.S.A” represented an affirmation of patriotism, the president cheerfully proclaimed, “Ameri ca’s f uture rests in a thousand dreams inside your hearts; it rests in the message of hope in songs of a man so many young American admire: New Jersey’s own Bruce Springsteen. And helping you make those dreams come true is what this job of mine is all about” (Carlin 2012, 317–318). Notably, Springsteen has since testified to his belated realization that at times the message of his lyrics can get distorted or lost in the beat and rhythm of his m usic (Springsteen 1998, 164). He noted that a fter the tremendous success of “Born in the U.S.A.,” several youngsters decked out as “The Boss,” costumed in denim jackets, jeans, and cool bandanas, did some Halloween “trick or treating” at Springsteen’s New Jersey residence. Springsteen has reported that when he answered the door, these ersatz E Streeters would greet him with triumphantly raised fists and a resounding refrain of “I was born in the U.S.A.” The real “Boss” could not resist teasingly but affectionately challenging them to sing the next line of the song. Not unexpectedly, few of the miniature Bruce look-alikes knew any lyrics of the song beyond “I was born in the U.S.A.” (164). As recently as 2020, some supporters of President Donald Trump still misinterpret or choose to remain oblivious to the essential lyrics of “Born in the U.S.A.” They continue to see it as an anthem praising the United States. On June 12, 2020, the Portland Press Herald reported that on a recent visit to Guilford, Maine, by President Trump, “loudspeakers kept blasting out Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born in the USA’ while the crowd screamed the refrain with delirious enthusiasm” (Wild 2020). Old habits, and misinterpreted lyrics, die hard. This and similar events and, the notorious Reagan misinterpretation have taught Springsteen something about the reception of his m usic and the clarity of his message, political or otherwise. He understands now that the message of his lyrics, however straightforward, can be significantly influenced by the way the song is presented above and beyond the lyrics. As a wiser Springsteen, post–“Born in the U.S.A.,” has put it: “A songwriter writes to be understood. Is the way you choose to present your music its politics? Is the sound and form your song takes its
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content? . . . I learned a lesson about how pop and pop image is received” (Springsteen 1998, 164). Springsteen’s Lyrics and Personal Political Development Springsteen’s writing pertinent to the concept of personal political development can help all people, especially young students, in the crucial quest for self- understanding and political effectiveness. Political scientists have long associated both the extent and success of one’s involvement in politics with one’s so-called sense of political efficacy, the degree to which one feels an ability to influence the political setting. And because I offer my Springsteen course primarily to young college students who are likely confronting critical identity concerns at one of life’s perplexing crossroads, Springsteen’s message can be especially meaningful and beneficial. My Springsteen course highlights three significant subthemes associated with the overarching theme of personal political development: alienation, individualism, and love. As the psychologist Erik Erikson and others such as Pat Primeaux have noted, t hese three subthemes roughly correspond to the feelings and experiences p eople often confront in three critical stages of h uman development: adolescence, young adulthood, and adulthood (Erikson and Erikson 1997 55–82; Nussbaum 1997, 60; Primeaux 1990, 1–15). In the adolescent stage, humans are generally self-absorbed as they attempt to discover just who they are. In that daunting self-discovery process, young people often experience alienation and confusion as well as indifference to concerns beyond themselves. Alienation can best be fter described as a feeling of being detached or withdrawn from society. A this stage, adolescents can advance to young adulthood, during which, as developing individuals, they attempt to create their own influence on the external world in diverse ways, including through personal achievements. In the adult stage, well-adjusted individuals become capable of establishing genuinely loving and healthy relationships with an ever- widening circle of people. Despite the seemingly lockstep nature of these stages, people do not inevitably or easily pass through them with as little difficulty as they would navigate turnstiles at a subway station. Life is not so neat and tidy.
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Concerns about alienation, individuality, and love will most likely endure throughout our lives. My thoughts on political development or socialization also draw on the Roman Stoics’ notion of one’s personal growth being linked to a willingness to embrace ever-expanding circles of love. For the Stoics, ideal personal development can be represented as a series of expanding circles of love beginning with love of self and including, in progressive growth, love of one’s nuclear family, an intimate other, one’s children, friends, local community, nation, and the world itself. As one grows and matures, love can keep expanding until one can rightly be perceived as a loving citizen of the world (Van Natta 2014). Adolescence Springsteen’s lyrics often reflect the alienation, loneliness, fear, and confusion prominent in adolescence. The alienated teenager of Springsteen’s “Growin’ Up” (1973) not only strolls “all alone through a fallout zone” but when asked to “sit down,” he must “stand up.” The autobiographical “Bad Scooter” (Bruce Springsteen) of “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” (1975) finds that while the “whole world’s walking pretty,” he’s still “searching for his groove.” Springsteen’s young and lost p eople, insecure in their own identity, can be without a clue in trying to comprehend the significant political forces shaping their environment. Like the struggling souls of “Badlands” (1978), t hese young and lost people can, if they don’t “get [their] facts learned,” can get “caught in a crossfire that [they] don’t understand.” Two of Springsteen’s e arlier and most famous songs, “Thunder Road” and “Born to Run,” reflect the seemingly universal and frustrating moods associated with adolescence. The young and confused lover of “Thunder Road” pleads with his girlfriend, Mary, “not to turn him home again” because he “just cannot face [himself] alone again”—a clear cry of alienation and loneliness. He also confesses his own fear about g oing out on the mysterious and unknown highway of life, Thunder Road, seeing the road itself as “lying out there like a killer in the sun” not unlike a rattlesnake in the afternoon heat waiting to strike, in a deadly instant, youthful and inexperienced prey such as the boy lover and his Mary (Springsteen 1975, “Thunder Road”). The youthful protagonist of “Thunder Road” also conveys a self- deprecating if not negative and alienated view as to how he perceives
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both his girlfriend and himself. Mary is not a striking, drop-dead gorgeous Angelina Jolie type. She is just a common young girl who, as Springsteen tells us, “ain’t a beauty” but she’s “alright.” And while the young lover notes that Mary is nothing special, neither is he. He describes himself as “not a hero” and as one who can only offer Mary the redemption that lies “beneath this dirty hood.” I also highlight the classic last line of “Thunder Road,” which signals the way many alienated young p eople feel about the restrictions of the towns in which they w ere raised. Many of us come to love our hometowns as we age but as adolescents we often see them the way the main character of “Thunder Road” does: “It’s a town full of losers and I’m pullin’ out of here to win.” Springsteen’s “Born to Run” (1975) is a yawping call to all lost, con eople. The young Springsteen appears keenly fused, and scared young p aware that troubled adolescents often feel that fleeing from their responsibilities and embracing the escape promised by a car and the open road remain their only hope of deliverance and salvation. They appear desperate and their language often reflects the hyperbolic tone of self- absorbed, tortured youth. Note the lyrics denoting a typical but fitting teenage drama and exaggeration in “Born to Run:” “Baby this town rips the bones from your back. It’s a death trap. It’s a suicide rap. We gotta’ get out while we’re young cause tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.” And what is often a young person’s sense of true love? The lyrics of “Born to Run” state: “I wanna’ die with you Wendy on the streets tonight in an everlasting kiss.” A more mature person might advise the following in response to this death wish: “Don’t die with your love. Live with her.” As Mr. Antolini, a character in J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, wisely tells the stereot ypically immature Holden Caulfield, “The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one” (Salinger 1979, 244). The runners in “Born to Run” seemingly just want to run. They have little idea of where they are going. Th ere is no mature plan beyond flight in “Born to Run.” Springsteen has sagely brought this realization to the attention of audiences in his later years. See, for example, his introduction to an acoustic version of “Born to Run” in Bruce Springsteen: The Complete Video Anthology/1978–2000.
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Because my students often perceive their own feelings about adolescence articulated in Springsteen’s lyrics, a common bond soon seems to connect them. Please note that all references to students’ responses to Springsteen’s lyrics presented in this essay are taken from course journals or essays. The writers have not been identified for privacy reasons. I have their assent to use this material. One student attributed this connection to her finding that Spring steen’s lyrics “often parallel meanings in each of our lives.” Assessing the lyrics of Springsteen’s “Wild Billy’s Circus Story,” another student took some comfort in the fact that “like the individuals of the circus, Springsteen often felt like an outsider, mainly when he was younger.” Another seemingly lonely and alienated class participant confided, “I want to be Mary and jump in his [Bruce’s] car and ride off down Thunder Road. Who knows what lies ahead but it c an’t get much worse or [more] disappointing.” Another student, obviously acquainted with the struggles of adolescence, succinctly noted the fear and confusion she was confronting at this stage in her life: “I am at the point where I have to choose where to drive; so ‘Thunder Road’ is a relevant song. Th ere is a large level of uncertainty when you are in your early twenties, and this is accompanied by fear.” Young Adulthood, Individualism and Fighting Back In a second stage of political development, adolescents begin advancing to young adulthood during which they can begin to find themselves and make their own impact on the external world. Springsteen’s lyrics emphasize this theme of individuality, especially in the form of self-assertion and fighting back. The troubled, out-of-step young man of “Growin’ Up” (1973) glimpses at least a ray of hope in his ability to find “the key to the universe in the engine of an old parked car.” In “New York City Serenade” (1973), Springsteen advises that t hose who can “walk tall” will best traverse the mean streets of life. Asserting individuality through personal achievement is clearly evident in “Thunder Road” (1975) as the young man expresses personal pride in learning “how to make it [his guitar] talk.” The empowerment associated with finding one’s individuality is also reflected in “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” (1975), as the once alienated Bad Scooter is
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now confidently empowered to “bust this city in half.” All this might be youthful braggadocio but it can also reflect the beginning of genuine self-confidence. Developing one’s individualism, one’s unique talents and abilities, is politically significant. This development strengthens a person’s own sense of political efficacy and can both enable and embolden one to fight to shape the world to reflect one’s own hopes and dreams. This phenomenon is vividly portrayed in Springsteen’s “Badlands,” “Racing in the Street,” and “Darkness on the Edge of Town.” In “Badlands,” the escapist r unning away of “Thunder Road” and “Born to Run” seemingly end. Springsteen’s maturing protagonist no longer meekly and passively succumbs to or flees from life’s troubles, but now stands and fights back against perceived threats. Rather than fleeing these troubles, he or she defiantly wants to “spit in the face of these Badlands,” no longer r unning away but standing and confronting the perceived evils of the world. As Springsteen states: “We’ll keep pushin’ till it’s understood and t hese Badlands start treating us good” (Spring steen 1978, “Badlands”). In “Racing in the Street,” Springsteen tells us that p eople who never learn to follow their own individual spirit w ill more likely be driven down by life. These souls, no matter what their age, will “start dying little by little, piece by piece.” Conversely, those maturing individuals with a well-developing sense of self w ill more likely be able to withstand even the backbreaking and dispiriting work they might be forced to endure in the often unforgiving U.S. economic system. Their individualistic passion will often liberate them by enabling them, in Springsteen’s metaphoric words, to “come home from work, wash up, and go racin’ in the street” (Springsteen 1978, “Racing in the Street”). Spring steen’s emphasis on continuing to find life-enriching passion throughout one’s life reflects James Joyce’s similar perspective in his elegant short story “The Dead”: “Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age” (Joyce 1991, 152). Springsteen goes on to offer a universal call to youth, advising them not to immaturely run away or passively accept their plight in life but to fight back against system-imposed limitations. There clearly is political
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meaning if not an outright rebellious and defiant warning in the final stanza of “Racing in the Street” (1978): “Tonight, tonight, the highway’s bright. Out of our way, Mister, you best keep. ‘Cause summer’s h ere and the time is right for racin’ in the street.” The determination to fight back is clearly seen in the protagonist of “Darkness on the Edge of Town” (1978). Springsteen suggests that even for those who try to run away from life, from their roots, from themselves, there will always be an inevitable reckoning with pain and sorrow. He describes this reckoning as the “darkness on the edge of town.” And what does one do when one confronts that inevitable darkness? Immature, insufficiently politically developed p eople might try to escape from assuming personal responsibility for the quality of their lives. They might do so by resorting to flight and avoidance and even suicide but such approaches are not for mature, politically conscious individuals. They bravely go out to confront the danger directly, taking personal responsibility for t hose aspects of their lives subject to their control. As Springsteen notes: “I’ll be t here on time and I’ll pay the cost for wanting t hings that can only be found in the darkness on the edge of town” (Springsteen 1978, “Darkness on the Edge of Town”). Students taking the course clearly see their own quest for individualism and self-actualization reflected in Springsteen’s lyrics. One astutely noted in her journal: “You have to make yourself happy. You have to love yourself and fight for yourself. Your work or partner can add happiness but in the end it’s just you and so you better like who you are.” Similarly, another student, employing two of Springsteen’s favorite metaphors, wrote: “This is the point where I am supposed to figure out how to make my guitar talk. There are many roads I can take. I think the point is I at least have to try one road, rather than stay stagnant.” Maturity and Expanding Circles of Love In a third stage of mature or adult political development, well-adjusted individuals, following the principles of the Stoics, become capable of looking and loving beyond themselves. They begin to establish genuinely loving relationships with an ever-widening circle of people and communities. Beyond the most important love of self just described, the embracing of mature love
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appears in Springsteen’s lyrics in at least four related forms: love of a partner, friends, f amily, and community. Love of a Partner Unbeknownst to many devout fans, Springsteen once made a l ittle noticed gesture reflecting his mature growth as a male. This action, just one example, testifies to his respect for and sensitivity t oward two w omen he has loved, his first wife, Julianne Phillips, and his pre sent spouse, Patti Scialfa. Knowing how seriously Springsteen approaches his lyrics, it is significant when he makes changes. At a May 19, 2005, Devils & Dust concert in New Jersey, Springsteen definitely changed the lyrics in his rendition of “The Wish,” a song dedicated to his mother. I have no hardcopy non- bootlegged documentation of this but I was at the concert and taking notes when I noticed the change. At that time, divorced from Phillips, Springsteen was married and raising a family with Scialfa. As published in Springsteen’s a lbum Tracks, the original lyrics of “The Wish” read in part, “Well, I found a girl of my own now, Ma. I popped the question on your birthday” (Springsteen 1998 “The Wish”). That May night in New Jersey, however, Springsteen replaced that line with the following: “I have a girl of my own, Mom. Time just slips away.” At first glance, the change of lyrics seems minor and insignificant. My interpretation of the change, however, is that it signals Springsteen’s tellingly maturing consideration of the feelings of Phillips and Scialfa. He was acutely aware of and sensitive to the impact the original lyrics might have had on both Phillips and Scialfa. It is evident that the one to whom other’s birthday in the origSpringsteen “popped the question” on his m inal lyrics is Phillips. Given the February 22, 1987 date of the original but unreleased recording of “The Wish,” a recording that was not officially released until Tracks in 1998, the 1987 date is several years before Springsteen’s 1991 marriage to Scialfa, the lyric “popping the question” on his mother’s birthday can only refer to Phillips. Still, and likely because that reference might painfully call to mind the unsuccessful Phillips and Springsteen marriage and be uncomfortable to both Phillips and Scialfa, the lyrics “popped the question on your birthday” w ere changed that night to “Time just slips away.” A small kindness, perhaps, but an impor tant and mature one.
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I find this gesture not only very meaningful and touching but also indicative of Springsteen’s commendable personal growth in becoming more and more cognizant of the feelings and presence of o thers. Today, Springsteen is a married man with three children. He maturely recognizes not only the wonderful joy of loving and being loved by his partner, Scialfa, and their c hildren but also the potential for sorrow and vulnerability that comes with that love. Maturely developed people understand that they cannot truly love others without opening themselves to the risks of loss and pain. To love is to risk being deeply hurt. And yet, well-adjusted people willingly choose to embrace that risk and not to run from it. This understanding is clearly noted in Springsteen’s song, “Human Touch” (1992) with a wise admonishment: “That feeling of safety that you prize. Well, it comes with a hard hard [sic] price. You can’t shut off the risk and the pain without losing the love that remains. We’re all riders on this train.” Romantic love of a single partner is a common and prevalent theme in popular music, and Springsteen has written such songs. Perhaps, the most poignant and meaningful of t hese is “If I Should Fall Behind” (1992). In this song, he openly pledges his mature commitment to stay by his soul mate’s side throughout their life together no matter what trou bles befall them. He hopes for the same from his beloved. His pledge and his wish are s imple but profound: “I w ill wait for you and should I fall behind, wait for me.” The song represents the beauty reflected in the eople. intimate and unqualified love between two p Love of Friends The lyrics of the song “If I Should Fall B ehind” become even more expansive and powerful when members of the E Street Band, including Springsteen, Steve Van Zandt, Patti Scialfa, and Nils Lofgren, take center stage to pledge their commitment to always “wait for” each other. Of lasting and particular note is the tender saxophone and vocal by the late Clarence Clemons. I recommend that readers view this moving video of loving friendships on YouTube (https://w ww.youtube.com /watch?time_continue=24&v=R mUG1ffgKFw). I must digress here to note some intriguing connections between Springsteen and the American poet Walt Whitman, which were occasioned by my recent reading of Mark Doty’s What Is the Grass: Walt Whitman in My Life. Doty’s writing pointed me toward interesting links
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between Springsteen’s “If I Should Fall B ehind” and Whitman’s gregarious poetry. Doty notes that Whitman’s work often features the out going poet’s transcendental leap to connect himself to all others (Doty 2020, 38, 43–46, 48, 185–188). One can discern especially in the group version of “If I Should Fall Behind” as well as in some of Springsteen’s more recent work the Jersey musician’s connections, whether intentional or not, to Whitman. Whitman’s circle of expanding, embracing love seemingly goes beyond even the circles of the Stoics noted earlier in this essay. The poet sought to embrace and love not only the living but also the dead and t hose yet to be born. In “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” Whitman has written, “I considered long and seriously of you before you w ere born” (Whitman n.d., sec. 7). And in that same poem, Whitman seemingly reaches out not only to the living but to the multitudinous spirits of those who have died and those yet to be born: “Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me” (Whitman n.d., sec. 7). On his a lbum Letter to You, released in October 2020, Springsteen apparently echoes Whitman’s expansive reaching out to all—the living and the spirits beyond and yet to be. Employing music as a metaphor for life itself, Springsteen sings, “All good souls from near and far. We’ll meet in the house of a thousand guitars” (Springsteen 2020, “House of a Thousand Guitars”). And in a song appropriately titled “Ghosts” on that same album, Springsteen envisions a Whitmanesque universalistic embrace: “I make my vow to t hose who’ve come before, I turn up the volume, let the spirits be my guide. Meet you b rother and s ister on the other side.” Despite my speculative comments above and although Springsteen’s “If I Should Fall Behind” might literally limit his embrace to a partner or an intimate group of friends, the Jersey rocker and the American poet meet across the years to share common ground in anticipating how that love w ill be expressed in the uncertain world confronting all lovers. Springsteen, as noted, pledges that should his lover or beloved friends be separated from him, he will wait for them and that they should do the same for him. In anticipating the lyrics of a romantic ballad that was not to be written until almost 150 years after his time on earth, Whitman’s last words in “Song of Myself” link with Springsteen’s. Whitman’s final stanza echoes Springsteen’s poignant theme of lovers always waiting for each other:
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Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you (Whitman n.d., sec. 52). (For additional exploration of the links between Whitman and Springsteen, see Garman 2000 and Smith 2000.) Springsteen’s lyrics of love, romance, and friendship reflect his belief that in a genuine loving relationship, all lovers gain strength so much greater than the sum of their parts. In the Netflix film Springsteen on Broadway, Springsteen proclaims that one plus one often equals three (Springsteen 2018). This is his way of suggesting that the inherent power of love of a partner or friends enables the lovers and friends to conquer forces together that would more easily defeat them as separate individuals. Such empowerment is, of course, both interpersonal and political. Love of Family Regarding parenthood, Springsteen wrote the song “Living Proof” immediately after the birth of his first son in 1990. Here, he offers lyrics that will resonate with all parents. In the song, he notes the sweet paradox of how a weak, vulnerable, needy infant has the seemingly contradictory capacity to instill in his or her parents love, strength, understanding, redemption, and power—clearly terms with political significance. In “Living Proof” (1992) Springsteen notes a child’s power to other’s arms bring renewed faith and redemption to a parent: “In his m it was all the beauty I could take like the missing words to some prayer that I could never make.” And, he notes the awesome liberating power this frail infant can gift his parents: “You shot through my anger and rage to show me my prison was just an open cage. Th ere w ere no keys, no guards, just one frightened man and some old shadows for bars.” September 11, 2001, and Love of Community Springsteen’s apparent love of an ever-expanding community, a mature political act, is notably reflected in his song, “Land of Hope and Dreams.” Here, the unending struggle for equality for all is simply reflected in a train heading to a destination of sunshine and freedom and, notably, taking on all p eople. Fittingly, in an expansive view of community, Springsteen’s train carries saints, winners, and kings but also the more numerous and often
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more forgotten of us, we sinners, losers, whores, gamblers, fools, and the broken-hearted (Springsteen 2012, “Land of Hope and Dreams”). Undocumented local rumors persist in Wells, Maine, where I now live, that on or around September 9, 2001, Mohamed Atta, one of the ringleaders of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, visited our town. He reportedly walked out on a rock jetty at a beach in Wells. For some still unexplained reasons, Atta was driving from Boston to Portland, Maine, that day and he reportedly stopped in Wells. One can only imagine what was g oing through his mind as he stood on the jetty that day. Was he totally preoccupied with thoughts of his deadly upcoming mission? On September 11, he would fly from Portland to Boston, help hijack American Airlines flight 11 and pilot it into the North Tower of the World Trade Center (The 9/11 Commission Report 2004, 253; see also Staff Reports 2001). Alone or accompanied by my spouse or grandsons, I have since been on that nearby jetty often. Indeed, owing to our volunteer work with the Maine Healthy Beaches group, my spouse and I are responsible for helping to assess the health and safety of beaches adjacent to the jetty. Safety? The fact that the beach just south of the jetty is named “Crescent Beach” and that the sickle shape moon holds special meaning for Muslims adds to the mystery of Atta’s reported visit. Did the beach’s name entice him to visit that day? Is this simply a meaningless coincidence? Perhaps. Nevertheless, it is an ironic world we share. On September 11, 2001, Springsteen learned of the horrible tragic attack the way many of us did—on television. Later that day, he drove to a spot on a highway not far from his New Jersey home from which he could usually see the Twin Towers. That day, the towers were gone and all he saw in their place was an empty sky, an image, and a glimmer of a song, “Empty Sky,” that would soon make it onto Springsteen’s 9/11 album, The Rising. L ater that same day, a fan shouted out to him, “Bruce, we r eally need you” (Springsteen 2016a, 439–440). Springsteen soon responded. The Rising speaks not only to the politi cal theme of an expanding vision of community but also to the h uman beliefs and characteristics essential to the development of a more peaceful, loving world. Th ese political dimensions of The Rising are interest ing for many reasons, not least that numerous reviewers have not always grasped the a lbum’s political aspects. Indeed, a major review in Time
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boldly concluded: “What’s missing on The Rising is politics” (Tyrangiel 2002, 58). Although the conclusion that The Rising lacks a political perspective is erroneous, it is, nonetheless, understandable. A common but critical mistake is to conclude that it is the sole, even primary nature of politics to employ power to achieve selfish or malevolent ends or to force others manipulatively, aggressively, and, perhaps, duplicitously to do what they would not ordinarily choose to do. Power and its related terms can, however, also be used to attain benevolent ends and to assist o thers to achieve common goals in accordance with their hopes and dreams. People can be moved to action by appealing not only to their demons but also to their better angels. Springsteen’s The Rising deftly avoids the politics of fear and hate, the politics of threatening to harm, bully, or manipulate others. On the album, Springsteen refuses to pander to the reactionary Right’s post–9/11 jingoistic version of the politics of vengeance and retaliation calling for the humiliation and extinction of Osama bin Laden, Al-Qaeda, and, perhaps, Islamism itself. On the other hand, he does not embrace the radical Left’s version of politics tracing the events of 9/11 solely to the greed, arrogance, and insensitivity of U.S. imperialism and unilateralism. Springsteen eschews the political differences espoused by each of these camps, and instead he emphasizes our human commonalities. He offers the balm of the politics of love and understanding, the politics of human compassion and tolerance, the politics orchestrated by the better angels that Springsteen believes lie within the hearts of all of us. Even though he does not present a specific political blueprint as to how to achieve the peaceful and just world community he envisions, he challenges listeners never to lose sight of that worthy goal. The Rising features several notable illustrations of themes such as the politics of love and community and of a caring and compassionate humanity. Th ere is Springsteen’s caution against pursuing a knee-jerk, vengeful reaction to return hate for hate, violence for violence, terror for terror. On “Lonesome Day” (2002), he notes, “Better ask questions before you start to shoot. Deceit and betrayal’s bitter fruit.” And in the bouncy “Let’s Be Friends (Skin to Skin)” (2002), he endorses the politics of togetherness, cooperation, and community, forsaking the traditional politics of divisiveness, conflict, and hatred:
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“There’s a lot of walls need tearing down. Together we could take them down one by one.” In generally addressing how we might begin again to build a peaceful, loving world in The Rising a lbum, Springsteen provides answers to two fundamental, important questions that carry weighty political significance. The first is whether peace can best be achieved through the dictates of one single nation or through greater international understanding and cooperation. The second is w hether people can achieve peace through their own inspired efforts or only with the assistance of prayer and divine intervention. His answers to both t hese questions are as interesting as they are politically revealing. In regard to the first question, Springsteen remains troubled that the people of the world are presently so sharply divided that a peaceful solution is not likely to be found until there is greater global understanding. In The Rising’s “Worlds Apart” (2002), he writes, “I seek faith in your kiss and comfort in your heart . . . but when I look into your eyes, we stand worlds apart.” And adding, “ ’Neath Allah’s blessed rain we remain worlds apart.” Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz has astutely observed that Springsteen, at the very time his own nuclear family of five was growing, was likely moving beyond the mature and commendable concept of love of family to still another level or circle of love and maturity. Suggesting the Stoics’ concept of expanding circles of love, Symynkywicz writes in a chapter aptly titled, “The G reat Circle of F amily”: “During this period, there was also developing within Springsteen the growing realization that we are not only responsible for our own children, our direct progeny, but for all c hildren—especially, perhaps, for those without adequate support and protection” (Symynkywicz 2008, 118). Springsteen feels that a lasting peace cannot be gained unilaterally but only a fter we come to know, trust, and love each other and see all the children of the world as our own children. Without t hese significant changes, the outlook is bleak. He suggests that if a change of global dimensions does not come soon, war and destruction w ill follow, warning, “May the living let us in before the dead tear us apart” (Springsteen 2002, “Worlds Apart”). And to whom do the people of the world turn to prevent this fateful bloodshed and self-destruction? Springsteen’s intriguing answer is both
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complex and political. That complexity begins with his song, “The Rising.” A cursory reading of “The Rising” might suggest that Springsteen sees much of the solution to rest in the hands of a loving God. Let us look more closely at the song. “The Rising” thrusts us immediately into the trauma and horror faced by a firefighter at the World Trade Center on 9/11. As many employed at the Trade Center are coming down the stairs of the towers to relative safety, the firefighter is going up the stairs to confront the dangerous unknown. He is led solely by faith in his brother and sister firefighters as not even his own eyes can help him see in the fearsome “darkness.” He is bound to his mates by a “chain,” “a half mile line,” evidently the yards of hose he and they are carrying up t hose stairs (this and all following references are from Springsteen 2002, “The Rising”). The chain, Springsteen conveys, is more than a physical device linking the firefighter to the others. It is also a spiritual link binding him to them and to their collective patriotic mission to serve the community and realize their destiny. The religious Christ-like images continue as the firefighter, crucifixion-like, is carrying a “sixty-pound stone,” his gear pack. And where is he going? To “The Rising” which at this point in the song only conveys that he is g oing up, ascending. Still, it conveys so much more. And then there is a flashback to how this unforgettable September day began as such an ordinary uneventful one. Th ere was a not-unusual call to leave the station in the trucks and go “rolling down here.” The religious and even sacred presentation of the dedicated firefighter continues as he, as is each one of them, “wearin’ the cross of my calling.” The song’s message then begins to transcend the physical world. We move to a mystical, spiritual realm beyond the bounds of earth, a dominion where death can be defeated by resurrection. Now the firefighter’s surroundings change. There are “spirits above and b ehind” him with “faces gone black, eyes burnin’ bright.” He utters a prayer in his fear: “May their precious blood forever bind me, Lord, as I stand before your fiery light.” Is this the light p eople often see when near death? And then there is a dual earth/heaven reference as he sees “Mary in the garden.” This can be the Virgin Mary or his own earthly Mary. Whoever she is, she is “in the garden of a thousand sighs”—a creatively sad description of the towers as a graveyard where there are “a thousand sighs.” In the
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firefighter’s prayer, comforting religious images continue: “holy pictures of our c hildren, dancing in a sky filled with light”; “may I feel your arms around me, may I feel your blood mix with mine.” In reality, the firefighter is dead or dying h ere. The last verse of the song is critical and powerful, but only seemingly, contradictory. Springsteen’s juxtaposition in this verse of positive and negative, comforting and troubling images acknowledges the duality of feelings the firefighter is experiencing. While death and the end of his earthly life openly confront the firefighter, he nonetheless maintains “a dream of life.” Among the dream’s mixed images Springsteen notes: “sky of blackness and sorrow,” “sky of love, sky of tears,” “sky of glory and sadness,” “sky of mercy,” sky of fear.” These images are powerfully frightening but yet strangely comfortingly as they announce a spiritual rising— an ascension into Heaven and an inviting “sky of fullness, sky of blessed life.” One might easily deduce from “The Rising” that Springsteen believes the peace and love he envisions are significantly, perhaps completely dependent on a spiritual power and beyond h uman capability. H umans, it appears, need to believe in and come to love an almighty God before ere to call to the reader’s universal peace can reign. I am compelled h attention the 2018 Netflix film Springsteen on Broadway. In that film of his Broadway appearance, the Jersey rocker offers significant evidence that he believes in God and the afterlife. In the video, Springsteen not only devoutly recites the Lord’s Prayer but also relates that he w ill be reunited someday with both his deceased f ather and his old friend, the late Clarence Clemons (Springsteen 2018). All this may indicate Springsteen is still a Believer, which he very likely is. Nevertheless, he follows the religious-based “The Rising” on the a lbum with the somewhat surprising, “Paradise.” In contrast to t hese religious sentiments, the more humanistic nature of the politics extolled in The Rising is evident in one of the a lbum’s most compelling and significant songs, “Paradise.” Here, Springsteen presents two p eople, one a Muslim, the other a Christian. Both have been victimized by the politics of hate. Although the lyrics of “Paradise” are, perhaps, intentionally ambiguous, it appears the Muslim is a suicide bomber scanning faces in a crowd before detonating the device taking his or her own life and the lives of o thers. In the next verse, Springsteen
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introduces the w idow of a Pentagon employee killed in the 9/11 attack. The Muslim and the Christian are separated by many miles and by dif ferent cultures and religions, but Springsteen connects them through the commonality of human suffering, death, and longing. Neither can find solace in ethereal thoughts that beyond earthly death t here exists some version of heaven or paradise. And even when they do gain a mystical glimpse of the dead, they see their eyes not reflecting peace but being as “as empty as paradise” (Springsteen 2002, “Paradise”). What is Springsteen saying here? Do the lyrical messages of “The Rising” and “Paradise” not seem at odds with each other in regard to both the existence of God and an afterlife? The only thing I can say with absolute certainty is that I really do not know what Springsteen means to convey by this. I can, however, offer my interpretation. The seemingly contradictory messages of these songs suggest that the power to bring about a loving global community in which such senseless deaths do not occur rests not with appeals to dogma or even to the Divine. Rather, that power resides within the hearts and minds of humanity. Appeals for a peaceful, loving, benevolent world community that do not call for a significant change in h uman behavior are likely doomed to fail however well-intentioned. Springsteen suggests that unless we are willing to work t oward that goal together and w hether a Divine force hears our prayers or not, the responsibility for a loving society remains with us. While never denying God’s love and power, Springsteen calls upon us to accept primary h uman responsibility for making the world a safer, saner, just place. For another interpretation, similar to mine, of Springsteen’s meaning here, see the article by Mark Graybill (2010). I have been moved by what these lyrics suggest to me about patriotism, God, and the afterlife and I have shared these thoughts in discussions with my students about our own lives and our ongoing personal political development. First, Springsteen while praising patriotism or love of country is also warning us of its limits. Seemingly aware of the very notion of expanding circles of love, is he not challenging us to love not only our country but all others as well? In my view, he is urging us not only to be loving citizens of the United States but loving citizens of the world. Is he not challenging us to move beyond the narrow confines
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of patriotism epitomized by the banal chants of “USA, USA, USA” and expand our circles of love? The song that closes The Rising a lbum, “My City of Ruins,” also points to Springsteen’s support of increased h uman responsibility for building peace in the world. He actually wrote “My City of Ruins” before 9/11. Its intended subject at that time was the sadly declining state of Spring steen’s beloved local city of Asbury Park, New Jersey (White 2014, 180). Its inclusion on The Rising a lbum parenthetically testifies to the growing expansion of Springsteen’s maturing circles of love. His care and devotion t oward his local community extends h ere to the wider United States community and even beyond. Almost eerily, the images Springsteen had invoked earlier to describe the scene in rundown Asbury Park prophetically describe the sad scene of post–9/11 New York City. There is a “blood red circle on the cold dark ground.” The “church door’s blown open” but “the congregation’s gone.” “My brother’s down on his knees.” “There’s tears on the pillow, Darling, where we slept.” “Without your sweet kiss, my soul is lost.” “My city’s in ruins” (Springsteen 2002, “My City of Ruins”). Recognizing the national and, indeed, worldwide crises signified by 9/11 and the danger such attacks pose for people all over the world, Springsteen is alert to the fact that something has to change. He goes on to offer at least a framework for a peaceful solution. In “My City of Ruins,” he asks, after the devastation of 9/11, how do we begin again? And while he seeks God’s blessings in the song, he emphatically and repeatedly stresses that the healing and rebuilding can only be done “with t hese hands.” As noted, rather than looking to a divine solution, he emphasizes that the remedy rests with humanity. Heavenly appeals for a peaceful, loving world community are doomed to fail u nless we are willing to work t oward that goal together. This is evinced in the aforementioned “Paradise.” In that song’s final verse, it appears that an anguished widow, dispirited by the heartbreaking loss of her beloved, is tempted to escape this fate by drowning herself. She, nonetheless, realizes the futility of this decision and reembraces life and the h uman inclination toward trying to make the best of an imperfect world. She notes: “I break above the waves. I feel the sun upon my face” (Springsteen 2002, “Paradise”). Springsteen is calling on all of
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us to embrace life, our common humanity, and each other. And that is distinctly and importantly political. The students in my class, even before hearing The Rising a lbum, have responded knowingly to Springsteen’s political themes of caring and compassionate involvement in the lives of those we love and of our ever-expanding sense of community. One student wrote regarding her assessment of Springsteen’s The Ghost of Tom Joad a lbum focusing on the seldom-acknowledged sufferings of the United States underclass: “I realize how fortunate I am to have been born into a middle-class f amily. I don’t deserve the hand I’ve been dealt any more than the people in his [Springsteen’s] stories deserve the hand they have been dealt. I could have just as easily been sleeping beneath an underpass or trying to sneak across the border.” Another student, a fter hearing “American Skin (41 Shots),” avowed she learned from listening to Springsteen that “just not being racist is not enough. We have to fight for equality b ecause that’s what we would want if we were in the minority and because it’s right.” Another student praised Springsteen for forcing us to take a hard look “at the often-hyped ‘Forrest Gumpness’ of the USA vs. the Youngstowns.” And finally, one student astutely saw a more universal theme in “American Skin (41 Shots)” beyond its controversial focus on one New York City tragedy, concluding that the community of which Springsteen sings is: “One where e very life is valuable. The bloody river isn’t just for the officer pray ecause if we live in a community ing in the vestibule, it is for all of us, b saturated by hatred and do nothing, then we too are stained.” Assessing the Springsteen Course: So What? Does It Work? I hope that the students’ comments presented above attest to their ability to identify political phenomena, develop their own personal political orientations, and recognize and use Springsteen’s lyrics in relating to the world in which these students exist. I have been most impressed by the sophisticated connections made by some students in their semester essays, where they applied Springsteen’s themes and lyrics to both the traditional political world and their own personal political development. These semester essays are distinct from the students’ journal entries noted thus far in this essay and represent the students’ more fully-developed thoughts about Springsteen.
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One student, no doubt influenced by President Reagan’s misguided use of the refrain of “Born in the U.S.A.” in the 1984 presidential election campaign, insightfully contrasted the feel-good views of America as seen in the president’s political ads and the view of America extant in Springsteen’s lyrics. As she noted in her paper: [It is] painfully clear that if Reagan ever did listen to a Bruce Springsteen song, he certainly wasn’t listening very attentively. A line- by-line contrast proves humorously enlightening. Reagan ad—“In a town not too far from where you live, a young family has just moved into a new home.” Lyrics from [Springsteen’s] “My Hometown”—“Now Main Street’s whitewashed windows and vacant stores, seems like t here ain’t nobody wants to come down h ere no more.” Reagan ad—“Right down the street, one of the neighbors has just bought himself a new car, with all the options” Lyrics from [Springsteen’s] “Used Cars”—“Now, mister, the day the lottery I win, I ain’t never gonna’ ride in no used car again. Now, the neighbors come from near and far, as we pull up in our brand-new used car.” Reagan ad—“The factory down the river is working again. Not long ago, people were saying it probably would be closed forever.” Lyrics from “My Hometown”—“They’re closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks. Foreman says t hese jobs are going, boys, and they ain’t coming back.” Reagan ad—“Life is better. America is back. And people have a sense of pride they never felt they’d feel again.” Lyrics from [Springsteen’s] “Born in the U.S.A.”—“You end up like a dog that’s been beat too much, till you spend half your life just covering up. . . . Born in the U.S.A. I was born in the U.S.A.” Another student makes an interesting connection linking several Springsteen classics and the present human condition: I love the title [“Darkness on the Edge of Town”] for the exact reason noted in class: we w ere “Born to Run” but once we start, there is darkness and fear as we try to make our own way. He
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[Springsteen] insinuated that . . . this ride isn’t free. The “Darkness” is melancholy for the most part. It speaks of a world that would as soon beat you down than give you a break. It is not a pretty picture for the common workingman. But Springsteen also provides hope as in “Badlands”: “I believe in the love you gave me. I believe in the faith that could save me. I believe in the hope and I pray that someday it may raise me above these Badlands.” Another student wrote about “Sinaloa Cowboys,” a little recognized song on Springsteen’s The Ghost of Tom Joad a lbum. This song tells the tale of two Mexican b rothers who cross over into the United States in order to help support their family in Mexico. The brothers soon forsake poor-paying farm work to undertake a better-paying but illegal and dangerous endeavor. This change eventually leads to the death of the younger b rother. Their f ather had warned them: “For everyt hing the North gives, it exacts a price in return.” The student noted: “The saddest song here was ‘Sinaloa Cowboys.’ It was so chilling when he dug up the money to bury his brother. This is basically what this whole a lbum was about, the enormous toll life exacts from us. Prostitution, drugs, unemployment, perfectly good people driven to desperate lives of crime. This reminds me of [Springsteen’s] ‘Nebraska’ and I began to understand why the killing spree was done without remorse. It’s the theme that has haunted Springsteen throughout his entire career—a life without hope— although he seems to have escaped it in the end.” Another student was deeply moved by the lyrics in “Living Proof,” Springsteen’s song about the birth of his first child. Her comments clearly reflect her understanding of the power and influence of love. She also expresses her desire to emulate Springsteen’s warm connection to loved ones in her own relationships: “The line that touches me the most and makes me wish Springsteen was my husband is ‘In his mother’s arms it was all the beauty I could take.’ How emotional that a man could say such a beautiful thing about the people he cares about. I d on’t have any children, but I know it has to be a wonderful experience. I just hope the person I marry believes that I and our newborn together are the most beautiful thing he’s seen.” And here are the comments of a young student reacting to Spring steen’s “Wreck on the Highway.” This song tells the poignant tale of a
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young man killed in a tragic auto accident and another young person who comes upon the tragic scene. Springsteen conveys the vulnerability present in our very absence of power and control over that which is most precious to us, life itself. The perceptive student expressed the following insight: “ ‘Wreck on the Highway’ r eally touched me. He [Springsteen] starts out referring to his working day, which always reaches out to everybody else in the working world. This shows that this can happen to anybody—whether it is being in the accident or seeing it. In either case, you have to live it. Life is so precious you can’t forget to take advantage of everyday and live everyday as if it were your last. Shit happens.” And finally, this student finds an interesting and moving connection between Springsteen “Born in the U.S.A.” and the political and social dynamics within her own family: Being that I was born in 1981, I know very little about America’s emotions directly after the Vietnam War. I could not believe that as soon as it was over no one would discuss it, even Hollywood, for a while. I guess when things go wrong and there is not a lot you can do about it, a fter it’s over, p eople just decide to keep quiet. When my parents divorced, no one in my family talked about it for about two years. Now though, it’s a topic that can easily be brought up. I know that divorce and the Vietnam War are not at all the same but both w ere traumatic; one was bad for my f amily, the other was bad for all America. P eople act this way b ecause it is hard to make sense of why some things happen. Conclusion In 1988 Bruce Springsteen told his audience at the Los Angeles Sports Arena that life was all about “looking for connection and I guess that’s why I am here tonight.” Millions of my generation, Springsteen’s contemporaries, know he has connected with them. Indeed, I have personally learned significantly more about both politics and life in having had the opportunity to teach my Springsteen course over the past few years. More important, I am confident the evidence presented above, the telling connections between themes in Springsteen’s lyrics and personal political development, and especially the thoughtful, provocative, politically sophisticated responses of the students in my course give hope that Springsteen w ill continue to connect with the generations of
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t oday and tomorrow. In so doing, their lives and communities, political or otherwise, w ill be enriched. Springsteen’s lyrics can inform attentive listeners that they are not alone in this world, they possess precious and unique talents and abilities, they can and should open their hearts to more and more love, and, perhaps most important, they can be a political force in shaping their own lives and the lives of many o thers. Springsteen’s lyrics can, indeed, teach what it means to be political in the noblest sense of that word.
✧ Springsteen and Patriotism Patriotism can be defined, however incompletely, as “love of country” (Primoratz 2017). This brief definition, however, does not tell us how and why we should love our country. Springsteen offers some guidance h ere. Springsteen has striven in his music and his life to raise what he has described as “a critical patriotic voice” (Springsteen 2016a, 314). The reporter Jack Newfield’s assessment after examining Springsteen’s music as well as his actions has classified Springsteen’s love of country as a “populist patriotism” (Newfield 1986, 190). These two descriptions offer insights into the nature and dimensions of Springsteen’s patriotism. Springsteen’s critical voice has led him to view the United States the way the British statesman Oliver C romwell reportedly wanted his portrait painted—“with warts and all.” Springsteen’s patriotism is a discerning and discriminating one. He does not blindly, unreflectively, and unconditionally side with his country. This version of patriotism “is expressed in vicarious feelings: in pride of one’s country’s merits and achievements, and in shame for its lapses or crimes (when these are acknowledged, rather than denied)” (Primoratz 2017). Springsteen does not love his country in the abstract but rather for the cherished principles for which it stands and the virtues it exemplifies such as freedom, equality of opportunity, justice, fairness, compassion, and an all-embracing sense of community (Bill of Rights Institute n.d.; Primoratz 2017). Springsteen’s support of critical patriotism has been deftly defended in the literature of philosophy and political science. The professor of philosophy Stephen Nathanson categorizes the version of love of country Springsteen espouses as a form of “moderate patriotism.” Nathanson describes
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“moderate patriotism” as a “morally constrained version of patriotism . . . limited in the range of actions that it requires citizens to support and conditional on the nature of the nation to which loyalty is directed.” In thoughtful, resounding words that I feel Springsteen would embrace, Nathanson endorses this “moderate patriotism.” “Some may think that a patriotism that is so bounded by limits and conditions cannot count as genuine loyalty. The alternative, however, is a form of patriotism that is so free of moral limits and conditions that it requires automatic assent to even the vilest evils, so long as they are done in the name of the nation. To insist that patriotism must take this extreme form in order to be genuine is to undermine the claim that patriotism is a worthwhile ideal for morally conscientious people to adopt” (Nathanson 1989). In the spirit of critical and moderate patriotism, Springsteen reminds us that true patriots embrace the flag not as a meaningless totem but rather as a symbol of these cherished principles. In Springsteen’s “Long Way Home” from his 2007 Magic a lbum, a father patriotically tells his son that the flag flying over the courthouse stands for certain principles that tell us “Who we are, what we’ll do and what we w on’t.” Springsteen’s “populist patriotism” reflects his respect, compassion, and empathy for all in his country but especially the common p eople in both the United States and abroad, who are often denied the promises made to them by their national leaders. Newfield has pointed to Springsteen’s sharp awareness of “the gap between America’s promise and per formance.” And, in this vein, the journalist concludes that Springsteen “sees America as it is, with all its jobless veterans, homeless p eople, and urban ghettos. And he retains his idealism in spite of everything, because his patriotism has room for paradox. At a Springsteen concert, one song wants to make you cheer for America, the next wants to make you cry for America—and then change it” (Newfield 1986, 190). One can even sense in Springsteen’s writing a desire to move beyond the perceived constrictions of love of country represented by patriotism to a love of all humankind embodied in universalism. He conveyed this Stoic motion of expanding circles of love leading to a universal dimension in his post–9/11 a lbum The Rising. Although the a lbum is traditionally patriotic in its primary focus on the p eople of the United States, Springsteen conveys his universality by including respectful references to the United States would-be e nemy, the Muslims of the world.
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The combining of the Pakistani singer Asif Ali Khan and his group with the E Street Band gives a meaningful Middle Eastern “Kasbah” spirit to the song “Worlds Apart” on the a lbum. Springsteen strikes a universal and inclusive note here. The same song also conveys that while love and compassion have been tried in the past among warring factions, we remain “worlds apart.” Still, we must keep trying to live together in peace. Springsteen raises still another note of recognition and respect for the Muslim world in the lines stating that we must continue seeking to come together “ ’neath Allah’s blessed rain.” And then the call to let the current war and the politics of hatred, the politics of us versus them, the politics of patriot against patriot be replaced by the universal politics of love: “We’ve got this moment now to live then it’s all just dust and dark. Let’s let love give what it gives, Let’s let love give what it gives” (Springsteen 2002, “Worlds Apart”; White 2014, 183). Still another reflection of the universality expressed by Springsteen on The Rising a lbum appears in the song “Paradise.” As noted earlier, Springsteen even shows compassion for the grieving family of a Muslim suicide bomber if not the very bomber: “Plastics, wire and your kiss. The breath of eternity on your lips” (Springsteen 2002, “Paradise”). The following two essays examine how Springsteen’s “critical patriotic voice” and “populist patriotism” play out in his love for his country. Both Essay 2, “ ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ and Patriotism,” and Essay 3, “But Was It Right?” point to his willingness to criticize his beloved country when he believes it has acted in serious violation of its fundamental creed and to underline his commitment to speak up for the common people. In both essays, this love and compassion for his country and its people are evident.
Essay 2. “Born in the U.S.A.” and Patriotism As previously noted, President Ronald Reagan and his team are ultimately responsible for their misinterpretation of Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” In fairness, however, one cannot completely fault the president and his staff. The United States flag draping the Born in the U.S.A. a lbum cover and Springsteen’s powerful anthem-like rendition of the song “Born in the U.S.A.” on the a lbum helped add to the confusion. The song’s resounding refrain of “Born in the U.S.A.” also led many,
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including Reagan, to conclude that Springsteen intended the song as a glowing and traditionally patriotic salute to the United States. The song, indeed, suggests patriotic pride, but in its own subtle and distinct way. The protagonist in Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” (1984) gets into a “little hometown jam.” What kind of jam? That is not clear but during the Vietnam War some individuals who did get into trouble with the law w ere reportedly given a choice of jail or some other consequence, including having to sign up for service in the military (Powers 2019). And so, this young man in “Born in the U.S.A.” agrees to enlist in the military to fight in Vietnam rather than being incarcerated. Not the most patriotic of reasons, perhaps, but a vivid illustration of the extent to which the often desperate underclass paid the highest price for that war. One of Springsteen’s first drummers, Bart Haynes, was killed in Vietnam and when he knew he was g oing there, he said he r eally did not know where it was and, I suspect, did not at all know why he was g oing t here (Carlin 2012, 35). In this song, the vet returns from Vietnam and is seeking post-service employment. Those in authority, the young man’s former employer and the “VA-Man,” cannot even finish their sentences. The “hiring man” says, “Son if it was up to me” and the “V.A. man” adds, “Son, d on’t you understand” (Springsteen 1984, “Born in the U.S.A.”). Their professed ineffectiveness symbolizes the broken promises made to returning Vietnam vets. And notice the introductory lyrics and the sad metaphor of a cowering dog that has been beat too much, reflecting the plight of the working class in the United States that often leaves enlistment in the military as the last-best or least-worse option. The song also tells us that after the war, “They’re still t here, he’s all gone.” The Vietnam War, like many wars, was simply not worth it for many of those who had to fight. Ten years later? The war ends. The scars do not. The vet is all gone. The forgotten American soldier or worker who sacrificed for this country and then was seemingly abandoned by it is a repeated theme in Springsteen’s lyrics. In “Youngstown” from his 1995 a lbum, The Ghost of Tom Joad, Springsteen laments the fate of the many veterans of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. After their military service, many became steelworkers only to see the mills shut down, leaving them desperate and without sufficient employment while corporate America and stockholders
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thrived. Springsteen’s “Youngstown” ironically notes that in shutting down the mills, “Them big boys did what Hitler couldn’t do.” And in a final rebuke, Youngstown’s former and now unemployed or underemployed steelworker bitterly reminds the sated mill o wners and stockholders, “Once I made you rich enough, rich enough to forget my name.” And what is it that is so admirable and poised about this vet in “Born in the U.S.A.” that Springsteen tells us he remains a “cool rocking D addy in the U.S.A.”? It seems a strange description but conveys that no m atter how much he has suffered in this system, including a horrible war and postwar oblivion, he is still here, and that survival in this hard land is something of which to be proud. And so, even with the obvious anti– Vietnam War sentiments of the song and its criticism of the system’s treatment of its returning veterans, an element of patriotic pride remains. Finally, I would like to address more directly the issue as to w hether or not Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A” is a song of patriotic protest or patriotic pride. I think it is both. In the spirit of critical patriotism, Springsteen reprimands this country when he sincerely believes it has not lived up to its own principles and promises—and the song addresses those concerns. And yet, Springsteen criticizes because he truly does love this country and the principles and promises for which it stands. Jim Cullen writes of the sense of pride he sees in Springsteen’s depiction of both the nation and the vets. He notes that “ ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ ” . . . is about ‘pride.’ Even a casual, first-time listener to the song usually grasps this—in fact the grit and determination the song exudes is far more obvious than the lament at its core” (Cullen 1997, 78). And Cullen goes on to express the source of that pride: “Pride not in the hope for, or fulfillment of, American Dreams, but pride in the will to survive them. That’s why this man makes the improbable declaration, ‘I’m a cool rocking daddy in the U.S.A.’ at the end of the song: he’s recasting the very definition of what it means to be a success in America” (97). And, I might add, what it means to be a patriot in the United States. In concert, Springsteen has performed two versions of this song, the heroic anthem backed by E Street and a much more somber, less heroic, solo acoustic offering. The latter version is the one Springsteen now sings more often, prob ably to avoid its misinterpretation. He has taken additional steps to avoid furthering the mistaken super-patriotic interpretation of the song. Opposed to any use of his music to sell products,
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Springsteen reportedly rejected a $12 million offer from Chrysler for the right to use “Born in the U.S.A.” in an ad campaign. Chrysler eventually used Kenny Rogers’s “The Pride is Back” instead (Marsh 2004, 624–625).
✧ Essay 3. “But Was It Right?” When I turned sixty-one years old in 2002 and was looking forward to a comfortable retirement after a safe and rewarding career as a college professor, I read and was shaken by James Dannenberg’s essay, “What I Did Was L egal, But Was It Right?” (2002, 19). Dannenberg wrote about his belated realization that the sacrifices and the suffering endured by working-class, nonprivileged young men in serving in the brutal Vietnam War have come back to haunt the middle-to upper–class, privileged members of his (and my) generation. Dannenberg correctly and convincingly noted about that war: “Some boys went to Vietnam, and some did not. And we all know who we are” (19). Additionally, we all probably realize that the bravest and most moral of all of us might very well have been those of our generation who refused induction or escaped to Canada. Much later, I became aware that Springsteen and I shared a perspective on escaping military serving in that war. And, once again, Springsteen’s thoughts provided helpful insights regarding what I did or did not do. Before encountering the Dannenberg essay, I had been aware that many who were privileged did not serve in Vietnam but somehow, however naively or self-indulgently, I did not include myself in that category. Later on, as I aged and learned, I came to understand that unlike U.S. wars today, which are fought by an all-volunteer military, in the Vietnam War, mainly draftees fought, suffered, and died. Although it is likely that the working class w ill always constitute a disproportionately higher proportion of even a so-called all-volunteer military, this, sad to say, was especially the case in the Vietnam War. I have often emphasized to my students in citing the unfairness of the military draft that notable privileged individuals, including Dan Quayle, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, and Donald Trump, escaped serv ice in Vietnam. Dannenberg’s essay, however, shattered my self- serving illusion and revealed my own privilege.
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In disturbing confirmation of what Dannenberg has written, I, a somewhat privileged working-class kid with a college athletic scholarship, had obtained both an education-and then later an FBI-based draft exemption during the Vietnam War. I do not think I knowingly attended undergraduate and graduate school or l ater started working for the FBI only to escape serving in Vietnam. What haunted me at the time was that I could not be certain of my motivations. Did I consciously choose to avoid the draft or did I unreflectively follow a career path I thought I was supposed to follow? And just maybe, even the latter is what being privileged is all about. Later, and like Springsteen, I did visit the Vietnam Wall Memorial in Washington, DC. I remember looking through the books containing the names of those who w ere killed during the war. I searched for the names of the young p eople killed who had lived in the cities and towns of New Jersey where I grew up and registered for the draft during the Vietnam War. At the time, I thought I was d oing this out of a morbid and really unfocused curiosity and, perhaps, I was. Still, and after reading Dannenberg, I am more convinced that the Vietnam War was haunting me that day, as it still does. In reflection on reading the Dannenberg piece, I was looking for the names of those who died instead of me, the names of those who, in effect, as Dannenberg has written, “took my place.” It was not u ntil 2016 when I read Springsteen’s autobiography Born to Run that I realized he and I had similar thoughts about not serving in Vietnam. And as often happens, his thoughts provided a perspective I had missed. In Born to Run, Springsteen expresses his own concerns, mirroring my own, about having avoided conscription into military service and not having to serve in Vietnam. At different times in our lives, Springsteen and I both found ourselves in front of the Vietnam Wall Memorial in Washington, DC, reflecting on t hose who had gone in our place. As Springsteen puts it: “As I grew older, sometimes I wondered who went in my place. Somebody did. What was his fate? Did he live? I’ll never know” (Springsteen 2016a, 103). In further reflection, Springsteen points to a significant connection in his life: ater on in life, when I met Ron Kovic, author of Born on the Fourth L of July, or Bobby Muller one of the founders of the Vietnam Veterans of America, both men who fought and sacrificed, returning
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from the war in wheelchairs, men who became strong activists against the war, I felt a duty and a sense of connection. Maybe it was another dose of my survivor’s guilt or maybe it was just the common generational experience of living through a war that had touched everyone. It was New Jersey men like them who went and fought in my place. All I know is when I visit the names of my friends on the wall in Washington, DC, I’m glad mine’s not up there. (Springsteen 2016a, 103) Despite my own and Springsteen’s sense of survivor’s guilt, I share his thought that when I visit the names on the wall in Washington, DC, “I’m glad mine’s not up there.” And even that seemingly selfish thought can be better understood by taking to heart Springsteen’s lyrics. There is no doubt that this realization of the sacrifices of working-class young men and women has come back to haunt members of my generation. In the song “Badlands” from his 1982 Nebraska album, Springsteen notes the sufferings of t hose who must try to survive in a sometimes harsh and cruel world. He tells us that in such a state of existence including, perhaps, having to try and live through a n eedless and senseless war, times can be grim and unbearable. At these times, he reminds us that when t here is “trouble in the heartland” any of us can get “caught up in a crossfire that [we] don’t understand.” Still, he notes that for those who survive such times, even for t hose who have lived to trace the names of their friends on the wall of the dead, “it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive” (Springsteen 1978, “Badlands”). I find some comfort in that thought.
✧ Studying Springsteen In 2016 Springsteen published his autobiography Born to Run. Reviews were highly favorable. Initially, I felt the book was not as forthcoming about his life as it could have been. I still feel his sincere and honest account does not tell us his whole story but I have become more understanding, accepting, and respectful of the reasons behind his decision not to tell all. As he puts it, “Discretion and the feelings of others don’t allow it” (Springsteen 2016a, 501). The personal is political, of course, but it also can be private.
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Essay 4. Image and Reality: A Review of Springsteen’s Autobiography Born to Run Reader beware!! In his otherwise praiseworthy autobiography, Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen warns on the first page of the foreword that he will attempt to mislead us. He writes, “I come from a boardwalk town where almost everything is tinged with a bit of fraud. So am I” (Springsteen 2016a, xi). Elsewhere in the book, he refers to himself as a “phony” (169) and a “poser” (228). And even at the close of the book’s more than five hundred pages, he tells the reader, “I h aven’t told you ‘all’ about myself” (501). On first reading, this admitted lack of forthrightness on Springsteen’s part troubled me. I was disappointed in his seeming unwillingness to risk threatening his iconic image by leveling with the reader about events in his past that might have reflected unfavorably on his character. In my view, Springsteen is a well-intentioned man who often admits his flaws and imperfections while nonetheless striving to become a better human being. The evasive approach in Born to Run did not seem to square with the man whose brilliant work, honesty, and admirable character I had long admired. A second and closer reading of Born to Run has subsequently eased my troubles with the book. Springsteen is, indeed, circumspect in the book, but he is also revealingly truthful and honest. Ultimately, the image matches the reality. There is forthrightness to be found even while he justifiably chooses what and what not to discuss. Some readers might have to struggle to find the book’s truth, but it is t here. I trust this review will help in that endeavor. What I found praiseworthy and enjoyable in Born to Run, even at first reading, is Springsteen’s gifted writing. Sprinkled abundantly throughout the text are literary gems reflecting the poetic beauty, street smarts, and deft humor one relishes in his work. He refers to his mighty-mite mother and aunts whose diminutive size can never contain their spirited pride and power as “three mini Muhammad Alis, rope-a-doping the world” (Springsteen 2016a, 19). Reflecting, perhaps, on his own past missteps, Springsteen reveals that an eastern city blanketed by snow brings “no work, no school, the
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world shutting its big mouth for a while, the dirty streets covered over in virgin white, like all the missteps you’ve taken have been erased by nature” (160). Springsteen, the f ather of three, offers an experienced take on parenthood: “The endorphin high of birth w ill fade, but its trace remains with you forever, its fingerprints indelible proof of love’s presence and daily grandeur” (368–369). On the questionable sculptural aesthetics of his beloved Asbury Park, a self-deprecating Springsteen perceptively aware of the likely gap between his image and his reality notes, “There is even a ridiculous bust of me somewhere in town primed and ready for seagull shit” (457). And, still another jewel is in his poignant tribute to his late friend and E Street band saxophonist Clarence Clemons: “Clarence’s body was a vast world in and of itself. He was a mountainous, moving, kind citadel of flesh in a storm. . . . Clarence was elemental in my life and losing him was like losing the rain” (475). Admirable again are Springsteen’s frank descriptions of both his and his father’s debilitating dark moods in their mutual battles with depression. Springsteen’s knowing words recall William Styron’s previously noted view that “depression” is “a veritable howling tempest in the brain” (Styron 1990, 37–38). Channeling Styron’s estimation of depression, attles with his demons. Springsteen describes himself during his own b He confesses he is “a freight train bearing down, loaded with nitroglycerin and r unning quickly out of track” (Springsteen 2016a, 484). He adds that during these periods where he relies heavily on the love, support, and understanding of his spouse, Patti Scialfa, “I can be cruel: I run, I dissemble, I dodge, I weave, I disappear, I return, I rarely apologize, and all the while Patti holds down the fort as I’m trying to burn it down” (484). And what of character and forthrightness? For starters, I was curious as to how, if at all, Springsteen would even mention, let alone discuss, an embarrassing profanity-laced deposition he gave as a young man in 1976 when involved in litigation resulting from the unfair but nonetheless legal contracts then in force between him and his agent, Mike Appel. The courts eventually resolved the issues in Appel’s favor but also allowed Springsteen to terminate his working relationship with Appel. To Springsteen’s credit, he refers to his deposition, even providing a
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source—the book by Marc Eliot (with Mike Appel), Down Thunder Road: The Making of Bruce Springsteen— where Springsteen’s intemperate comments are more fully presented (Eliot and Appel 1992, 188–223; see also, Alterman 1999, 86–89). Furthermore, in Born to Run, Springsteen forthrightly and apologetically describes his actions at that deposition: “I did not play nice. My answers were profane, part theatre, part truly felt anger bordering on the violent” (256). In Born to Run, Springsteen reveals an important and meaningful footnote to the 1976 termination of his contracts with Appel. He writes that prior to the litigation, an attorney told him his contracts with Appel “were the worst contracts he’d seen since Frankie Lymon’s,” in which, as noted e arlier, most of the royalties generated by songs composed by Lymon and other members of his group went to the record company and not to the composers. Additional terms this attorney used to describe t hese contracts to Springsteen were “slave,” “rip-off,” and “conflict of interest” (248). The reported unfairness of the contracts has led over the years to Appel’s being cast as the bête noir, the unscrupulous manipulator of the young and naive Springsteen. In his autobiography, Springsteen admirably provides an alternative, more gracious view. He reports that before the dispute even went to court, he had a private booze-filled drinking session with Appel. Springsteen reveals that at that session he was willing to re- sign the contract on the same terms with Appel and end the dispute. And who saved Springsteen from what would have been a very damaging, profligate, and foolish decision? Springsteen candidly writes, “High on many shots of whiskey, I pressed pen to paper. I felt a hand ose papers grab mine. A voice said, ‘No, not like this.’ It was Mike. Th would never be signed and Mike’s and my relationship would soon be in ruins” (Springsteen 2016a, 250). The manipulator, the bête noir, the reportedly unscrupulous Mike Appel saved Springsteen. Springsteen’s willingness to disclose this little-k nown fact about Appel tells much about his character and devotion to the truth. In Born to Run, Springsteen references, however opaquely, a number of other instances in which his actions did not reflect his positive image. Because he does not generally provide extensive details of these instances, one can only speculate as to what they were. Given what he does write, however, my best guess is that t hese involved occasions when he gener-
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ally displayed a lack of self-control or fidelity in his relationships with others. Although the specific instances are not detailed, Springsteen’s direct criticism of himself in t hese cases is evident throughout Born to Run. He notes at one point, “I’d had it down. I’d routinely and roughly failed perfectly fine w omen over and over again” (272). He adds, “I ‘loved’ as best I could, but I hurt some people I really cared about along the way. I didn’t have a clue as to how to do anything else” (273). And more: “There was a part of me, a significant part that was capable of much carelessness and emotional cruelty, that sought to reap damage and harvest shame, that wanted to wound and to hurt and make sure those who loved me paid for it” (357). The mea culpa litany continues. In writing about his general approach to personal relationships, he states, “My experience with relationships and love . . . a ll told me I w asn’t built for it. I grew very uncomfortable, very fast, with domestic life” (272). Adding later what appears a frank and honest observation about his approach to marriage at least pre–Patti Scialfa, he writes that his “model” of matrimony “came with a sexual catch-22, not quite right for the confines of monogamy but no libertine either.” He adds, “I operated best within a semi-monogamist (is there such a t hing?) system, generally holding firm and steady, but occasionally deploying the United States military’s ‘don’t ask, d on’t tell’ policy. That’s a hard sell” (331). And even a fter his marriage to Scialfa, his persistent if somewhat abated self-criticism continues even while once again the details of the incidents meriting his contrition go unspecified. Battling depression, seeking to evade its suffocating power through any escape and still trying to hold together his marriage, he writes, “I wanted to kill what loved me b ecause I couldn’t stand being loved. It infuriated and outraged me, someone having the temerity to love me—nobody does that—a nd I’ll show you why” (357). He adds: “It was ugly and a red flag for the poison I had r unning through my veins, my genes. Part of me was rebelliously proud of my emotionally violent behavior, always cowardly, and aimed at the w omen in my life. Th ere was assertion, t here was action, t here was no impotence” (357). It is quite interesting that Springsteen chose to italicize the phrase “no impotence” in the statement immediately above. What did he mean
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by bringing our attention to that phrase? I want neither to understate nor overstate his use of the ambiguous term “no impotence.” It can be taken to simply reflect his view that unlike the lethargy experienced by many victims of depression, he was not powerless to act during his bouts with the demon. On the other hand, “no impotence” can be understood as a man’s ability and likelihood to continue to perform sexually. Whatever the intended meaning, Springsteen admirably does not hide behind the mental illness inherited from his f ather as the sole source of his questionable actions at this time. He straightforwardly notes, “I can’t lay it all at my pop’s feet; plenty of it is my own weakness and inability at this late date to put it all away, my favorite harpies, the ones I count on to return to flit and nibble around the edges of my beautiful reward” (413). It is left unclear just who or what are Springsteen’s “favorite harpies.” Many should read Born to Run. Springsteen has long urged his fans not to follow anyone’s version of the truth, including his, but rather to seek their own truth. I have tried to do that in this review as well as in this book. What rings most clearly through Born to Run is the message many have always found and loved in Springsteen’s work and his character. In depicting his own struggles to live up to his aspirations, he reminds us that while we often aspire to noble heights, we much more often fail. Our image is often not our reality. Our quest to be the person we want to be falls sadly short of the person we are at times. In this inevitable existential struggle there are, as Springsteen concludes in Born to Run, “no permanent victories” (312). And yet we, and he, go on. As Albert Camus has told us, “The struggle towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart” (Camus 1955, 123). Somewhere, Sisyphus and Camus are happy.
✧ Springsteen the earnest? Springsteen the saintly? Springsteen the good? But what about Springsteen the bad? Or, at least, Springsteen the not so good? I asked the above questions in my presentat ion at a 2015 academic symposium on Bruce Springsteen. I had delivered two traditional academic papers at a previous gathering of a growing group of Springsteen
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scholars. Both papers praised Springsteen and his work and w ere well received. Afterward, however, I remained uneasy on several fronts. It seemed that Springsteen scholars, including me, were offering a limited picture of Springsteen, one far more glowing and hagiographical than critical and probing, one more celebratory than scholarly.
Essay 5. A Note on the State of Springsteen Scholarship In criticizing the state of Springsteen scholarship, I know I have been significantly influenced by my chosen career. I am a political scientist, an academic observer of the often rough-and-tumble world of politics. In that c areer, I have participated in many conferences where the focus, whether it be a U.S. president, a Supreme Court decision, a congressional act, or any similar political topic, was often roundly praised and supported by some participants while being equally criticized and opposed by o thers. Debate at these political conferences often became heated and contentious. And, commendably, it seemed no viewpoint ever went unchallenged. I did not conclude that the Springsteen meetings at the symposiums lacked scholarship. It did seem to me nevertheless that the general celebratory tone at these sessions hindered and limited their scholarly weight. I really do not know why many Springsteen scholars take this celebratory approach to their subject. Still, and somewhat tangentially, I briefly venture one explanation. Many of the growing numbers of Springsteen scholars w ere likely fans of the Jersey rocker before their more scholarly interests in him took hold. Conceivably, their earlier devotion as fans contributed to some degree in shaping a scholarly approach inclined to be both favorable and sympathetic to Springsteen and his work. Such an approach, however sincere and well-intentioned, likely led to their confirming the prevailing orthodoxy of the excellence of Springsteen as an artist and as a man and not to challenging that conventional view. I would include myself in that criticism. Another seeming divide in Springsteen scholarship is also worthy of note. Most Springsteen scholars focus more on his work, his musical
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contributions, and less on Springsteen the man, his character and behavior. Members of the former group would strongly agree with the view that the art always remains more important than the artist. Eric Alterman is one who clearly takes this position, noting that “Bruce, the person does not really matter to me. He could be just as dickish as any famous rock star and it wouldn’t matter. The music is what matters” (Alterman 2019, 11). Other observers, probably the minority at present, are interested in Springsteen as a man, his character, his actions, and his moral compass. They agree with the axiom that the art and the artist can never really be separated or that even if they can be divided, both are worthy of serious study. I believe there is a reasonable explanation for how and why this divide in Springsteen scholarship has developed. His work, his music, is so abundant, so diverse, and so widely and relatively easily available that a healthy majority of Springsteen scholars not surprisingly turns to that work in their studies. Conversely, information about Springsteen the man, while surely not unavailable and certainly enhanced by the 2016 publication of Born to Run, his tell-some autobiography, is so much less accessible and more incomplete in regard to the personal side of this relatively private public figure. Accordingly, only a minority of researchers pursues it. T oday, I find myself in this latter relatively smaller group. Arguments as to whether one approach focusing on the art or the artist is better than the other appear generally useless. Given what more and more p eople perceive as Springsteen’s growing influence on the American scene, both approaches can generate beneficial findings. Springsteen’s work remains important to me but so does his intriguing and complex character. I am driven, hopelessly perhaps, to find the ehind the work. I am thankful for the remarks of a fellow whole man b Springsteen scholar and New Hampshire educator, Patrick Ganz. In a personal email to me, Ganz concisely and effectively captures the spirit that I feel best underlies this approach, noting: “I wonder if Bruce fans are not searching for a hero, so much as we are looking for evidence that a person who writes songs of aspiration, contemplation, conviction, and ethical responsibility is also a person who gives more to human soil than he takes out. Not an angel, not a saint, but someone who at least works on aligning one’s self with one’s proclaimed beliefs.”
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In that spirit, I have prepared a play, “Springsteen, Warts and All: An Existential Rock ’n’ Roll Play in One Act,” which focuses, however speculatively, on Springsteen’s character and behavior. Using him as a focus in a fictional play based on facts, I attempt to make a universal point about the dual and conflicting roles of fear and love in all our lives. I also, I believe, present a richer, more complex version of Springsteen, Cromwellian warts and all. While I committed myself in writing the play to challenge the orthodox approach that I perceived in Springsteen scholarship, I also pledged that no m atter how critical and unflattering I might be regarding Springsteen, I would always try to remain constructive and fair. The play is based in part on some aspects of Springsteen’s life. Much of the play’s dialogue stems from words spoken or lyrics sung by him. I take some license with the material, subjectively interpreting some controversial events. I also detail a darker side of Springsteen not often explored or even acknowledged by some fans and scholars. I also use some profane and offensive language. Many of these attributes could be disturbing to some. Still, I continue to see the play as my sincere effort to more fully understand the dimensions of Bruce Springsteen. The play takes place in a dingy New Jersey bar “down the shore.” It features four characters, two males and two females. There are a sixty- four-year-old Bruce Springsteen and a youthful Bruce Springsteen. One female character is Lynn Goldsmith, a real-life former lover of the youthful Springsteen. The dominant female character is an intriguing, sexy, middle-aged w oman, Livedyxe Seno, referred to as “Seno” throughout the play. Seno, as the hidden word play of her full name confirms, is a literal ambassador from hell on a mission. She is at the bar to encourage and even energize Springsteen’s darker side and to convince him before he dies to sign a contract for eternity with her “recording company.” Her pitch to him to join the rockin’ devils in Hades is steeped in her wide knowledge and love of rock ’n’ roll and Springsteen’s work. At one point, quoting the rocker Billy Joel, she tells Springsteen that in the afterlife he would be much happier laughing with the sinners rather than crying with the saints (Joel 1977, “Only the Good Die Young”). She also appeals to Springsteen’s love of the American literary tradition by invoking Mark
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Twain’s story as noted in Quote Investigator, about the d ying man who could not make up his mind about which place to go. The man believed both had advantages: “Heaven for the climate, hell for the company” (Quote Investigator, n.d., n.p., quoting Twain). During Springsteen and Seno’s tension-filled conversation at the bar, the aging rock star must confront doubts as to the authenticity of his image. Is he, as a man and not just a rock star, really as good as perceived? Seno slyly attempts to expose Springsteen’s dirty human core by employing flashbacks to Springsteen’s indiscreet and brooding youth and a revealing live interview with Goldsmith. Is he really as bad as perceived by Seno? Is it fear or love (or both) ruling Springsteen’s soul? See Springsteen’s “Cautious Man” (1987) in this regard. Seno persistently baits Springsteen and encourages him and later Goldsmith to unveil more and more of his darker side. While viewers will draw their own conclusions from the play, it has an important universal, if s imple, message. They can learn from the Springsteen/Seno meeting that much that is brutal and ugly in h uman behavior stems from fear. Much that is compassionate and beautiful emanates from love. In examining the supposed idyllic but often troubled life of a rock star, the audience can learn that they are not alone in their own existential strug gle to conquer fear and embrace love. No m atter how often they stumble along the way, the sweet pathway to love, however uncharted, awaits them. Unfortunately, and given the unsparing uncertainties of h uman existence, other bitter and harsh paths might also await them. Springsteen has long urged his fans not to follow anyone’s version of the truth, including his but rather to seek their own truth. Additionally, he has encouraged those who write about him not to soften or edit out unfavorable material. In this admirable vein, he told one of his biographers, Peter Ames Carlin, “When people talk about me like I’m perfect I feel diminished. If y ou’ve found out anything about me that y ou’re not using because you think it might embarrass me or make me look bad? Put it in” (Carlin 2019, 113–114). I have tried to do that not only in the play but also in much of my writing about Springsteen. Springsteen has often reminded us that like all h umans he and we have our good sides and our bad sides. Often, our aspirations for the good eople we are. Speakpeople we want to be do not at all measure up to the p
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ing for himself and, at least indirectly and metaphorically for all of us, Springsteen has proclaimed that his music, his art, is better than he is as a man (Loder 1984). In depicting a somewhat darker version of Bruce Springsteen, I respectfully seek to present a richer portrait of him that w ill make a contribution to scholarship as well as to h uman understanding.
✧ Springsteen, Class, and Depression Essay 6, “Springsteen and Depression” and Essay 7, “Straddling Class and Demons” document how two people from working-class families have confronted the stigmatizing issue of depression in their lives. Politics deals with power, and depression has often been and remains a powerfully influential factor in Springsteen’s life and in my own. Psychiatrists and other mental health professionals continue to express how both individual and societal factors contribute to m ental stability.
Essay 6. Springsteen and Depression In Bruce Springsteen’s 2016 autobiography, Born to Run, he writes courageously and honestly about his and his f ather’s ongoing b attle with depression. In a commendable effort that w ill help reduce the stigma still associated with this illness, Springsteen posits his own need for therapy, medication, and the patience, care, and support of loved ones in this fight. The following critical and extended passages from the book resonate with me and I assume with all others who have dealt or will have to deal with depression or who have or will have loved ones so afflicted. The blues don’t jump right on you. They come creeping. Shortly after my sixtieth I slipped into a depression like I hadn’t experienced since that dusty night in Texas thirty years e arlier. It lasted for a year and a half and devastated me. When these moods hit me, usually few will notice—not Mr. Landau [Springsteen’s long-time manager Jon Landau], no one I work with in the studio, not the band, never the audience, hopefully not the children—but Patti will observe a freight train bearing down, loaded with nitroglycerin and
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r unning quickly out of track. During t hese periods I can be cruel: I run, I dissemble, I dodge, I weave, I disappear, I return, I rarely apologize, and all the while Patti holds down the fort as I’m trying to burn it down. She stops me. She gets me to the doctors and says, “This man needs a pill.” I do. I’ve been on anti-depressants for the last twelve to fifteen years of my life, and to a lesser degree but with the same effect they had for my father, they have given me a life I would not have been able to maintain without them. They work. I return to Earth, home and my f amily. The worst of my destructive behavior curtails itself and my humanity returns. I was crushed between sixty and sixty-two, good for a year and out again for from sixty-three to sixty-four. Not a good record. (Springsteen 2016a, 484–485) And although Springsteen seems to understand that a permanent and total victory over depression is unlikely, he has learned how to live with “Churchill’s black dog.” He writes: I told my doc I could not live like this. I earned my living doing shows, giving interviews, and being closely observed. And as soon as someone said “Clarence,” it was going to be all over. So, wisely, off to the psychopharmacologist he sent me. Patti and I walked in and met a vibrant, white-haired welcoming but professional gentleman in his sixties or so. I sat down and, of course, I broke into tears. I motioned to him with my hand; this is it. This is why I’m here. I can’t stop crying! He looked at me and said, “We can fix this.” Three days and a pill later the waterworks stopped, on a dime. Unbelievable. I returned to myself. I no longer needed to paddle, pump, play or challenge fate. I didn’t need to tour I felt normal. (Springsteen 2016a, 487) Near the end of his autobiography, Springsteen emphasizes the critical role love has continued to play in helping him in his ongoing strug gle with depression. It is human love, the deepest of connections, that has sustained him when the demon returns as demons are so inclined to do. Springsteen’s demon returned at the end of the tour for the High Hopes a lbum in 2014:
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The only t hing that kept me right side up during this was Patti. Her love, compassion and assurance that I would be all right w ere, during many dark hours, all I had to go on. Mentally, just when I thought I was in a part of my life where I’m supposed to be cruising, my sixties were a rough, rough ride. I came back to the States slightly changed and still wrestling with myself day by day. But t hings became a little more normal as time passed. I’ve long ago stopped struggling to get out of bed and I’ve got my work energy back. That feels good. Two years have passed and it can feel like it never really happened. I can’t specifically recall the state. The best I can do is think, “What the fuck was that? That’s not me.” But it’s in me, chemically, genetically, whatever you want to call it, and as I’ve said before, I’ve got to watch. The only real bulwark against it was love. (Springsteen 2016a, 500) Kudos to Louis P. Masur for trumpeting the significance of Spring steen’s openness in his autobiography about his struggles with depression and the limits of the American dream as presently constituted. Masur deftly notes about Springsteen: “Hopefully, decades of therapy and treatment for depression have allowed him to find life as rewarding off the stage as on. One of the g reat gifts he offered in his autobiography was to confess to a lifetime struggle with unhappiness and a need for antidepressants. How can that be?, we wonder. Isn’t he famous? Isn’t he wealthy? More than ever, in this culture that vaunts celebrity and fortune, we need to be reminded that the real American dream includes rather than excludes, nourishes rather than famishes, satisfies rather than disappoints” (Masur 2019, 71–72).
✧ So much of what Springsteen conveys in the passages above has been a part of my life. As Essay 7, “Straddling Class and Demons” w ill convey, I have also fought a long b attle with depression caused at least in part by insecurities stemming from class issues and a distorted sense of self. I have done so for the past thirty-two years and know that I w ill be on medication for the rest of my life. I share Springsteen’s cautious understanding that in regard to depression in one’s life “there are no permanent victories” (Springsteen 2016a, 312). No m atter how good I feel,
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there is always the thought that the demon might very well be back. Like Springsteen, my lifeline has been the love and support of o thers, especially a loving, patient, smart, and understanding partner/friend/ spouse.
Essay 7. Straddling Class and Demons New Jersey, 1941–1959 Born in 1941, I was raised in crowded Union City, New Jersey, described as the U.S. city with the highest population density per square mile. Th ere was diversity in that density. As experienced in our third-floor apartment from which we could at times dreamingly glimpse New York City across the Hudson River, our lodging’s diversity included cockroaches, mice, mercifully unseen neighboring rats, one very visible enormous tarantula—and my Italian f amily. The tarantula had evidently boarded a freight train somewhere in South America while regally dozing on a shipment of green bananas heading to the United States. My Uncle Johnny, a longshoreman in Hoboken, “borrowed” a large stalk of the bananas and gifted them to my mother. In order for the bananas to properly ripen, my m other stored the stalk in a dark closet in the small bedroom I, then six-years old, shared with my older brother. This maneuver apparently allowed the hairy hitchhiker to thrive and grow. In a real-life scene drawn from a Steven King film, I opened my sock drawer one day and confronted what I could only then describe as “a BIG spider.” Frightened and trembling, I went screaming to my mother. L ater, she told me she had “taken care of the spider” but had she really? Her reassurances eventually worked: after a few months I actually did change my socks. Was it r eally a tarantula? Who can say? I was only six. Still, I never r eally got over e ither the reality or the imagining of that black creature lurking in my bedroom. Either way, the demon became a part of my life, along for the rest of the ride. My m other? Irene Cirelli Massaro. As a five-year-old, she suffered the stigma of not being promoted to first grade a fter a year of kindergarten. In the cruel noneuphemistic language of the first decades of the twentieth century, she was “left back.” Evidently, this had nothing to do with her intelligence but rather with her diminutive size. She was too tiny to sit safely at the larger first grade desks. Regardless, she still had to live
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forever with the humiliation of “flunking” kindergarten. Eventually, she left school for good in the third grade to care for a younger s ister, Louisa, who was d ying of leukemia. My mother, a smart and feisty w oman, never returned to school. After marrying my f ather, my mother worked tirelessly both at home and later as a seamstress for the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union. She spoke English, but both her persona and pronunciation sometimes mirrored t hose of an unrefined, street-smart, Jersey tough girl. She cooked with olive “earl,” asked, “What’s the ‘pernt?’ ” sewed with “tread” and never missed work because of a mere sore “troat.” And, she was fearless. Among her minor legacies to me is my tendency to mispronounce some words starting with “th.” I can now h andle “these” and “those.” Not infrequently, however, my verbal embarrassments revealing my class origins have involved instances, for one of many examples, in which a “thong” has become a “tong” or vice versa. Was that attractive young woman at the shore wearing a “thong” or a “tong”? Interesting e ither way but also confusing. Additionally, I have often further revealed my working-class roots by, dropping the final “er” as did my mother, so that words like “hanger” become “hanga” and “battler” become “battla.” My m other and I clashed at times and it was usually due to my trying to live up to the tough-guy image I saw around me. Her major and most appreciated legacy to me includes both her advice always to work hard in any undertaking and the living example she displayed in doing so all her life. My siblings and I repeatedly heard her recite an admonishment drawn from an anonymous poem found later by me in God’s L ittle Devotional Book. The words: “If a task is once begun, Never leave it ’till it’s done. Be the l abor g reat or small, Do it well or not at all” (Honor Books 1995, 98). The fact that my siblings and I can still easily and accurately recite these seemingly trite and pedestrian lines more than seventy years after first hearing them from her testifies most powerfully to her influence on us. My father? Palmo Massaro. A fter graduating from high school, he eventually began a promising white-collar career with Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Newark, New Jersey. As a young insurance agent, he once worked u nder a “Mr. Roth,” the father of the renowned novelist Philip Roth. My father worked for Met Life long enough so that stories about the wise and esteemed Mr. Roth became a staple at supper time.
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Palmo once told us about the time Mr. Roth asked him to accompany him to a meeting of other Met Life executives. My father was hesitant because the frayed blue suit he was wearing had a small hole in it that revealed his white shirt underneath. He reported this problem to Mr. Roth. Taking out his fountain pen, Mr. Roth simply colored in the white hole until it blended with the blue of my father’s suit. Later, as I recall, we kids all laughed and acclaimed Mr. Roth’s genius while my practical mother wondered whether “dis guy Roth” had ruined my father’s white shirt. Somehow during his time in the insurance business, my father’s beautiful first name of “Palmo,” derived from the palms of Palm Sunday, went through various de-Italianized and de-lower-classed transformations. And so, “Palmo Massaro” soon became “Paul Massaro” and eventually the commercially safe if soullessly inaccurate, “P. Massaro.” Unfortunately, my father’s own insecurities and frailties, and maybe even his capacity for kindness and compassion, tragically brought him down. P. Massaro was forced to leave Met Life. He served out the rest of his too short life in an embroidery shop as a bloody-fingered “shuttler,” dodging, but often failing to dodge, the driving, thirsty n eedles of a relentless and unforgiving machine. He would die far too early at fifty, leaving my mother without a needed companion and without sufficient financial support. Ironically, the words of wisdom from my f ather are similar in meaning to those of my mother. Both spoke strongly in f avor of the work ethic, although my father’s advice was both more original and more hedonistic. On a Sunday in June 1962, we had a college graduation party for my brother Frank at our recently purchased beautiful and spacious split-level home in upscale, suburban Westwood, New Jersey. As an I-must-prove- my-sophistication college junior, I served as bartender, imbibing classy scotch—not pedestrian beer. I remember having a g rand time, being exceptionally witty, charming, and even somewhat mature u ntil I had to race to a second-floor bathroom and dive for the toilet to vomit. So sickly drunk, I actually did not even close the bathroom door and soon looked up to see my mother softly telling me to go to bed, which I did. The next morning, I was to start my first day of work at my summer job at Maxwell House Coffee in Hoboken. I somehow managed, surely with the help of my m other, to get up and go to the job. My m other never
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said any more about my immoderation. That night, however, my f ather did, and his words w ere also about the work ethic. He told me, without further comment, “It’s okay to party all night as long as you get up to go to work the next morning.” Both helpful admonishments have endured and guided me. My father died in 1964. Yet again, Springsteen captures that moment in my mind: “Well I was young and didn’t know what to do when I saw your best steps stolen away from you. Now I’ll do what I can. I’ll walk like a man” (Springsteen 1987, “Walk Like a Man”). Soon after my father’s death, other had to sell the home they had just recently purchased together my m in Westwood. She had lived that part of the American dream for no more than four years. She rented many apartments for the rest of her life. Me? John Leonard Massaro. Growing up, I was a fortunate, even privileged child. I had the love of an extended Italian working-class f amily, parents, siblings, and close cousins. My m other and father were living examples of timeless, life-enriching values of love, perseverance, loyalty, empathy, and kindness. I was blessed. For some inexplicable reason I was blessed even further with an accurate jump shot that made me an honored high school basketball player in the competitive leagues of Hudson County in northeastern New Jersey, a brief Lincoln Tunnel drive away from New York City. For an equally inexplicable reason I was bedeviled with mood swings that left me with moments of self-doubt and acute apprehension, not unlike t hose triggered by frightening thoughts of a real or imagined dark and dangerous creature dormant for a moment in my sock drawer. My awareness of this anxiety stretches as far back as February 1946 when in kindergarten I broke down and cried b ecause of my not-so- fine fine-motor ability in attempting to cut out a proper valentine. I would learn later that it would often be the start of the academic year, usually in September, that triggered my mood swings. Still, given the policies of the Union City educational system, I actually began kindergarten in January 1946 and the valentine crisis occurred only weeks after I started school. I would never like beginnings and the changes they bring. Later, as a sophomore at a Catholic high school, St. Peter’s Prep in Jer thers and especially myself by writing an award- sey City, I surprised o winning essay. That composition highlighted my fear that I would forever
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have to confront alone the bitter anxiety occasioned by the melancholy end of carefree summer, the coming changes of September and the school year, and the vaguely perceived but still intimidating responsibilities of adult life. At that time, I comforted myself with the romantic hope that when I found my soul mate I would be profoundly changed and no longer dread the bitter twilight of September. I realize now my longing for a redeeming and transfiguring soul mate whose invigorating love would change me into a more complete person was shared by other young boys. Maybe t here was something in the water, the holy water, of Catholic schools, but it was more likely the taught adoration of the majestic Mary, Mother of God, that made me and other Catholic boys long for a transforming feminine love. James Joyce’s classic adolescent Catholic, Stephen Dedalus, shared this longing. In A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Joyce writes that Stephen “wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld” (Joyce 1992, 48). Joyce goes on to note the transforming power of that eventual meeting: “They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment” (49). Generations after Joyce, another Catholic boy, Bruce Springsteen, in his song, “Night” on his Born to Run a lbum (1975) also addresses this longing: “And you know she will be waiting there. And you’ll find her somehow you swear.” Springsteen also conveys the transfiguring power of feminine love for any young man who meets that mystifying and spellbinding creature who will take him “to that place where you can’t remember and you can’t forget” (Springsteen 1995, “Secret Garden”). I cannot speak for Joyce and Springsteen, but I am certain that my yearning for the intimate and transfiguring love of a woman kept me from the priesthood. I knew even then that any well-intentioned vow of celibacy on my part would not enable me to resist her allure. Massachusetts, 1959–1963 The vaguely perceived demon, glimpsed in my sock drawer years ago and sensed in my failure to cut out a proper valentine, must have always been stalking me even while my youthful
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optimism kept it at bay. Soon, however, it took the form of an eerie shadow lurking in the dark corner of a cold Worcester, Massachusetts, gymnasium. Awarded a basketball scholarship to a small private college, I played poorly and was soon exiled to the ignominy of the bench. At that same time, a young w oman whom I envisioned as my soul mate ended our relationship with more than just cause, involving, still again, my need to posture as the tough guy. Much later, Springsteen w ill capture my faux persona at this time and my inclination to foolishly follow a false model of masculinity with his spot-on observation of many young men of my generation: “And the boys tried to look so hard” (Spring steen 1975, “Born to Run”). What I now perceive as my loss of youthful innocence and optimism threw me. I experienced a frightening thought: if I could fail at love and basketball, the two entities I most cherished, I would never be good enough at anything. Additionally, t here very well might not be the comforting redemption in the love of a soul mate or any distinguishing achievement on my part to soften the hard responsibilities of dreaded adulthood. I might be in it alone and a failure to boot. Washington, DC, 1964–1966 The romantic soul mate love for which I longed as a high school sophomore was mine for a lasting moment in 1965. M Kimberlin Hessman, a woman-child with the intriguing period- less “M” for a first name and known as “Kim,” entered the drab, sterile grayness of a government cafeteria and my life, brightening both with a radiance stolen from the Illinois sun that had recently nurtured her. My first view of her remains indelible: her long, dark, geometrically straight hair frames an unadorned, high-cheekboned, exotic face saved from mere classical beauty by a short, broad nose mythically flattened mid- womb by her twin s ister’s kick. Large, soft, and inviting almond-shaped green eyes easily and ironically dominate her strong face. Her lack of classical beauty brings to mind Alain de Botton’s wry paraphrase of Marcel Proust’s wise observation, “Classically beautiful women should be left to men without imagination” (de Botton 2015, 76). Kim’s natural Native American-like features also call to mind the appeal of a slender Crow Nation female basketball player I once read about: “Her appeal is subtler. It is the way she moves, a grace, languid, fluid, sexy. All without effort. She seems mysterious, detached” (Colton 2000, 4).
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Kim’s contagious smile and spirit magnetically draw so many o thers to her side. I quickly learn that her physical fineness is but a prelude to the beauty of her soul and the irrepressibility of her spirit. I remain as infatuated with her today as when I was that sophomore longing for his soul mate. Kim is real. She connects. That moment in my life, my first enduring awareness of Kim, resonates with James Joyce’s softly erotic vision of a similar instance. Joyce was drawn to the lasting allure of feminine enchantment and beauty as was I. Joyce writes: A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane’s and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon her flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, w ere bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like featherings of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird’s, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the won der of mortal beauty, her face. (Joyce 1992, 131–132) And the meaning that moment held for Joyce was mine also. “Her image had passed into his soul forever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on and on and on!” (Joyce 1992, 132). Kim and I married in 1966 and she encouraged me to return to gradu ate school, earn a doctorate, and pursue a c areer in college teaching and research. I worried that my IQ was at best average and that I could not do it. Still, I recalled the admonitions of my m other and father telling me that I could make up for any deficiencies in my natural ability by working hard. I went on to earn a PhD in politics from Southern Illi-
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nois University. I was defiantly proud—likely to the point of arrogance— of what I had nonetheless accomplished with my average IQ. Perhaps, I was too proud. When the gods are angry with us, they do, indeed, answer our prayers. Maine, 1971–1985 My first teaching job was at a small college in Maine, where I established some close lifelong friendships. Other coldly blue- blooded colleagues, however, conveyed that I did not belong t here or anywhere in their profession. A pompous and standoffish older colleague openly and angrily referred to me as a “damn fool” and an “intellectual anarchist.” I was accused of being, somewhat stereotypically, Italian: “too emotional,” “high strung,” and “excitable.” When I sincerely tried to put the wider interests of the struggling college above the narrow concerns of my academic Division of History and Government, threatening letters reprimanding me for my “disloyalty” were included in my career- defining personnel file. Some department colleagues seemed oblivious to my pleas for their support. While I, nonetheless, gained tenure and some protection, I sensed that my blue-collar pedigree and temperament revealed my lack of worthiness to dwell in their remote, unapproachable, inherited space. I stayed, persevering, trying to be kind, trying to love, and trying to follow the values taught by my parents. In 1983, the college was forced to close its doors. I soon confronted prolonged unemployment at the very time my older son was beginning college and our two younger c hildren were rightfully anticipating their turns. I felt a fraud, a liar, justifiably punished for the blue-collar sin of overreaching. Were the blue-blooded right? Did I never r eally belong in their academy? Soon, depression, Churchill’s black dog, my black tarantula, arrived with full fury, its hideousness unmasked, its image never to be forgotten. My confidence was gone. I hated my working-class roots. I hated my purposeless life. I hated me. In the dark deceiving half-light of depression, I began to see myself not as the unpredictable eccentric I thought I was but as the too predictable quitter who folds at the first sign of adversity, betraying my parents and the lessons they tried to teach me. Although I never attempted suicide, I flirted with that escape route. The chilling winter beyond September that I had dreaded as a high school sophomore had come even sooner than I had expected.
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Too well, I came to understand Styron’s previously noted conclusion that depression constitutes a “veritable howling tempest in the brain” (Styron 1990, 37–38). I heard the howling. And l ater, in his song “All the Way Home” (2005), Springsteen would capture the thoughts of the depressive I was at that time. Somewhat hyperbolically but no less accurately, Springsteen wrote and sang my thoughts, “I know what it’s like to have failed, baby, with the w hole world lookin’ on.” New York, 1986–2007 The enduring blue-collar values of love, perseverance, loyalty, empathy, and kindness have not only served me well but saved me. As have the undying support of a strong spouse, c hildren, siblings, and indispensable antidepressant medication. At State University of New York (SUNY) Potsdam, a public university, I became acutely aware of still another aspect of love that tenderly but firmly wrapped me in its arms and held me back from the abyss: the affection, respect, and support conveyed by my colleagues and students at SUNY Potsdam. The decision to come to Potsdam in 1986 was neither a joyful one nor one that I made. Kim had to drag me kicking and screaming from what I perceived as the inviting knowable comfort of Springvale, Maine, to the threatening imposing and unknown Potsdam, New York. In pleasant retrospect, it was the best career decision I never made. Coming to SUNY Potsdam was a blessed event in my life. Notable to some might be the fact that I somehow advanced from being the new, untenured older guy on campus in 1986 to gaining, in 2005, SUNY’s highest rank, Distinguished Teaching Professor. So much more notable, and precious, to me is that I somehow transformed, that Joycean term again, from a scared, unemployed shell of a man, in 1986, to a beloved colleague and teacher with friends and students I not only love but also like and respect. I related so strongly at this time of blessed renewal to the redeeming message in Springsteen’s “Better Days” (1992): “I got a new suit of clothes, a pretty red rose and a woman I can call my friend. These are better days.” When I think of that personal transition in my life from a desperate and almost broken soul to a fortunate, honored, respected, and loved man, I see myself as a ragged junk man somehow now dressed in satin and singing. Springsteen’s lyrics in his beautiful and symphonic 1973 song, fittingly titled “New York City Serenade,” provide that transformed image:
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“Listen to your junkman. He’s singin’, singin’, singin’, singin,’ All dressed up in satin, walkin’ down the alley.” I retired from teaching at SUNY Potsdam in September 2006. I tell a tongue-in-cheek story to defer from relating the less interesting tale of the origin of this seminal moment in my life. The story goes that as my retirement date loomed, Kim asked me what I wanted to mark my retirement. I supposedly replied that I would e ither like to continue to have sex with her into my eighties (I was then sixty-five) or to have a large rock with accompanying identifying plaque placed alongside the path I strode daily from the parking lot to my office on the campus of SUNY Potsdam. I got the rock. At the 2007 ceremony dedicating “John’s Rock” on the campus, my daughter Summer Massaro Roy wrote eloquently about what “John’s Rock” signified to her: While the rock’s inscribed words w ere originally composed by John to describe what Kim has always meant to him, they can also serve as an appropriate welcoming to all who come to Satterlee Hall and this campus to pursue knowledge, love and understanding. In a fortuitous yet seemingly ordinary patch of wildflowers, he found: “Strength in the darkness, beauty in the light, intelligence and love all the days of my life.” In a farewell message to his students, colleagues and friends at SUNY Potsdam upon his retirement in 2006, John expressed the following: “My prayer is that all . . . children, especially my sisters rothers at SUNY Potsdam, will be as fortunate as I have been and b in finding love and their own special path beyond September.” In days of trepidation and in days of joy, come to John’s Rock. Maine, 2009–2018 Kim joined me in retirement in 2009 and we soon returned to Maine for a second time. Children and grandchildren in Maine and relatively close by in Rhode Island and New York delight and sustain us. Maine has changed, of course, but so have I. Still, one senses and hopes that our core values remain. 2018 to the Present As I write, I am a wiser and happier older man. Today in the winter of my life I can convincingly deny any connection
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to that troubled sophomore of my memory. Thinning whitened hair, bifocals, hearing aids, full beard once vibrantly red, now wearily gray, and weathered skin as irredeemably stretched as a sixth child’s discarded handed-down sweater provide an impenetrable disguise. And yet, rather than retreating from him, I find myself wanting to reach out and embrace that worried young man. I like him even more than ever now and sometimes, but only sometimes, miss him. I also understand that the demon of depression lurking in my bedroom drawer or elsewhere might reappear. There are no permanent sanctuaries in this life. Still, I believe I have the understanding, the love, the sense of myself to take me through the cold of winter and the mysterious seasons beyond. Alfred Lubrano’s insightfully enriching book Limbo: Blue-Collar Roots, White-Collar Dreams teaches me that I have been a “Straddler,” a blue-collar kid in a white-collar world, feeling, at times, estranged from both (Lubrano 2004, 2, and passim). In March 2018, while Kim and I w ere spending eight wonderful weeks of winter in Rome, Marilisa Merolla, the director of the M usic Making History Research Unit at the University of Rome Sapienza invited me to speak about my current writing, “Bruce Springsteen, Popular Culture and Politics” to a gathering of professors, students, and administrators. Sapienza is the largest European university by enrollment and one of the oldest having been founded in 1130. My paternal grand father, Francesco Massaro, who valued education and emigrated from Italy to the United States in 1905 and with whom I had a special relationship was present in my mind at the Sapienza academic gathering. For me, it was the sweet closing of a circle, a fitting end of a story begun over a hundred years and three generations ago. I now definitely understand that I do belong. I have come to embrace my white-collar reality while always honoring my blue-collar roots. Like Springsteen and his honoring of his own blue-collar roots, moving on but never forgetting.
✧ Essays 8–11 deal further with the pervasive and enduring issue of class in the United States. Springsteen and I are white and male and not at all career-members of the working class. We did, nevertheless, both grow up
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in working-class households, which we have never forgotten and never will. We are both acutely aware of class politics in the United States.
Essay 8. “Used Cars” and the Hidden Injuries of Class In a superb 1972 book, The Hidden Injuries of Class, the authors Richard Sennett and Jonathan Cobb examined the ways in which America’s working class suffers not only material deprivation but also psychological and spiritual pain and harm. Sennett and Cobb refer to this spiritual and psychological pain and harm as the “hidden injuries of class.” Lest one conclude that Sennett and Cobb’s thesis rests uneasily on the dated data of the 1970s and is no longer valid, Rabbi Michael Lerner has provided a challenging update in his 2017 article, “The (still) Hidden Injuries of Class” (Lerner 2017). Sennett, Cobb, and now Lerner maintain that while the material and financial deprivations of the working class in the United States are widely acknowledged, albeit still far from adequately addressed, the deeper spiritual and psychological scars often remain unacknowledged and thereby never addressed. The authors argue that the dominant U.S. capitalist ideology inculcates in its people the anticommunal, self-interested, survive-on-your- own, zero-sum characteristics of competitive enterprise. This inculcation not only stymies collective efforts to radically alter the financial and material inequalities of capitalism, it also sculpts the psychological and spiritual dimensions of the working class in harmful ways. Capitalism encourages the belief that if one fails to gain financial success in the “free market” United States, the fault does not lie with the system but rather within the individual. Those who do not succeed in this system are claimed to be too lazy or stupid or too inclined to some other personal, often non-system-inherent failures. Given this widely held belief fostered by capitalism and likely shared at all class levels in the United States, one’s failure to achieve material success often leads to self-loathing and a loss of self-esteem as t hese p eople are perceived by others including themselves as worthless losers. Sennett, Cobb, and Lerner emphasize that the anger of t hese people over their financial misfortune is seldom rightfully directed at the system
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itself but at themselves or other workers, including the minorities and immigrants caught in the very vortex that drags down the working class. The specific psychological and spiritual injuries suffered by the struggling working and unemployed class include the following. Many workers perceive that the uninspiring, harsh, and demanding work they are forced to undertake to gain at least a marginal living creates a situation in which both they and the work they do are not respected or even recognized by others. This in turn generates an acute sense that they are inferior in character to t hose who can succeed financially within the system, and that they are trapped, denied the skills and ability to freely move from one job to another as do upper-class professionals. Furthermore, these individuals, justifiably or not, often develop a confidence-crippling sense of their lack of culture and sophistication when measured against those of the upper class. They develop a deep sense of dissatisfaction with their jobs and their lives and a feeling of powerlessness. Among these injuries that members of the working class suffer, perhaps the most debilitating injury of all is their erroneous if understandable perception that their present plight is due to their own personal failures and inadequacies and not to the capitalist system. Sennett, Cobb, and Lerner maintain that t hese hidden injuries of class will remain until there are fundamental changes in the United States. These changes w ill have to address the obvious, unhidden injuries of class by providing a just and living wage for all workers in the United States. Still, that important economic change w ill not be enough. Th ere must also be significant ideological changes in the way we view work. Any work that serves the public good must be both valued and respected and any individual carrying out this work must be treated with respect. Only these changes w ill eliminate what t hese authors see as the psychological and spiritual effects of the hidden injuries of class (Lerner 2017; Sennett 1972, 10–37, 46–50). As I write in May 2020 with the deadly COVID-19 virus raging, unemployment up to a post-Depression high of over 14 percent and, as always, the working class is seemingly taking the greatest hit and sacrificing the most. I am struck by the relevance of Sennett, Cobb, and Lerner’s insights in the Trumpian world. I am also reminded how Springsteen’s simple
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song, “Used Cars,” concisely, elegantly, and poignantly reflects both the hidden and unhidden injuries of class. The efficient and paradoxical poetic power of compressing and yet expanding what a simple image can richly reveal has always impressed me in Springsteen’s “Used Cars.” The scene is s imple enough. The song’s narrator, likely Springsteen himself, a sensitive and perceptive young working-class boy whose f amily cannot afford the price of a new car, accompanies his m other, f ather, and l ittle s ister to a used car lot. Th ere, they all suffer in their own personal ways, the injuries of class in searching for a car they can afford. Springsteen, clearly remembering and identifying his working-class youth, has noted that this song expresses “the exciting story of my early personal life” (Springsteen 1998, 141). And what injuries are depicted in “Used Cars”? There is the obvious injury of an underpaid hardworking laborer and his family forced to seek not at all the best car that w ill meet their needs but rather any car, a basic necessity, they can afford. Beyond this unhidden injury, Springsteen skillfully and subtly sketches the hidden ones. Many financial transactions in a capitalist economy are handled person-to-person if not man-to-man. This one, however, features a lone salesman and an entire family. Why? One can only speculate, as the salesman probably does, that his potential customer cannot afford to even hire a sitter to watch the children as he and his wife go car shopping. Moreover, Springsteen’s lyrics suggest that the car itself cannot be worth very much if the s ister is allowed to sit in the front seat eating her messy ice cream cone. What is another stain on the already soiled seats? The mother likely senses both her own inferiority and that of her husband when she nervously “fingers her wedding band” as she watches “the salesman stare at my old man’s hands.” No doubt noting those rough, unrefined hands, the well-groomed salesman assumes the superior position. In d oing so, he notes “the break he’d give us if he could.” And then the salesman, clearly in the position of power, condescendingly pronounces that he “just can’t.” The young boy’s embarrassment at what he perceives as the humiliation of his m other and f ather begins to turn to repressed anger. And later, as unimpressed neighbors gather to see and mock “our brand-new used car,” the boy’s anger turns to quiet rage. He silently wishes his father would
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“just hit the gas and let out a cry, tell them all they can kiss our asses goodbye.” Notice that the boy’s rage is directed at his neighbors and not at all at the remote capitalist economic system that is probably unknown to him. He is too young to understand and w ill likely never comprehend that the injuries suffered by his f amily and him are also suffered by the mocking neighbors caught up in the same downward economic spiral. Kudos go to Ani DiFranco who in her plaintive cover of “Used Cars” (2000) emphasizes the critical line “kiss our asses goodbye” by repeating it, thus seemingly displaying more honest anger at the system. And still later in the song, Springsteen tells us the boy’s sister blows the car horn and its sound echoes down the avenue. The reverberating sound possibly reminds the angry young narrator not only of the most recent humiliation but also of the other socioeconomic stings he senses await him and his little s ister on the backstreets of life. The boy can only hope for a brighter f uture by expressing, in language that marks his working-class roots, the sad and desperate long-shot escape from his trap: “Mister, the day my number comes in, I ain’t ever gonna r ide in no used car again” (Springsteen 1982, “Used Cars”). Injured by class, the boy looks not to the political/economic system to change his plight but rather to the fool’s gold of the lottery. And when he eventually does not win the lottery and never succeeds in this system, he will blame it all on himself. The hidden injuries of class endure—or maybe not.
✧ Is Bruce Springsteen calling for class warfare in his 2012 a lbum, Wrecking Ball? He is and he is not, depending on how one assesses his continuing political development (or regression) and the views of t hose to the right or left of the New Jersey rocker. I have been taking the political pulse of Springsteen ever since 2001 when I began teaching a college course on him. In that course, I began with his basically apolitical nature as evinced in his early albums, Greetings from Asbury Park (1973), The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle (1973), and even Born to Run (1975). I then observed his evident if cautiously slow move to the left with Darkness on the Edge of Town (1978), and especially Nebraska (1982). This left leaning, however misunderstood at times, continued with Born in the U.S.A. (1984), The Ghost of Tom Joad
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(1995), and Magic (2007). Hear me out now on my reading of his politi cal temperature a fter listening to Wrecking Ball.
Essay 9. Wrecking Ball and Class Warfare? Springsteen opens the Wrecking Ball a lbum with a song that might end up as misunderstood as his “Born in the U.S.A.” In “We Take Care of Our Own,” Springsteen mockingly chastises those who boast that modern America really takes care of all its own. He does this at the risk of some potential misinterpretation on the part of t hose who hear only the titled refrain of the song, “We take care of our own,” and miss the irony. The ultimate message of the song is that although t here is so much more the U.S. political system could be d oing to help the working and oing so. While pain, poverty, and inequality middle classes, it is not d continue for too many Americans, Springsteen notes, “There a in’t no help, the cavalry stayed home.” Driving home the point of the people being forsaken by their seemingly indifferent government, Springsteen asks a series of questions about the detached U.S. political/economic system, which he implies can only be answered in the negative. He asks, “Where’re the eyes, the eyes with the will to see?”; “Where’s the love that has not forsaken me?”; “Where’s the work that’ll set my hands, my soul free?”; and finally, “Where’s the promise from sea to shining sea?” (Springsteen 2012, “We Take Care of Our Own”). In the context of t hose probing and profound questions, the refrain, “We take care of our own,” can only be seen as conveying Springsteen’s view that there has been a serious breach of the covenant the American political system has with all its p eople. In a series of songs immediately following this first piece, Springsteen conveys that his sense of anger is shared by many of his countrymen. He goes on to caution that t hose desperate, broken, and dangerous people featured in his Reagan-era Nebraska a lbum, who were pushed to their tragic breaking point by the vicissitudes of life and a seemingly uncaring government, are becoming more and more common. And while Nebraska gave us insights into desperate and disillusioned serial murderers, armed robbers, and cop killers, Wrecking Ball features otherwise stable, law-abiding Americans driven to desperate action by a seemingly detached government.
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The a lbum brings to mind sentiments in the poem by the African American poet Langston Hughes, “Harlem (2),” in which the poet asks “What happens to a dream deferred?” He wonders if it dries up like a raisin in the sun. Or, perhaps, it festers like a sore and then runs. He asks if it stinks like rotten meat or does it crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet. Maybe, he adds, it just sags like a heavy load. And finally, in an emphasized and memorable final line in step with some songs in Springsteen’s Wrecking Ball a lbum, Hughes more threateningly asks, “Or does it explode?” (Hughes 1999, 238). Springsteen also tells us in “Easy Money” of an angry workingman ready to use his “Smith & Wesson 38” to get some of that easy cash “earned” by t hose who made millions selling ultimately worthless derivatives or raiding and then draining failing companies. As this guy sees it, it is rightfully now his turn to prosper: “And all them fat cats, they’ll just think it’s funny, I’m g oing . . . looking for easy money” (Springsteen 2012, “Easy Money”). Dispelling any doubt about Springsteen’s intent in this song, he told journalists in Paris that the guy in this song is “going out to kill and rob just like the robbery spree that has occurred at the top of the pyramid—he’s imitating the guys on Wall Street.” In that same interview, Springsteen offered the following assessment as to the origin of this album: “What was done to our country was wrong and unpatriotic and un-American and nobody has been held to account” (Gibbons 2012). Amid the shuffle beat of “Shackled and Drawn” (2012), we meet another reported victim of American greed who is treated ignominiously by the system. This poor individual’s fate is to be figuratively chained to a stake and dragged through the streets of modern America, as if he were some medieval criminal. In the song, Springsteen tells us this all takes place in “a world gone wrong.” This man’s “crime” is that he wants to work but finds himself unemployed in a land of unshared plenty. He realizes that he must find employment to really be rid of his chains. For him, and all workers, “freedom is a dirty shirt.” The political system, however, even takes this freedom away. He cries out, “Stand back, son, and let a man work. Let a man work is that so wrong?” Still, t here is no work and he must remain “shackled and drawn.” And what brought about this situation? Springsteen points a Dylan-like finger at the culprits by noting that while “Gambling man rolls the dice, working man
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pays the bills” and “It’s still fat and easy up on banker’s hill (Springsteen 2012, “Shackled and Drawn”). Springsteen next introduces us to, perhaps, the saddest if most universal character on the a lbum in the song, “Jack of All Trades.” Jack, a worker, husband, father, and would-be breadwinner, assures his loved ones in a world-weary voice fashioned by Springsteen that despite the prevailing economic insecurity, they w ill survive. Even while fully aware that he and his family are no more than the width of a pink slip from unemployment and the destruction of all their hopes and dreams, he stoically reassures his wife they w ill somehow make it through: “I’m a Jack of All Trades and, darling, we’ll be all right” (Springsteen 2012, “Jack of All Trades”). hether Jack believes his own There clearly remains uncertainty in w words of reassurance and survival. This is evident in his unsteady voice and angry thoughts. He notes, “The banker man grows fat, working man grows thin. It’s all happened before and it’ll happen again.” His hope remains that there’s a “new world coming” in which “we’ll start caring for each other like Jesus said that we might.” Still, it is a doubtful, bitter hope and he has a dangerous anger t oward the unidentified “those” who caused all this to happen. In a statement evocative of Hughes’s notion of a dream deferred exploding, Jack warns, “If I had me a gun, I’d find the bastards and shoot ’em on sight.” Jack might or might not be an armed revolutionary ready to engage in a second Revolutionary War but he does foresee that “sometimes tomorrow comes soaked in treasure and blood” (Springsteen 2012, “Jack of All Trades”). Of course, Jack is only a character in a song, and one should not always conclude that his thoughts reflect Springsteen’s, but the intensity of his desperation and anger and his potential for violence tilt t oward class warfare. Moving from the influence of the American economic system’s growing inequality on individuals to its influence on communities, the a lbum next offers, “Death to My Hometown.” Springsteen fans will remember that he has sung lovingly if sadly and longingly about the prospects for his hometown on Born in the U.S.A.’s, “My Hometown.” This time, however, it is not the poignant, albeit seemingly inevitable decision of having to leave his hometown that saddens him but rather the realization that the economic system has, indeed, killed his hometown.
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He notes that it was not foreign invaders, terrorists, some alien version of “Shock and Awe” that sucked the life out of his hometown but something or someone much more American. And who were these “marauders” who “raided in the dark and brought death to my hometown?” The operative word here might very well be, “raided,” perhaps, pointing to the contemporary corporate raiders. Springsteen indicates as much when he advises what to do with these modern-day marauders: “Send the robber barons straight to hell. The greedy thieves who came around and ate the flesh of everything they found. Whose crimes have gone unpunished now. Who walk the streets as f ree men now” (Springsteen 2012, “Death to My Hometown”). In his autobiography Springsteen speaks openly about the motivation behind the angry songs on this a lbum: “After the crash of 2008, I was furious at what had been done by a handful of trading companies on Wall Street. Wrecking Ball was a shot of anger at the injustice that continues on and has widened with deregulation, dysfunctional regulatory agencies and capitalism gone wild at the expense of hardworking Americans. The middle class? Stomped on. Income disparity climbed as we lived through a new Gilded Age. This was what I wanted to write about” (Springsteen 2016a, 468). After setting the scene in the a lbum of a U.S. economic system gone wild and leaving behind the working class, Springsteen, perennially optimistic regarding the United States, begins to offer a solution to offset the bleak situation he sees. Not surprisingly, his first step in this direction is to convey that things might have to get even worse before they begin to get better. Conveying this, Springsteen offers, “Wrecking Ball,” a song written originally to commemorate the destruction of Giants Stadium in the swamps of Secaucus, New Jersey. The destruction of a football stadium becomes a metaphor for a much more serious annihilation, that of the present nonegalitarian economic system. Here, Springsteen defiantly challenges the movers and shakers of the reigning economic system to bring it—their soul-sucking system—on: “If you got the guts mister, yeah, if you got the balls. If you think it’s your time, then step to the line, and bring on your wrecking ball (Springsteen 2012, “Wrecking Ball”). This defiance is reinforced with the further admonition to “take your best shot, let me see what you’ve got.” The destruction is in one sense making way for a new stadium but in the broader focus of
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this a lbum, the destruction is making way for new and hopefully egalitarian economic and social system: “Yeah, we know that come tomorrow, none of this will be h ere.” Springsteen seems to share in this interpretation. He has noted that the wrecking ball “sort of seemed like a metaphor for what had occurred; it’s an image where something is destroyed to build something new— the flat destruction of some fundamental American values and ideas that occurred, really, in the last 30 years” (Springsteen 2012). Despite the anger that dominates the e arlier part of this a lbum, it is my conclusion that Springsteen remains too optimistic, too much a “good guy,” too much a peace-oriented liberal rather than a militant radical, too much an ex-Catholic still carrying the additional guilt of Catholicism to end his message on an abrasive or violent note. With the last three songs on the a lbum, “Rocky Ground,” “Land of Hope and Dreams,” and “We Are Alive,” he begins applying Springsteenian balm to the wounds he has had to inflict in presenting his critical, yet patriotic and authentic view of the state of the American economic and politi cal system. Springsteen clearly softens his message in “Rocky Ground.” A fter warning the common folk, the “flock,” that if they stray from their country’s noble principles, the “blood on our hands will come back on us twice,” he begins to apply the soothing salve. He is hopeful the flock will not stray, noting: “Rise up shepherd, rise up. Your flock has roamed far from the hills. The stars have faded, the sky is still. Sun’s in the heavens and a new day’s rising.” And then the song builds to a rap, written by Springsteen and delivered by the gospel singer Michelle Moore raising the question, central to the a lbum, “Is this the end of the American Dream?” Moore sings: “You raise your c hildren and you teach them to walk straight and sure. You pray the hard times, hard times come no more.” And then even this prayer is presently met with no response: “You pray for guidance, only silence now meets your prayers. The morning breaks away and no one’s there.” What now? Ending hopefully, the downtrodden are encouraged that they will get through this if they continue to trust in themselves and the Lord that “t here’s a new day coming” (Springsteen 2012, “Rocky Ground”). No other song on the a lbum more effectively offers Springsteen’s healing balm than “Land of Hope and Dreams,” a piece he has been singing
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for years in concert but that appears ready-made for this a lbum. H ere is moderate and reassuring Springsteen at his best in hopefully and optimistically inviting all p eople to climb upon a figurative train taking its passengers to a land where “tomorrow there w ill be sunshine and all this darkness past.” It should not be lost on even the casual listener that Springsteen openly invites all people to board this train. Of course, there is a place for the faithful, the saints, the good, and the winners, but there is also an invitation tendered to the greater majority of us, the losers, the sinners, whores, gamblers, the lost souls, fools, and, yes, even kings. And, most important, as if in sharp rebuttal to the earlier anger on this album, this train is seemingly available as well to the greedy capitalists, the derivative thieves, the stock speculators who, in the symbolic act of boarding the train, repent and reform. Here, Springsteen seeks to heal a fractured society. He closes out the a lbum with “We Are Alive,” which reminds listeners that in our remaining work to be done together, we are always being watched by our common ancestors. These ancestors not only observe but also join us in the effort to regain our sense of sharing and togetherness. In Springsteen’s ancestral communal view, “Our spirits rise to carry the fire and light the spark to fight shoulder to shoulder and heart to heart” (Springsteen 2012, “We Are Alive”). The astute Jim Cullen shares my view that despite the early anger expressed in this a lbum, Springsteen is not calling for class warfare. On the contrary, Cullen aptly concludes in discussing this a lbum, “While Springsteen’s heart was always with the rebels without a cause, his art in effect made him a dissident among insurgents” (Cullen 2019, 191). In regard to the concept of class warfare, I appreciate, as I think Springsteen would also, the billionaire Warren Buffet’s reflective observation: “There’s class warfare, all right, but it’s my class, the rich class, that’s making war and w e’re winning” (quoted in Stringer n.d.).
✧ If Springsteen is not a radical leftist seeking class warfare, what is his current political stance? In Essay 10, I focus on trying to categorize Springsteen’s present political position, his basic political ideology. Where does he stand on the continuum from left to right? I also present my understanding of Democratic Socialism so that readers might bet-
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ter assess that often-misunderstood political system and appreciate what I perceive as the present limits in Springsteen’s move to the left over his life. I argue that although t here is a clear gap between Springsteen’s view of politics and my own Democratic Socialist one, we might be moving closer together. Only time w ill tell.
Essay 10. Why I Am a Democratic Socialist and Springsteen Isn’t—Yet Given some of the thoughts Springsteen has expressed in his lyrics as exemplified in Wrecking Ball and other a lbums that will be noted below, my students have often asked me how I would best describe Springsteen’s politics. I begin by noting that his political position, his present place on the continuum ranging from far-right to far-left, seems to have evolved over the years and is, as it is for most of us still living and breathing, still evolving. That said, I have ventured the conclusion that Springsteen has moved from an early general indifference to traditional politics to a self- awareness and political activism as a “liberal Democrat,” even while he would likely deny any such categorization. He appears to disavow the Right’s support of classic unbridled free-enterprise capitalism and even the neoliberal or “middle road” of Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. Springsteen comes closest to embracing the sentiments of concern for the poor and working class of the United States, as ideally expressed in FDR’s New Deal and by today’s Democratic “progressives.” He has, however, not gone so far as to champion Democratic Socialism and its direct opposition to capitalism. Springsteen has asserted he does not oppose capitalism but only, as noted e arlier, “capitalism gone wild at the expense of hardworking Americans” (Springsteen 2016a, 468). This evolution might eventually lead him into the Democratic Socialist camp. Nevertheless, his sometimes fierce and angry call for economic justice in the United States, evident in some of his lyrics, at least makes him appear, at times, sympathetic to a Democratic Socialist perspective. As noted in Essay 9, that fierce and angry call against the harshness occasioned by capitalism is reflected in some of the lyrics in his Wrecking Ball a lbum but they appear in his other lyrics as well. H ere is a sampling.
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As early as 1978, Springsteen’s lyrics contain glaring hints of working- class outrage and a turning to violence: “Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode, explode and tear this whole town apart. Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart. Find somebody itching for something to start” (Springsteen 1978, “The Promised Land”). In his 1992 Lucky Town a lbum, Springsteen proclaims, “Now I ply my trade in the land of king dollar where you get paid and your silence passes as honor and all the hatred and dirty little lies been written off the books and into decent men’s eyes” (Springsteen 1992, “Souls of the Departed”). On his 1995 a lbum, The Ghost of Tom Joad, we glimpse still other lyr ics with a potentially pro–Democratic Socialist leaning. In the song, “The New Timer,” we meet a down-a nd-out young laborer out on the rails looking for work. He is befriended by an old-timer, Frank, who teaches the younger man the ropes. They find some sporadic work picking fruits and vegetables where they are “bunked . . . in a barn just like animals.” Later, Frank is senselessly shot dead. The anger of the young survivor at this cruel injustice is palpable, potentially leading to violence: “My Jesus your gracious love and mercy tonight I’m sorry could not fill my heart like one good rifle and the name of who I o ught to kill.” In Springsteen’s “The Wall” on his 2014 a lbum, High Hopes, he expresses scathing if not rebellious words for the upper class who sent many working-class youth to die in Vietnam: “Now the men who put you here eat with their families in rich dining halls and apology and forgiveness got no place h ere at all at the wall.” Most notably, on January 18, 2009, at president-elect Barack Obama’s preinaugural concert, Springsteen performed with the legendary singer and social activist Pete Seeger. Seeger is a well-k nown supporter of leftist politics and a likely embracer of Democratic Socialism. In a 1995 interview, he insisted, “I still call myself a communist, because communism is no more what Russia made of it than Christianity is what the churches make of it” (New York Times 1995). At the preinaugural concert, Springsteen and Seeger not only performed the Woody Guthrie song “This Land Is Your Land,” but did so by including the so-called forbidden verses that are often said to be dangerously subversive of free enterprise (Springsteen 2016a, 314–315). These verses, as sung by Springsteen and Seeger that day, criticize the
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United States’ treatment of its most vulnerable p eople, and challenge the very concept of private property so sacred to capitalism. ere was a big high wall t here that tried to stop me; Th The sign was painted, it said “private property”; But on the back side it didn’t say nothing; That side was made for you and me. In the squares of the city, in the shadow of a steeple; By the Relief Office, I’d seen my p eople. As they stood t here hungry, I stood t here asking, “Is this land made for you and me?” (revere 2009) My sense is that as a present if undeclared liberal Democrat, Springsteen would not embrace Democratic Socialism but rather stick to supporting a liberal but still pro–free enterprise, capitalistic system. Given his religious belief and his stance for economic justice, I feel Springsteen would have no problem subscribing to the leftish but still non-Democratic Socialism pol itical framework advanced by the late, leftist-leaning sociologist and journalist Norman Birnbaum. Birnbaum counseled: “Only a God can make the world anew, but humans fail in their humanity if they do not try to make it better” (quoted in H. Smith 2019). That framework falls short of an open embrace of Demo cratic Socialism. Several other careful observers of Springsteen’s politics have come to a conclusion similar to my own. Interestingly, while these scholars emphasize Springsteen’s call for and strong support of more economic justice in the United States, they conclude that he does not unequivocally oppose capitalism and embrace Democratic Socialism. The anthropologist Elizabeth M. Seymour concludes that Spring steen’s political stance is one in which he presents a misleading if not false representation of capitalism. She faults his “inability to critique the underlying constructions of American capitalism and working-class Americans.” Accordingly, this critical inability leads Springsteen to apply a “utopian vision of capitalism that perpetuates the same fundamental inequalities he critiques.” Seymour concludes that Springsteen too easily and naively assumes that what Democratic Socialists see as the inherent economic injustices fostered by capitalism can be eradicated by
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simply establishing a deeper sense of community and cooperation between the free enterprise elites and the working class. Seymour refers to Springsteen’s unsatisfactory remedy as his somewhat overoptimistic reliance on a “preindustrial vision of fraternal community” (Seymour 2012, 76). In Seymour’s view, Springsteen does not embrace the essential need to replace the U.S. capitalistic system to end the very economic injustice he so forcefully articulates and abhors. The politics scholar David Masciotra reaches a similar conclusion. He notes that Springsteen’s songs telling the story of the working class “should be applauded and honored but they can only go so far u nder the current climate” (Masciotra 2010, 194). Masciotra notes that Springsteen’s vision of a better life for the poor and the working class can only come about with a significant reform of the U.S. political system. Agreeing with Seymour, Masciotra concludes that while Springsteen’s call for a greater sense of community and cooperation can and does help the poor and the working class, a significant and profound change in the political system that Springsteen has not yet openly acknowledged remains the essential ingredient. Masciotra points to the radical nature of that needed change by stating that “social suffering and communal concerns are forced to the margins by a political system that is enslaved to the whip of corporate cash” (Masciotra 2010, 194). Masciotra notes further that Springsteen’s lyrical message supporting the working class “contains a heavy dosage of adrenaline for the American progressive cause, should it be adequately applied to the broader politically organizational effort undertaken by left-of-center advocacy groups.” Notably, Masciotra describes Springsteen’s political stance with its emphasis on a call for a new sense of community, compassion, and class cooperation not as “Democratic Socialistic” nor even as “progressive” but as “human politics” (195–196). Eric Alterman, for another, appears to accept the view that while Springsteen has clearly moved more leftward during his life, he is still no Democratic Socialist but a supporter of capitalism, albeit with a more egalitarian emphasis. Describing Springsteen’s current politics, Alterman would clearly place him closer to the self-declared liberal capitalist Elizabeth Warren than to the bona fide Democratic Socialist Bernie Sanders (Alterman 2019, 26).
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Noting that Springsteen has “spent his entire life on the left side of the political spectrum,” Jim Cullen demurs that the New Jersey musician “has stood somewhat apart from fully embracing radical reform of any kind.” Cullen adds that the root cause of this cautious tendency is “Springsteen’s fundamentally conservative temperament. His orientation has tended to focus on preserving that which might otherwise die rather than articulate something entirely new” (Cullen 2019, 192). Additionally, Jefferson Cowie and Joel Dinerstein conclude that while Springsteen is decidedly on the left politically, he is not a Democratic Socialist calling for the end of the present capitalist system in the United States. They state that Springsteen seeks “evolutionary rather than revolutionary change” and that he has never called for “punk resistance or gratuitous rebellion” (Cowie and Dinerstein 2019, 53–54). What Is Democratic Socialism? I offer the following extensive explanation of “Democratic Socialism” to inform readers in the hope that they, as well as Bruce Springsteen, w ill better understand that often distorted and maligned political system and its possibility of ever becoming the dominant system in the United States. Democratic Socialists maintain that democracy in the United States remains unfulfilled and incomplete. Even while the United States often draws high praise for its relatively well-developed political democracy, that is, its sharing of traditional political powers including voting, freedom of expression, assembly, religious freedom, and so on, there remains much room for improvement here, as we shall see. In regard to economic democracy, the sharing of the nation’s wealth and income, the United States does not do well at all. It is a critical ploy of the dominant ideology in the United States to narrow the definition of democracy to the traditional political field and to discount or not even consider the sharing of wealth as an aspect of democracy. I disagree with this stance, as do other Democratic Socialists. Wealth and income are key aspects of political power and to discount or ignore them in assessing a nation’s attainment of democracy is a critical error. Accordingly, I remain strongly influenced by a statement I first read years ago by the scholars Sidney Verba and Gary R. Orren in their Equality in America: The View from the Top. In a statement that is as true today
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as it was in 1985, if not more so, Verba and Orren, a fter examining the levels of democracy in the world’s industrialized states and noting the multidimensional aspects of the concept of equality, conclude that relative to other industrialized democracies, the United States is significantly inegalitarian in economic matters including income and wealth distribution. The authors suggest that the significant presence of “political” democracy” in the United States coupled with its significantly less laudable level of “economic democracy” makes the United States “at once the most and the least equal of modern democracies” (Verba and Orren 1985, 252). It must also be noted that even while we in the United States pride ourselves on our political democracy, we are severely lacking even in that limited area. There are many illustrations of this, including, of course, the antimajority role of the Electoral College in electing U.S. presidents; and the seemingly perennial original sin of slavery and the disturbing ntil fact that Black Americans faced a severely hindered right to vote u well into the 1960s if not up to the present. Additionally, few Americans likely comprehend that as the Senate is presently constituted—each state awarded two seats regardless of its population—a mere combination of fifty-t wo states whose combined population totals no more than 19 percent of the population of the United States can thwart the nation’s popular w ill (McCullough 2018). I know, I know, and as McCullough argues, this democratic anomaly is reportedly due to the fact that the United States is a federal republic. Still, the point must be made that at least at the critical and decisive national level the U.S. political system is hardly democratic. The strong attachment to federalism on the part of citizens of the United States and the consequential unlikelihood that the Senate will ever be structured to be more demo cratically representative of the national population raises an intriguing question. One might semifacetiously, but only somewhat semifacetiously, ask not so much about whether the people of the United States are ready for Socialism as w hether they are ready for complete democracy at the national level of government (New York Times 2013; Orts 2019). In addition, less than 50 percent of the potential electorate usually turns out to vote in U.S. presidential elections. Should it not be a matter of serious democratic concern that no elected United States president over the span of the past forty years or so (and very likely even further back than that) has been truly elected by a majority of the potential elec-
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torate? Indeed, most U.S. presidents have garnered slightly more than one-quarter of the voting support of the potential electorate. In nonpresidential election years, voter turnout is even markedly less than the approximately 50 percent in presidential election years, pointing still more emphatically to a lack of political democracy in the United States. This, among many other considerations, leads me to two conclusions. First, the claim of the United States as a political democracy is significantly overstated. Second, in regard to the nation’s acceptance of Democratic Socialism, the greater stumbling block might more likely be its reluctance to embrace additional democracy and less its willingness to accept socialism. As an economic democracy, the United States is, indeed, a failure. Some illustrations: although many have noted the billionaire Warren Buffett’s accurate claim in an opinion piece for the New York Times in August 2011 that his effective tax rate is less than his secretary’s, there is even more to that sad report. In the same piece, Buffet relates that his 2010 federal tax rate of 17.4 percent was significantly lower than the 36.0 percent average rate paid by the twenty other workers in his office (Buffett 2011). Joining Buffett in pointing to the sorry state of economic inequality in the United States, the Economic Policy Institute reported on July 20, 2017, that the chief executive officers (CEOs) of America’s largest firms received average compensation that was 271 times the average pay of a typical worker. The institute also reported that the CEO to worker compensation ratio, in 1965 was only 20 to 1, revealing a shocking increase over the past five decades (Mishel and Schieder 2017). A Pew Research Center study published on January 7, 2014, further notes that in 1982, the highest-earning 1 percent of families in the United States received 10.8 percent of all pretax income, while the bottom 90 percent received 64.7 percent. Three decades later, the top 1 percent received 22.5 percent of pretax income, while the share of the bottom 90 percent had fallen to 49.6 percent (Desilver 2014). Reports indicate that in regard to income distribution the United States is more unequal than most of its developed-world peers. According to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), the United States recently ranked tenth out of thirty-one OECD countries in income inequality based on “market incomes”—t hat is, before taking into account the redistributive effects of tax policies and
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income-transfer programs such as Social Security and unemployment insurance. A fter accounting for taxes and transfers, however, the United States shockingly had the second-highest level of inequality a fter Chile (Desilver 2014). When the broader and more revealing factor of “wealth” is considered rather than “income,” the already sharp economic disparity in the United States becomes even more pronounced. The New York University economist Edward Wolff has found that while the highest-earning fifth of U.S. firms earned 59.1 percent of all income, the richest fifth held 88.9 percent of all wealth (Desilver 2014). There is, indeed, a need in the United States to bring democracy, the sharing of power, not only to the political realm but also to the economic realm. I take to heart Irving Howe’s powerful damn-on-both-of-their-houses (Democrats and Republicans; communists and capitalists) statement: “To preserve democracy as a political mode without extending it into every crevice of social and economic life is to allow it to become sterile, formal, ceremonial. To nationalize an economy without enlarging democratic freedoms is to create a new kind of social exploitation” (Howe 1966, 78). This also calls to mind John Kenneth Galbraith’s wonderful witticism responding to the question as to the difference between communism and capitalism (at least as they had appeared thus far on the world stage): “Under Capitalism, man exploits man. U nder Communism, it’s just the reverse” (Galbraith 1958, 57). I stand with Howe and Galbraith in condemning the dual curses of our time. One of these entails those authoritarian “socialistic” systems thers that have sought economic equalunder Stalin, Mao, Castro, and o ity, however unfulfilled, at the sacrifice of legitimate political democracy and freedom. The other curse, less recognized by the people of the United States, involves t hose systems that employ a supposed politically demo cratic system to sustain a system that fails significantly in sharing economic wealth and power. We should always remember that wealth and income are surely and significantly prevailing and commanding forms of political power. I think of this every time I rejoice in the fact that my single vote on any election day will trump Donald Trump’s vote, only to understand more sadly that Trump’s wealth and income provide him with political power that I and so many others do not share—and should.
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When one examines the U.S. political system, one is struck by how difficult it is to bring about any significant policy results. James Madison did his magic far too well here. His devised system of federalism, separation of powers, checks and balances, coupled with the size and diversity of the United States and its p eople’s sense of individualism and distrust of government-imposed sharing have divided and diffused political power so much as to stymie political change, even when supported by a pronounced democratic majority. Our two political parties fight to claim the perceived center of the electorate, an electorate reduced, of course, by the sustained indifference or hopelessness of the majority of nonvoters. In a system where the economically better-off vote and participate so much more in politics than the less well-off, the perceived center remains far from the real center. And, I still believe, the present center is so much more to the right of the actual democratic center. Often, Tweedledee Democrats scream at Tweedledum Republicans and vice versa, seemingly elbowing each other out to fight over the crumbs left after capital ists have seized their share. In our two-party system’s often feckless effort to make what is at best marginal or piecemeal, gradual changes, the people, and the common welfare lose out. Accordingly, we have a system in which the deck is stacked in f avor of maintaining the status quo. This is not a bad deal if you are on top. Much less so if you are not. The true star of the U.S. political system is not the Congress, the president, or even the justices of the Supreme Court with the so-called final interpretation of the law of the land. The star of the system is capitalism. One might now ask who benefits from this status quo–oriented system? I anticipate the answer you likely expect here from this Democratic Socialist: “It is the wealthy elite and the reasonably comfortable, if shrinking, middle class that benefit from the status quo.” That, however, is not my answer. It really seems, knowingly or not, that no one in the United States really benefits from this system. The well-off elites in the United States suffer from a spiritual deprivation despite their superior economic advantages. How e lse to explain the anxieties, the heart attacks, the never-ending quest for still more n eedless material possessions, the devastation of spirit, the genuine loss of community that seems to plague
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the elites as well as others. Would you really want to be Donald Trump? Did Robin Williams, Kate Spade, Freddie Prinze, Anthony Bourdain, Jeffrey Epstein, and a long list of other suicide victims not have fame and fortune at least in regard to the financial benefits of capitalism? W ere they happy? Fulfilled? At peace with themselves? For a view of even Springsteen’s own depressive strugg les within this system despite his fame and wealth, see the assessment of Louis P. Masur (2019, 71–72). And what about the p eople of the shrinking m iddle class? They share some of the same spiritual deprivations of the elites but with the added burden of economic anxiety. The middle class’s income, the key to its sustaining of its lifestyle in this capitalistic system, is overwhelmingly tied to their jobs. Take away those jobs because of a global pandemic or positions going abroad or through corporate downsizing or corporate fraud or corporate scavenging through venture capitalism, and the members of the once comfortable middle class w ill fall quickly and deeply through the euphemistic safety net of the United States before soon hitting bottom. The poorest classes of the United States and, of course, the poorest classes across the globe share in all the above disadvantages with the added burden of profound material deprivation. Their desperation lies not only in their heads and their hearts but also in their stomachs. They confront both spiritual and material dispossession. And so, what can be done? Let me add here that at this time the specific and detailed policies adopted in a Democratic Socialist system are eople truly sharing in both political and not all that critical. With all p economic power, the specific shape of any policies w ill generally meet the needs of the p eople as a collective. One can, however, note some of Democratic Socialism’s guiding principles and begin to at least sketch how such a system would differ from the present. Individual rights w ill be extended from the political and legal realm to the economic realm. Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s subsequently buried call for a second economic Bill of Rights w ill begin to be realized (Sunstein 2004). In addition to the right to vote, freedom of expression and assembly, all Americans will have economic and social security, such as rights to education, housing, health care, environmental quality and adequate retirement income. In part, this is all intended to establish a floor of social, political, and economic guarantees, a kind
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of minimum level of conditions for all that w ill make equality of opportunity more genuine and elections and decision making more demo cratic and meaningful. More specifically, there w ill be a significant redistribution of wealth and income in the United States u nder Democratic Socialism. Through a progressive tax system, the economically well-to-do will provide a mea sure of governmental revenue fairly proportionate to their income and wealth. Workers will be assured of the opportunity for meaningful jobs where their l abor contributes to the w hole community rather than to the narrow confines of profit for corporate managers and stockholders. Additionally, the difference in the ratio of the highest-paid to the lowest- paid worker should drop from its current approximate 270 to 1 to no more than 20 to 1, approximately where it was in 1965. A universal single- payer health-care system perhaps following the axiom of Medicare for all w ill be developed and sustained. Education w ill be funded as guided by a developing understanding that a creative, productive, and learned citizenry is as essential to a thriving community as military might, if not more so. U.S. foreign policy w ill be driven by a greater propensity to share its wealth with the poorer nations of the world. ill be a continuation of the advance of AtheOur legacy to the world w nian democracy rather than that of Spartan military might. Th ere w ill be real opportunity for all as well as access to essential services including shelter, food, and environmental health. All this w ill assure that political power is more equally shared and that the policies of the United States truly reflect the democratic w ill of the p eople in all m atters to which majority rule constitutionally applies. Again, the form that specific policies take is not so critical at the moment. What is more critical is how they are decided, which should be democratically with all participating equally and fairly. Additionally, there w ill be a political empowerment of ordinary citizens so that they can democratically control the forces, particularly the immediately local ones, affecting their lives. Democratic decision making will attach not only to traditional political institutions but also to all or most aspects of American society. Democracy w ill become the hegemonic model rather than free enterprise. Accordingly, jobs, communities, social organizations, everyday life, government itself, and even the f amily will be run more democratically.
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Most profoundly and importantly, these changes w ill bring about a significant wholistic change in people and society. Individual rights will still exist but there w ill also be a greater sense of community as people lose their fears, sense of desperation and anxiety, and distrust of one another fostered by the zero-sum mentality of capitalism. There w ill be needed societal and democratic controls on individual property owner ship and wealth to assure greater societal sharing. The position voiced by some economists such as Milton Friedman and the United States Supreme Court in the Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission case—that significant government limits on property and wealth for a greater good violates a basic tenet of democracy and the United States Constitution—will be rejected. Incentives for working to the best of one’s ability w ill no longer be the capitalist-imposed motivation of making more and more money to assure security for oneself and one’s f amily. Rather, the incentives will be less materialistic and will include a nation’s honoring of those who contribute unselfishly to the common good. Notably, the Lakota Sioux’s most honored p eople w ere its least wealthy individuals who had bestowed their gains on the community. Why can’t a doctor, for example, willingly take on the rigors and sacrifices of long and difficult medical training not to buy another Mercedes but rather to help maintain the health of the community? Would you r eally rather drive around in a status automobile or save lives? Again, our notion of incentives must be democratically structured and not imposed by the capitalistic system. Humans can expand their incentives beyond the presently almighty dollar, and that w ill become easier to accomplish in a Democratic Socialist system where serving the community w ill become the mark of prestige, not one’s individual income or wealth. I close with a summary statement of what Democratic Socialism means to me. Democratic Socialists believe that political democracy in the United States is presently corrupt and degraded. Inequalities of wealth and power, inherent in capitalism, make for the domination of politics and people by corporations and the wealthy. To extend or export this sort of democracy is to foster illusions. In effect, Democratic Socialists start with the limitations and defects of political democracy today, seeking causes and solutions in order to maximize the democratic qual-
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ity of life for all citizens. This inquiry identifies capitalism’s inherent inequalities, anticommunal social relations, the profit motive, and unlimited corporate power as the seat of the problem. I realize I have put on my heavy political scientist’s cap and commanded the soapbox in the comments above. I have done so not only to describe Springsteen’s present political position but also to offer Spring steen and all readers a political alternative to what has usually been offered. Springsteen has influenced me and so many o thers, and in the spirit of a two-way, even multiway exchange I offer a path to Democratic Socialism.
✧ Springsteen and Race Springsteen’s song “American Skin (41 Shots)” represents his most direct statement about the present dangers associated with racism toward African Americans in the United States. The song is based on the controversial and allegedly racially tinged slaying of Amadou Diallo, a twenty-three-year-old Black immigrant from Guinea, by members of the New York City Police Department (NYPD). On February 4, 1999, four NYPD plainclothes officers mistook Diallo for a rape suspect and approached him outside his apartment building in the Bronx. When Diallo reportedly reached into his pocket for his wallet to provide the officers with his identification, they believed he was reaching for a gun. The officers then fired a combined total of forty-one shots, nineteen of which struck and killed Diallo. The circumstances of the shooting prompted public outrage regarding concerns about police brutality and racial profiling. An official investigation later concluded that Diallo was unarmed. Nevertheless, all four officers who were charged with second-degree murder were acquitted in February 2000. On April 18, 2000, Diallo’s parents filed a $61 million lawsuit against the city and the officers, charging gross negligence, wrongful death, racial profiling, and other violations of Diallo’s civil rights. In March 2004, the parents accepted a $3 million settlement. The much lower final settlement was still reportedly one of the largest in the City of New York for a single man with no dependents under New York State’s “wrongful death law” (Feuer 2004).
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Essay 11. Racism and “American Skin (41 Shots)” Springsteen’s first performance of “American Skin (41 Shots)” was in Atlanta in June 2000, during the E Street band’s 1999–2000 reunion tour. When Springsteen subsequently performed the song during that tour’s final ten-show run at New York’s Madison Square Garden, the city’s police establishment responded in anger. New York’s Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association (now the Police Benevolent Association) called for a boycott of the Springsteen and E Street performances and the president of the New York State chapter of the Fraternal Order of Police denounced Springsteen as a “dirtbag” and even more curiously as “a floating fag” (Carlin 2012, 404–405). I think the New York City police and many others miss an essential point of this song at least in regard to improving race relationships in the United States. Springsteen is, indeed, sending a helpful message of caution to all young Black males about how they should react when the police stop them. This is evident in the song’s lyrics capturing the message Lena, an African American mother, relates to her young son: “If an officer stops you, promise me you’ll always be polite and that you’ll never ever run away. Promise Mama you’ll keep your hands in sight” (Springsteen 2001, “American Skin [41 Shots]”). Lena’s expressed caution, constituting the essence of “the talk” many parents of Black c hildren must share with their youngsters, clearly reflects the African American community’s general distrust of the police, especially in encounters with young Black males (Scott 2019, 75). And one can understand why dedicated police officers would find these words of criticism upsetting. Given the many recent tragic encounters between police and young Black individuals, however, this advice is not unwarranted. A strong case can be made that if young Black males followed such advice, it would help keep them from harm. There is, however, another dimension to Springsteen’s sense of compassion in this song’s lyrics that is seemingly missed or otherwise ignored by the law enforcement community. Police officers are often called on to make instantaneous life or death decisions under severe stress. Springsteen’s expressed compassion for them is reflected in the line of the song where an anguished police officer who has participated in the shooting is depicted as kneeling over the victim’s body in the vestibule,
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“praying for his life.” The cautionary advice given to young Blacks if heeded might also spare more police officers from this anguish. The more I reflect on the lyrics of “American Skin (41 Shots),” the more I see it not as focused on police and young Black male encounters but rather on the racism still pervasive throughout the United States. As far as that racism goes and as the song’s lyrics avow, racism in the United States “ain’t no secret.” In the song, Springsteen is asking all of us in our “American Skin” to sincerely and critically examine our consciences, our souls, for any racism there. When Springsteen asks in the song, “Is it in your heart; is it in your eyes?” the “it” he is referring to is racism itself. As one of the students in my Springsteen class aptly put it and deserving of repetition here, the more universal theme in this song, beyond its controversial focus on one New York City tragedy, is the one of a community free from racism and one where e very life is valuable. The bloody river is not just for the officer praying in the vestibule, it is for all of us, because if we live in a community saturated by hatred and do nothing, then we too are stained. In “American Skin (41 Shots),” Springsteen is asking all Americans to take an important but nonetheless modest and limited step in regard to race relations. In the liberal tradition, he wants Americans to search their inner selves, determine if they harbor any racism, and rid themselves of that thinking. Surely, this is a difficult and uncomfortable undertaking but one worth the effort. Still, to my mind, and after reading Debby Irving’s Waking Up White and Finding Myself in the Story of Race (2014) and Ta-Nehisi Coates’s We Were Eight Years in Power: An American Tragedy (2018) and Between the World and Me (2015), it does not go far enough. Racism certainly exists in the United States but t here remains an even more important aspect of race relationships. This is the issue of “white privilege.” While I have discussed in Essay 3 how white privilege unjustly protected some advantaged young white Americans, including me, from serving in the military and fighting and, perhaps, even dying in foreign wars, there are other illustrations of this disturbing and shockingly unfair phenomenon. Chief among t hese is the underrecognized or, perhaps, conveniently ignored, concept of “systemic racism.” The term “systemic racism” is developed in Joe R. Feagin and Kimberley Ducey’s Racist America: Roots, Current Realities, and Future
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Reparations. The authors describe systemic racism in part as involving “both the deep structures and the surface structures of racial oppression. It includes the complex array of anti-black practices, the unjustly gained political-economic power of whites, the continuing economic and other resource inequalities along racial lines, and the emotion-laden racist framing created by whites to maintain and rationalize their privilege and power” (Feagin and Ducey 2019, xv). They add: “Systemic racism is about more than the construction of racial definitions, attitudes, and identities. It is centrally about the creation, development, and maintenance of white privilege, economic wealth, and sociopolitical power over centuries. It is about hierarchical interaction and dominance. The past and present worlds of white-imposed racism include not only racist relations at work but also the racist relations that black Americans and other Americans of color encounter in trying to secure, among other things, adequate housing, consumer goods, and public accommodations for themselves and their families” (14). One of many instances of system-created official racism noted by Feagin, Ducey, and others is the Federal Housing Administration’s long implemented policy of not providing government-backed loans for Black applicants to buy homes in predominantly whites areas. For years, a U.S. government agency “redlined” neighborhoods where Blacks could or could not buy homes while not so restricting whites. Accordingly, racial boundaries in many neighborhoods did not happen by chance but rather were systemically designed and fostered by governmental policy. Consequently, the racially segregated neighborhood policies fostered by the Federal Housing Administration’s rules coupled with the generally nation-wide policy of funding public elementary and secondary education primarily through local real estate taxes has significantly underfunded and crippled schools in neighborhoods of color (Feagin and Ducey, 196–199). In this instance as in all instances of “systemic racism,” the government’s policy privileged white Americans and set back Black Americans (Feagin and Ducey 2019, 171–180). What continues to resonate in my mind as one of the more egregious illustrations of systemic racism as well as a disgusting denial of democracy is the enduring U.S. refusal to deny national representation in the eople living in the DisHouse and Senate for the more than 700,000 p trict of Columbia. While p eople living in the District of Columbia now,
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at least since 1964, have the right to participate in choosing the president of the United States they are denied voting representation in both the House and the Senate. The irony of this is nothing but shocking. In the nation’s capital, more than 700,000 people are denied voting representation in Congress. The fact that at least 47 percent of t hese disenfranchised citizens are African American points to the continuing systemic racial injustice of this situation. Susan E. Rice, Obama’s former national security advisor has recently helped rekindle the cry to rectify this glaring wrong by calling for statehood for the District of Columbia. She argues: “Washington is the only national capital in the demo cratic world whose citizens lack equal voting rights. Its population exceeds 700,000, more than Wyoming’s and Vermont’s, and comparable to Delaware’s and Alaska’s. Washington’s citizens pay more per capita in federal income taxes than any state in the country and more in total federal income tax than 22 states. Our men and w omen in uniform fight and die for America” (Rice 2020; see also Hendey 2017). I am also aware that being privileged and being racist or sexist are significantly and fundamentally different. All too often, we educated types, we privileged ones, like to confidently draw a line between those concepts. You know the routine: “I am privileged but I am not racist or sexist.” Still, that distinction, however comfortable to the privileged, might be far too facile. I remain aware of Ann Fagan Ginger’s excellent and still valid point that there appears to be an inverse correlation between the speed and vehemence with which someone denies being a racist (or sexist, for that matter, although Ginger’s comments focus on race) and the depth of that person’s racism or sexism (as noted in Kaplan 1973, 366). Generally, I have seen Ginger’s thesis confirmed, at least in my life. Many who so immediately, vehemently, and self-assuredly state they are not racist or sexist, often are. A more honest personal response to t hese questions is much more complex. If asked directly whether or not I am racist, I would likely respond as follows. First, I would clearly assert that I am without question “privileged,” based on our society’s past and continuing attitudes toward race and my own good fortune in being born white, heterosex fter carefully making that distinction, I would add that ual, and male. A while I hope I am not racist and do not want to be racist, I cannot be
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certain that I am not. Having grown up in a society in which racism abounds and having been unduly advantaged by that racism, maybe I am so blinded to the clearly unjust “normal” that I am not even aware of my own racial bias. Maybe I am too educated, too supposedly sophisticated to be so openly racist. Maybe I am skilled at manipulatively hiding my racism behind the convenient and s ilent facade of phenomena such as “privilege” and “correctness” and manners. And so, when Springsteen asks us in “American Skin (41 Shots)” if racism exists within our heart, our eyes, our souls, he is asking us to do more than simply express our own personal thoughts about racism but also to understand the political, economic, and social systems in which we exist. This makes Springsteen’s profound question a difficult one to answer without serious self-reflection, deeper political understanding, and an awareness of the concepts of racism, privilege, systemic racism, and our own self-awareness.
✧ Conclusion My understanding of Springsteen’s music from a political perspective has shaped me as have the connections it has led me to make in comprehending the political world. As noted, Springsteen’s lyrics can provide all of us, especially young people, with an ideal model for personal political development. Indeed, this model with its call for self-love, effective personal political involvement, and a sense of concern and compassion not only for one nation but for all the world’s people can stand not just as a worthy political blueprint but also as a path to a life well-lived. In regard to love of one’s country, Springsteen challenges us to adopt both a “critical patriotism” and a “populist patriotism.” The former encourages us to thoughtfully criticize our country when it strays from the worthy principles for which it stands. The latter urges us to remain aware that as a nation we are a community that looks out for all, at home and abroad, and, especially, for the common folk who form its backbone. In his life’s work and as especially revealed in his 2016 autobiography, Springsteen’s forthright revealing of his own failures, at times, to live up to his highest aspirations reminds us of our own political and existential struggle. In our quest to be who we aspire to be, we often fail but we
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go on. And while one must continue to make a clear distinction between the artist and the art, the person and his work, Springsteen clearly appears to generally aspire to emulate in his actions the values and nobility presented in his art. Springsteen has also helped bring to light and destigmatize m ental illness and depression. And although he attests that DNA and chemical imbalances in the brain can cause depression, he also recognizes and identifies how the nonhidden and hidden injuries of class fostered by the broader political and socioeconomic system can play a key role in advanc ere, it is useful to reiterate Masur’s astute observation ing that illness. H that in regard to m ental illness and depression, the real American dream must become one that “includes rather than excludes, nurtures rather than famishes, satisfies rather than disappoints” (Masur 2019, 72). The examination of Springsteen’s present political stance indicates that while he is left of center in the tradition of liberal Democrats he would likely resist that characterization of his politics. And although his political leanings are still developing, it is clear that he has not yet embraced Democratic Socialism even while his expressed words and actions lend support to that cause. Springsteen’s work can tell us that we must go beyond a superficial approach to understanding the nature of racism. This involves a more complete understanding of the nature of systemic racism and white privilege. We can connect through the better angels of politics.
3
Springsteen, Love, and Relationships
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The following essay segues from the theme of class and politics to that of class and love, unrequited young love. It is influenced by Springsteen’s class-consciousness as well as F. Scott Fitzgerald’s presentat ion of the romantic, class-driven, tragic pursuit by Jay Gatsby of the enchanting Daisy Buchanan in The G reat Gatsby. I do not want to beat this connection theme into the ground but at the time I experienced my exhilaration in seeking my own version of Daisy Buchanan, I was living on Buchanan Place in West New York, New Jersey.
Essay 12. A Fitzgerald/Springsteen Pastiche: “Gatsby” Down the Jersey Shore Jay Gatsby had his own beautiful and elusive Daisy Buchanan. Bruce Springsteen, F. Scott Fitzgerald and his tragic character Gatsby, and so many other moonstruck males have known those not quite reachable, beautiful w omen in their lives. Such enchantresses seem to exist for no other reason than to teach mortal men that some angelic women are beyond their grasp. They appear as mysterious figures of beauty that mere men can only behold. And often, that beholding is all we frail males ask. The vital fact that we can never really know them makes them even more alluring. Unknowable and mysterious, they remain apparent god126
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desses we can only glimpse from afar and envision as perfect in our imperfect male minds. It is simply enough for us that t hese beguiling creatures exist in our world, objects of ideal beauty for us to view from time to time. Love struck? Yes. Springsteen’s song “Cynthia” (1988) touches on this theme. Even while Springsteen knows that this Cynthia “ain’t never gonna’ be my dream come true,” he cherishes her mere presence in his life, noting: “ ’Cause I don’t need to hold you or taste your kiss. I just like knowin’, Cynthia, you exist in a world like this.” In late September 2009, for the second time in recent years, I participated in an academic conference, Glory Days: A Bruce Springsteen Symposium. The four-day event convened on the campus of Monmouth University in Long Branch, New Jersey. For this Jersey boy, attendance at the conference provided the rare pleasure to leave upstate New York and travel to what in my youth had been my romantic land of hope and dreams, Avon, New Jersey, at or, more accurately, “down” the Jersey Shore. Fifty or so years e arlier, weekend trips to the Jersey Shore offered an exciting and, at least sometimes, romantic escape from the tedium of a sweaty but well-needed summer job and away from the gritty, crowded, confining streets of urban northern New Jersey. That 2009 September, with the Shore relatively deserted after peak season, I was able to take a nostalgic, reflective walk through the beautiful town of Avon, visiting many of the sites of my youth and my longing. Many p eople, especially readers of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, w ill understand the feelings I experienced that late afternoon on my walk into the past. Avon still stands for me, Gatsby-like, as a beacon that once signaled to me, alluringly directing my way in life. It possibly still does. It was my September’s September connection with beautiful Avon that gave birth to the following memories. I have a friend. Let us just call him “Ben.” Ben is both a political theorist and a devout Marxist. He is at least twenty years younger than I am. Just as my early years w ere spent on the crowded, teeming, often dirty streets of Union City, New Jersey, Ben, I believe, lived his early years on the similarly afflicted streets of Brooklyn, New York. At some point in his youth, Ben started working as a caddie at exclusive private golf courses, probably on Long Island. He commuted to the
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lush-green, spacious courses from the dinginess of his Brooklyn neighborhood. Despite his strong Marxist leanings, Ben grew to love, long for, and wanting to be on golf courses. He became so enamored of them that despite early life as a city “rat,” a c areer as an uncompromising Marxist political thinker, and a likely animus to the capitalistic game of golf and all its by-products, he has gone on in his life to write and publish numerous, well-received books and articles on his love of golf, especially golf courses. What has struck me about Ben’s affinity for golf courses and my affinity for the Jersey Shore, especially, the sirens’ call of Avon, likely come from the same source. Despite what I had previously thought, it was never r eally only the lure of the surf and the shore, the young beauties, and the possibility of finding love that accounted for the tug of the Jersey shore on my heart. For both Ben and me, the allure was likely something more fundamental. I believe the magnetism of golf courses for Ben, and of Avon and the Jersey Shore for me reflect the lure of class. Certainly I, and probably Ben too, longed for a life free from the fear and anxiety occasioned by the not-so-hidden injuries of class we sensed w ere associated with our working-class roots. We envisioned an escape from those fears and anx ieties in our being able to somehow “make it” on a golf course, for Ben, and at Avon and the Jersey Shore, for me. I know now that I erroneously perceived a down-the-Jersey Shore life as the ideal. I held the view that those who lived there did not have to suffer the anxiety and pressures associated with the end of the relatively carefree summer and the return to the dreaded insecurities and responsibilities of our blue-collar, must-advance-the-generational-flag existence. Put as simply as I can, I naively felt in my youth that if I could ever rise to the point in my adult life where I could live in the clean and inviting spaciousness of Avon and never have to leave at the end of summer, nothing bad would ever happen. My life would be both happy and successful. I know today that the p eople with a life and home in Avon or Deal or Sea Girt or wherever at the Jersey Shore do not get an automatic pass to a happy, stress-free, fulfilling life. Please note that I originally wrote that last sentence on November 22, 2012, at a time many of these Jersey Shore communities had been devastated by Superstorm Sandy. An assured charmed life lies well beyond the trappings of an upper-class existence
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even in a would-be summer paradise. Still, my memories t oday are inextricably comingled with the comforting lure of the Jersey Shore and the Avon of my youth. That September in 2009, I spent many hours visiting old sites but focused on the Columns H otel, an old majestic structure just off the beach in Avon. Although I could never afford even to consider staying at the grand h otel of my youth, my friends and I did spend many weekend afternoons in the cool inviting confines of the hotel’s bar a fter a day at the beach. One promising if brief period of summer stands out in my mind as a tender moment that I will always remember however ephemeral it was. That moment began in the summer of 1962 between my junior and senior years at college. I was employed at General Foods/Maxwell House Coffee in Hoboken that summer. My older brother Frank had encouraged me to share the costs with him of buying a used car. I happily agreed. As I recall, our purchase was a canary yellow, 1954 Pontiac convertible. It was a beautiful car and, in the day’s politically incorrect vernacular, for summer weekends down-the-shore, it was a classic “chick mobile” however chick-challenged Frank and I were. I had attended St. Peter’s Prep, an all-male Jesuit high school in downtown Jersey City, New Jersey. In St. Peter’s Prep lore, at least as perceived by an insecure, working-class kid such as I, t here were many young women from our supposed sister school, the upscale, uptown, all-female Academy of St. Aloysius, who were simply out of my league. Additionally, there were always even a few young women from St. Al’s who were, at least in my mind, not only out of my league but seemingly out of the romantic reach of all Prep guys, even the cool, confident, mature, nonacne-scarred, affluent, upper-class ones. In my youthful mind, many of t hese Academy girls represented those unattainable young women who would spend whole summers at the Jersey Shore, often in stately Avon, where their families owned majestic summer homes. In their lives, and in my mind, they would never r eally have to leave Avon b ehind. We, Frank and I and most of our friends, visited Avon during summer weekends and rented it. The families of t hese young women spent the w hole summer there and owned it. The wide gulf between “us” and “them” was never really fully articulated but it was there.
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One of these unattainables was the beautiful Susan McKenna (not her real name of course). Susie’s figure was only average, even boyish. She lacked the well-developed bosom that dominated the verbalized fantasies of my classmates. Susie’s most prominent and most irresistible feature that enchanted me and many o thers was her beautiful face. My recall of its specific features is long gone but my memory of its beauty endures almost sixty years later. As I write this, her visage is no longer a clear and distinct image but something even more alluring, a hazy, mysterious, beckoning, irresistible mirage I long to see again but know I never will. Throughout our high school days, the word was that Susie had a serious boyfriend, adding still more weight to the image of her unattainability. She remained undatable by all other guys no m atter how they longed to date her and no matter what they thought they could offer. The mystery surrounding Susie also attached to her boyfriend, whom I remember seeing occasionally but to whom I never spoke. I am sure in my mind there had to be something almost supernatural about him, as he led a life I could never know or experience. He was cool, smart, handsome, a bold dancer, charming, comfortable making small and big talk with women, and supremely adult and confident—all the attributes I was sure I lacked and would always lack. No wonder Susie and he w ere together—and likely would be forever. He was Avon and so was she. One Sunday that summer, Frank and I w ere at the bar at the Columns in Avon. Susie and a few friends walked in. I nodded and smiled her way and she reciprocated with that killer smile of hers, so inviting, so mysterious, so possibly misleading. Still, I knew better than to read anything romantic into her smile, because even though she was unattainable, she was always charmingly pleasant and friendly, which added to her allure. Bruce Springsteen has cleverly noted in his song “Secret Garden” (1995) that mysterious unreachable women such as Susie w ill “look at you and smile and her eyes will say she’s got a secret garden where everything you want, where everything you need will always stay a million miles away.” And, as Susie would eventually do to me, Springsteen notes further in “Secret Garden,” t hese delightful spirits w ill take you to “that place where you can’t remember and you c an’t forget.” Nevertheless, to my pleasant surprise, Susie and I connected that enchanted afternoon. Our connection was surely not in the hooking-up vernacular of t oday, but we did connect. We were having fun together.
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Fueling my fantasy, one of Susie’s friends casually remarked how I both looked and sounded like Robert Kennedy. Of course, I immediately started broadening my A’s even more, trying desperately to perfect the pseudo-New England accent I affected at times during those Kennedy years. Susie spent the w hole afternoon right by my side u ntil she had to leave because her ride was leaving. I did get her Avon telephone number and she agreed to meet me at the Columns in future weeks. What followed were blissfully happy weeks when Susie and I seem a linked couple. I remember so vividly the summer night I took her to the movie theater on the Boardwalk at Asbury Park. We watched the film (totally forgotten now) and then romantically strolled hand in hand on the Boardwalk. In t hose days, Asbury Park still had an upper-class mystique and clean charm about it before its commercialism and racial tensions came and robbed it of its mystique and charm—one can only hope not forever. At that time and in my youthful understanding, a young couple walking hand in hand in Asbury Park, secluded from the group orientation of the other shore points, the bar hopping, the mass crush of clashing hormones, the mutual stalking without admitting such, often signaled a significant new step in a c ouple’s relationship. Indeed, Springsteen by way of Tom Waits would later tell me as much: ’Cause down the shore everything’s all right You and your baby on a Saturday night. Well, you know all my dreams come true When I’m walking down the street with you. (Waits 1980, “Jersey Girl”; Springsteen 1986, “Jersey Girl”) That night I felt close to realizing my dream of living a permanent Jersey Shore life. I did not have the lifeguard tan, the upper-class charm and confidence, and the house in Avon, but for the moment and, perhaps, longer, even forever, I was with Susie. Clasping hands with her on a summer night has become an innocent, beautiful, and indelible memory. Even today, that recollection immediately comes to mind whenever I hear the Springsteen song, “Girls in Their Summer Clothes” (2007). Springsteen’s lyrics invoking “girls in their summer clothes in the cool of the evening light” w ill always longingly bring to my mind thoughts of the stylish and sun-tanned Susie.
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Eventually, I did have dinner with Susie back in Jersey City toward the end of that summer. I remember she did not order anything but a soda. I, after working the 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. shift at Maxwell House, smelling of the coffee soaked into my clothing and skin, and starving, ordered a gigantic sausage, pepper, and onions sandwich and a beer. What the hell was I thinking or, more correctly, not thinking? I fear I ate the greasy sandwich not unlike some ravenous animal, which, of course, I probably was in more ways than one. Did my eating habits, my laborer’s unpleasant fragrance abruptly reveal my blue-collar origins and signal the beginning of the end with Susie? Would my Avon fantasy end with the imagined newspaper lead, “Coffee-soaked, working- class Italian kid stupidly devours peppers, onions, and sausage sandwich with his mouth open in front of shockingly if secretly offended too-kind dream girl, suffers another hidden injury of class and—loses her forever”? But I get ahead of myself even while you know what is coming. After that night in Jersey City, I sought to intensify my relationship with Susie by asking her to meet me at the bar of the Columns H otel at 1:00 p.m. on a Sunday instead of the usual 4:00 p.m. This earlier meeting time was my awkward and obvious move to have some more direct face-to-face time with her without my or her friends being around. Unbeknownst to me at that time as to its attribution, I was, nonetheless, somehow aware of James Joyce’s notion that adolescents often seek crowds and boisterousness to avoid expressing their deepest thoughts. As Joyce put it, the young often take “refuge in number and noise from the secret dread in their souls” (Joyce 1992, 129). I wanted no barriers of “number and noise” between Susie and me that critical afternoon. Secretly, I had planned to reveal my honest feelings. And those sentiments turned decisively toward my stating the desire to see more and more of her. More importantly and so much less knowingly, I wanted to pose a query as to her current thoughts about what I wanted hopefully to think of us as “us.” That anticipated Sunday I arrived at the Columns bar at about 12:45 p.m., ordered a beer, and looked forward to meeting Susie. A half hour went by. I had another beer, but no Susie. Another half hour, another beer. Still another hour and still more beers. Susie was obviously not coming and at that point I didn’t know if I was drunk and pouting or just drunk and awaiting the 4:00 p.m. crowd to join me. I consoled myself
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by thinking that maybe she thought I had said our usual 4:00 p.m. meeting time instead of 1:00 p.m.. My brother and some of our buddies came to the bar at about 4:00 p.m. and I took comfort in blending in with them instead of standing out like a sore thumb as a loser who has been stood up. A short time later, my spirits elevated as I saw Susie’s close friend entering the bar and waving to me. She headed directly toward me. Ironically, I had often thought that this friend of Susie’s would have been more than happy to go out with me but I had so obviously and easily opted for Susie. Yes, of course, what goes around comes around. I remember Susie’s friend heightening both my anxiety and hopes by stringing out her words as she said, “I have a message for you from Susie.” I froze awaiting her next words. Slowly, delaying the suspense, she finally said, “Susie says she c an’t meet you this weekend b ecause—her boyfriend has returned.” That verbal dagger pierced me. In the often-cruel pecking order of adolescent romance, Susie’s friend delivered her lines almost cheerfully, seemingly slowly twisting the knife as if to say, “I’m not good enough for you and you surely are not good enough for Susie.” My anticipated Sunday of Sundays dragged on and I drove home that night returning to northern New Jersey, Monday morning in Hoboken, and reality. Later, I did experience the feeling that while Susie’s boyfriend was away—in my mind, off on an exotic trip to Europe or to a secret training session with the CIA or learning the ropes of Daddy’s million-dollar business—both he and Susie had agreed to see other people in order to test the depth of their relationship. Now, the boyfriend is back and that is all over. I could not help but think she was never serious about me but that I was a rather safe diversion for her, someone she could report to her boyfriend that she did date and for whom there was just no spark. I remember instantly feeling alone and out-of-touch with the stately and elegant beauty of Avon. In the following years, I continued to go to the Columns and other Shore bars during the summer, but I never saw Susie again. All dreams of romance, however, did not remain unhappily unfulfilled that summer. In Avon, my brother Frank met Valerie Kelly, a St. Aloysius Academy graduate, and began dating her. They celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary in January 2017.
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As I write today, a less unwise seventy-nine-year-old and recent rereader of Fitzgerald’s The G reat Gatsby, my perspective has changed. It is now clear to me how even the apparent realization of our hopes, dreams, and aspirations can never live up to the ideal image we have of them in our minds. And it does not matter if t hose minds are youthful or mature. All reality pales in comparison to the visions we conjure in our imagination. We can never fully experience t hose visions and that is what makes them so special and lasting. Gatsby being Gatsby never comes to that realization, but Nick Carraway, the book’s narrator, and surely Fitzgerald do. H ere, in words that speak so resonantly to me t oday, is Fitzgerald’s beautiful but cautionary capturing of that moment when Gatsby’s doomed hope of winning Daisy’s love is realized at least for a clarifying moment: “There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart” (Fitzgerald 1953 [1925], 95–96). The brilliant musician and lyricist Paul Simon provides us with still another illustration of the power of what Fitzgerald has identified as the “colossal vitality” of our illusions. Simon tells us more prosaically but as effectively that if you took all the girls he knew when he was single and brought them all together for one night, they still would not be a match for his “sweet imagination” (Simon 1973, “Kodachrome”). And finally, we can leave the last heartbroken words about t hose beautiful and riveting unattainables of summer to Bruce Springsteen: “She went away. She cut me like a knife. Had a beautiful thing” (Springsteen 2007, “Girls in Their Summer Clothes”; see also Cullen 2019, 195–198).
✧ Springsteen, F athers, and Sons On the album Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band Live/1975–85, Springsteen, in leading up to his rendition of the song “The River,” offers a touching narrative about his father. That brief piece is described in Essay
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13, “Springsteen to Springsteen: Speaking of Love.” Also noted in that essay is the expressed if often unspoken love that can exist between a father and a son. The piece provides evidence that, perhaps like many sons, Spring steen cherished his father’s love but, at least at one time, remained uncertain whether that wonderful gift was to be his to hold. This is especially so when f athers remain reluctant, for whatever reasons, to directly and sincerely simply and meaningfully say “I love you” to their sons. The Springsteen narrative sketched below encouraged me to think and write about other f athers and sons as well as about my own f ather’s relationship with me.
Essay 13. Springsteen to Springsteen: Speaking of Love Springsteen has at times told a narrative introducing the song “The River,” describing how when he was growing up, he and his father used to go at it all the time over almost anything. He notes especially that when he was seventeen or eighteen, he had really long hair, well beyond his shoulders. His father hated it. There was so much tension between father and son at home that the young Springsteen spent a lot of time out of the house. This exile, Springsteen recounts, was not so bad in the summertime because it was warm and his friends w ere out. In the winter, however, it was especially difficult. He recalls standing downtown in the frigid cold and chilling wind. He could find only marginal comfort in a phone booth where he would call his girlfriend and talk to her for hours rather than confronting his father hunkered down in a dark kitchen with beer and cigarettes moodily awaiting his wayward son’s return. When the young Springsteen finally did get up the nerve to go home, he would stand in the driveway knowing his father would be waiting for him in the kitchen. Before entering, Springsteen would strategically tuck his long hair down inside his collar. He would vainly try to walk through the darkened kitchen, but his father would always call him back to sit down with him. Springsteen remembers that the first thing his father always asked him was what did he think he was doin’ with himself. And the worst part about that perennial question for the young Springsteen was that he could never provide an answer to his f ather.
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In the talk to the audience, Springsteen then recounts the time he got into a motorcycle accident and was laid up in bed. His f ather seized the opportunity to have a barber cut Springsteen’s hair. Springsteen was furious and remembers telling his father that he hated him and would never ever forget what his father had done to him. His father responded, “Man, I can’t wait till the Army gets you. When the Army gets you, t hey’re gonna’ make a man out of you. They’ll cut all that hair off and they’ll make a man out of you” (Springsteen, 1986, “Introduction to ‘The River’ ”). Springsteen informs the audience that all this occurred in the late 1960s when there were a lot of guys from his neighborhood g oing to Vietnam. He relates the story of the drummer in his first band coming to the Springsteen home in his Marine uniform and saying he was going to Vietnam and did not even know where it was. Springsteen then tells the audience that a lot of guys went to Vietnam. And a lot of guys did not come back and a lot that did come back were not the same anymore. (Note: Springsteen’s reference to “the drummer in my first band” is to Bart Haynes who died in Vietnam, October 22, 1967, only months a fter his arrival.) Springsteen then tells the audience about the day he got his notice for his draft physical. He relates that he hid the notice from his folks. Days before the physical, he and his friends stayed up all night. He remembers getting on the bus to go to the physical that fateful morning, recounting that he and his friends were all so scared. He then quickly tells the audience, “And I went, and I failed.” Many audience members applaud here in response to the report of Springsteen flunking his army physical but he discourages them, noting, “It’s nothing to applaud about.” He then recounts coming home after he had been gone for three days. He walked into the dreaded kitchen. His mother and father w ere both sitting there. His Dad said, “Where you been?” Springsteen said, “I went to take my physical.” And his father said, “What happened?” And Springsteen said, “They d idn’t take me.” And his f ather said, “That’s good” (Springsteen, 1986, “Introduction to ‘The River’ ”). In addition to this meaningful exchange between Springsteen and his father, the Jersey rocker has written several songs about his relationship with his father. Notable among t hese are “Adam Raised a Cain,” “My Father’s House,” and “Independence Day.” “Independence Day,” even
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includes poignant lyrics touching in part on the seemingly universal phenomenon of the reluctance of fathers and sons to speak openly and lovingly to each other, especially in the early stages of that complex relationship. Springsteen writes: “Papa, now I know the things you wanted that you could not say” (Springsteen 1980, “Independence Day”). While these three songs all seem at times to be filled with painful regret, the arc of Springsteen and his father’s relationship ended with a peaceful and rewarding rapprochement between them. Two passages from Springsteen’s autobiography speak specifically to the beauty and preciousness of that tender reconciliation. First, he writes about a surprise visit from his father that took place the morning of the day before he and Patti’s first child was born. In that encounter, Doug Springsteen said to his son, “Bruce, you’ve been very good to us. And I wasn’t very good to you.” Springsteen responds to his father. “You did the best you could.” And then Springsteen recounts what those simple, meaningful words from his father meant to him: “That was it. It was all I needed, all that was necessary. I was blessed on that day and given something by my father I thought I’d never live to see . . . a brief recognition of the truth. It was why he’d come five hundred miles that morning. He’d come to tell me, on the eve of my fatherhood, that he loved me, and to warn me to be careful, to do better, to not make the same painful mistakes he made. I try to honor it” (Springsteen 2016a, 412). Springsteen has also testified to the key role that medication played in controlling his f ather’s manic depression, extending his life, and allowing father and son the gift of more time to come to know and love each other. Springsteen writes, the medicine “gave my f ather ten extra years of life and a peace he might never have had. He and my mother got to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. He got to know his grandchildren and we became much closer. He became easier to reach, to know and love” (Springsteen 2016a, 408).
✧ Unlike Springsteen, my f ather never openly expressed his love to me or, as far as I know, to my brother Frank or my s ister Jeanne. He was a quiet, detached, silently brooding, shy man. Unlike the Springsteens, the arc of our relationship was an abruptly truncated one. My father never got to meet or, so much more, know and love my spouse, my children, and
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my grandchildren. He died in 1964 at the age of fifty when I was twenty- three. I know he loved us. “Flying,” Essay 14, recounts an event that occurred when Frank and I were boys. It has been told so many times by different f amily members that I’m not sure what is true and what is artistic fiction. What follows is one version that focuses upon my father. I like this version best.
Essay 14. Flying In 1947, at the age of six, I learned how to fly. We lived in an apartment on the top floor of a three-story tenement in Union City, New Jersey, two long, dark flights of stairs above busy, bright Bergenline Avenue. I studiously discovered I could descend the stairs most quickly by practicing a wild but semicontrolled fall while holding on to the banister. This was not at all the prosaic and relatively safe act of sliding down the bannister that my father had already expressly prohibited me from doing. It was so much more creative and daring. Loosely gripping the handrail, I would fling myself down the stairs, free falling, seemingly defying gravity, flying. In my child’s mind, my “flight” took no more than eight seconds. I was proud that only I knew the secret of how to miraculously soar through the darkness of the hallway’s two flights into the inviting lights of the city and the world beyond. That summer, despite an earlier sharp warning from our father, my older brother Frank and I, focused too long on schoolyard basketball, were again late for supper. Confirmation that we had again upset my parents came from a young friend, Richie Pansini, whom we met about a block or two from our apartment. Richie, employing a rather too gleeful, rhythmic, “You’re—in—t rou—ble,” told us our mother had been calling us from our kitchen window for at least an hour. As we crossed busy New York Avenue, one block from home, Frank spied one of the immense city buses barreling down the avenue. He was instantly struck by genius. He informed me all we had to do to escape my f ather’s wrath was for me to tell my parents that Frank had just been hit by a bus. Frank easily convinced me this fabrication would so distract our parents, they would forget about our being late for supper.
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As we approached our tenement, the plan became even more polished. Frank would hide in the back of the first-floor hallway and I would ring the bell. When my m other peered over the third-floor railing to ask, “Who is it?” as she always did, I would cry in my most panicked voice, “Frankie got hit by a bus.” As I recall, I performed my part wonderfully. I even remember creatively improvising on Frank’s dialogue. Rather than merely saying, “Frankie got hit by a bus,” I ad-libbed by preceding that line with, a frantic, “Mom! Mom!” And so, the co-scripted critical lines became, “Mom! Mom! Frankie got hit by a bus!” After hearing my mother’s piercing scream followed by a thundering rumble, my father shockingly appeared in front of me in much less than eight seconds. He was flying down the stairs in the style only I knew. Almost as immediately, I saw the look of frightened and frightening horror on his face. Unprompted by Frank, I once again added to the script. This time, uttering softly, defensively, “I was only kidding.” My father stopped his flight, his look of horror replaced by one of anger I had never seen before. Frank shyly came forward. I do not recall exactly what happened next. I do remember receiving one of my otherwise-gentle father’s rare spankings and being sent to bed. I also remember lying in bed crying and my sobbing brother turning to me and saying, “It worked. They forgot about us being late for supper.”
✧ In 2007 a young Pakistani, Sarfraz Manzoor, raised in G reat Britain, published Greetings from Bury Park: Race, Religion, and Rock ’n’ Roll. I was intrigued when the book appeared b ecause in teaching my Springsteen course, I had long sought literature that might provide insights into Springsteen’s attraction to those beyond the borders of the United States. What did these p eople, a long distance from the Jersey Shore, Nebraska, Youngstown, and other Springsteen locations, find and relate to in the music of the Jersey rocker? I read Manzoor’s book immediately. Christopher Phillips, the publisher and editor of Backstreets, billed as “The Boss Magazine since 1980,” soon asked me to write a review. I enjoyed the book and wanted to share Manzoor’s love of Springsteen’s work and the role it played in his life. That review appeared in Backstreets
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(Spring 2008, 32–33). It appears below in expanded and updated form, with the kind permission of Backstreets. What struck me in the book w ere the differences and similarities in the relationship, loving and otherwise, t hese two distinct individuals in different countries and cultures had with their f athers. Manzoor’s book tells us of the universality of the love that can exist between fathers and sons. Also moving to me is the book’s recounting of the poignant, bittersweet tale of this young Muslim’s love of Bruce Springsteen both before and especially in the sad aftermath of 9/11. Manzoor teaches us that the wounds of 9/11 w ere experienced well-beyond the United States and by Muslims too. As I work once again on this essay, in August 2019, I have just returned from a local movie theater where I saw and enjoyed the director Gurinder Chadha’s film, Blinded by the Light, based on Manzoor’s book and starring Viveik Kalra as the author/Springsteen devotee.
Essay 15. Pakistani Son, Pakistani Father: An Updated Review of Sarfraz Manzoor’s Greetings from Bury Park: Race, Religion, and Rock ’n’ Roll As a young Pakistani Muslim reared in Britain, Sarfraz Manzoor once tried to convince his Pakistani-raised f ather about the wisdom of spending a summer in the United States. “Why do you want to go to America anyway? Americans are unclean, immoral, look at how little their girls wear,” his f ather argued. And then Manzoor, whimsy not quite disguising hormonal honesty, notes: “I did not want to confess that was one of the reasons why I was desperate to visit” (Manzoor 2007, 135). Such cross- cultural humor, as well as cross-cultural tension and poignancy, mark this engaging book. Manzoor is a successful British journalist, a Bruce Springsteen fan, and the author of Greetings from Bury Park. Springsteen’s American fans might easily dismiss his coming-of-age tale. What can a thirty- something Pakistani Muslim tell them? Sure, Manzoor incorrectly, if charmingly, places the iconic southern United States city of Charleston in North Carolina (Manzoor 2007, 71). He misspells the name of the
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E Street keyboardist and pianist, Roy Bittan (114). And, he appears oblivious to the bitter irony of Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love tour as he is seemingly unaware that The Boss’s marriage to Julianne Phillips was sadly ending (105–109). In fairness, Manzoor notified me after the review appeared in Backstreets that he was not at all oblivious to the troubles in Springsteen’s first marriage before and during the Tunnel of Love tour. And, even t hese harmless errors can be instructive to Springsteen’s American fans. They might help us reflect on how and why t hose in other lands and cultures know so much about the United States while we know so little about them. A Muslim character in Sally Potter’s insightful cross-cultural post–9/11 film YES concisely expresses this acute phenomenon. The frustrated Muslim man laments most Americans’ cultural myopia to his American lover: From Elvis to Eminem, Warhol’s art, I know your stories, know your songs by heart. But do you know mine? No, e very time, I make the effort, and learn to rhyme In your English. And do you know a word Of my language, even one? Have you heard That “al-gebra” was an Arabic man? You’ve read the Bible. Have you read the Koran (Potter 2005, 54) And, there is another passage in Potter’s film that would likely resonate with Manzoor’s love/hate/love relationship with the United States: It’s you—your people—feel superior. You want to rule, you want to spoil; You want our land, you want our oil. . . . You call that civilized? Your country is a dragon, breathing flames; Land of corporate fantasies, brand names;
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Big Mac, big burger, yes, big everything. And you, blonde American, are too thin, Too fit, not womanly. And then, your skin: Too pale, insipid. And your eyes, too blue, Why do you make me dream of you? (Potter 2005, 53) ere is still much more for even the most seasoned fan to learn from Th and enjoy in Manzoor’s book. The author provides refreshing cross-cultural insights on familiar Springsteen themes including f amily, friendship, class politics, love and sex, spirituality, and patriotism. He offers a rare glimpse into how t hese themes are experienced by a sensitive, if confused and alienated, young Muslim. For as long as he can remember, Manzoor has had to try to accommodate his strict Pakistani Muslim upbringing while confronting the worldly allures of the West. Throughout the often-f rustrating ordeal of growing up, he holds on to the inspiration and values he finds not only in Springsteen’s m usic but also in several intriguing, and rare for any fan, face-to-face encounters with his idol. These encounters include Springsteen’s dedication of an acoustic version of “Point Blank” to Manzoor at a British concert (Manzoor 2007, 116). In another concert incident, a sweating Springsteen asks Manzoor to hold his Fender Telecast guitar so Bruce can take off his shirt (113). One of the more intriguing and telling personal encounters occurs at Britain’s Royal Court of Justice where Springsteen was involved in a lawsuit brought against a company that had released illegal copies of his earlier work. On this occasion, Manzoor finds himself seated in the courtroom only two feet from Springsteen. During a recess, Bruce asked Manzoor what book he was reading. And when Manzoor replied by showing Springsteen his copy of The Grapes of Wrath, the Jersey rocker, deftly rephrasing his “three-minute record” line from “No Retreat, No Surrender,” proclaimed, “That’s a great choice. You’ll learn more from that than any newspaper” (117). Readers should be alerted that while this book is more about Manzoor’s personal development and maturation and less about Springsteen’s influence on his life, evidence of the latter appears consistently throughout the text, often in more subtle than overt form.
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Still, the overt influences are memorable. Manzoor resists his f amily’s pressure for him to marry a Pakistani woman in a prearranged marriage of virtual strangers. His successful resistance is traced directly to a Springsteen classic. Manzoor writes: “When I heard ‘Born to Run,’ it had seemed the most romantic song I had ever heard; the girl I wanted to spend the rest of my life with was someone to whom I could say the lines that Bruce sings to Wendy in that song: ‘we’ll live with the sadness and Iw ill love you with all the madness in my soul.’ I was not g oing to be able to say that to some girl from a Pakistani village whom my parents had imported into the country” (Manzoor 2007, 202). Another telling overt nod to Springsteen’s influence on Manzoor’s life occurs when the author enthusiastically endorses his friend Amolak’s view of the power of Bruce’s m usic. Amolak notes: “The t hing about Bruce . . . is that it’s like he knows everything you’ve ever felt, everything you’ve ever wanted and he can describe it better than you. That’s what I love about him so much; there isn’t a situation you will ever go through that Bruce will not have a song for. I’m serious, you hate school: ‘No Surrender’; you hate where you live: ‘Thunder Road’; you hate your dad: ‘Independence Day’; you hate your girlfriend: ‘Brilliant Disguise’; you hate your life: ‘Badlands.’ He’s there for you no matter what you’re going through” (Manzoor 2007, 96). Manzoor’s handling of two Springsteen themes is particularly moving—the evolving dynamics of f ather–son relationships and the bittersweetness of one’s longing and searching for a promised land. The father–son theme often plays out with the rebellious, angry son, a fter a long period of b itter conflict, coming to better understand and love his father. Manzoor, however, adds an intriguing twist to this familiar Springsteen theme. Bruce Springsteen and his f ather, Doug Springsteen, had their epic battles but at least they shared an American nationality and upbringing. They coexisted divided by a generation but immersed in a similar, if evolving, American ethos. For Manzoor and his father, there w ere not only the daunting generational differences and disagreements but also those tensions heated still more by a combustible clash of cultures including the lure of the Western world and the vicissitudes of time and place. Still, Manzoor clearly relates to Springsteen’s f ather–son experience, noting that u ntil he discovered Springsteen, the only singers he listened to
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“sang about dancing on the ceiling and total eclipses of the heart, not their troubled relationships with their fathers” (Manzoor 2007, 92). The cultural differences between Springsteen and Manzoor are, of course, many. Raised a Muslim, young Manzoor religiously follows a nightly ritual of lovingly massaging his father’s feet and dutifully turning over to his father any money he earns (Manzoor 2007, 34, 38, 60). One cannot imagine Doug Springsteen demanding such commitment from his son and, even more unlikely, a young rebellious Bruce placidly acquiescing. Manzoor does. And while Manzoor and Bruce might have little in common culturally, they both come to share the experience of weathering different but similar clashes with their f athers and enjoying a wonderfully moving and loving resolution of their e arlier conflicts. In passionate words as easily uttered by Springsteen, Manzoor writes: “When I was younger I didn’t want to know who my father was b ecause I believed my father had nothing to do with me. How wrong can a son be?” (6). And he adds: “Where once it was resentment which inspired me, now it is the hope that in my own life I can do his memory proud. Th ese days I am a willing prisoner of my f ather’s h ouse” (54). Springsteen would agree with this conclusion and somewhere Doug Springsteen is smiling. Manzoor, especially as a boy, embraced the abundant freedom and opportunity he perceived in his long-a nticipated promised land, the United States. He longed to someday live and work t here, recalling: “All my hopes were encapsulated in the life I imagined was possible in the United States” (130). He recounts the memory of his 1990 visit to what he refers to as the roof of the east tower of the World Trade Center: “I was in the country I had always wanted to see, the city I had always wanted to visit and I was on top of the world.” He adds that what he loved especially about the United States at that “magical” time can clearly be traced to Springsteen’s m usic. Manzoor writes: “I was thinking of the number of times I had heard ‘Incident on 57th Street’ and ‘New York City Serenade.’ I was thinking that I was in a country where no one cared if I was Pakistani or Muslim. I was thinking that I had finally reached the promised land” (153). And then came 9/11. Manzoor recalls watching the horror unfold on telev ision with his m other. “My m other was crying. ‘Those poor
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eople, all they were doing was going to work,’ she said. ‘Going to earn p money for their families, why did they deserve to die? Who would do such a t hing?’ ” Manzoor can only remain s ilent. Pressing him to translate into Urdu what they both w ere hearing, his mother asked again: “Who are the idiots that would take innocent lives? Do they not have a conscience? Taking fathers from children. What are they saying? Do they know who did this?” Breaking his long silence and likely confronting his own horrible realization, Manzoor must tell her, “They’re saying it was Muslims” (235). He writes that he learned a bitter lesson that day. After thirty years of running away from his Muslim religion, his religion caught up with him. His good friend Amolak later told him, “You realize what this means, don’t you? It means that America isn’t ours anymore.” Manzoor can only write, “I said nothing but understood” (235). After the London subway bombings of July 7, 2005, Manzoor’s Islamic religious beliefs are further tested. Four British Muslims, three of Pakistani origin, carried out this domestic suicide mission. Manzoor bravely responds to this test of faith, drawing inspiration from Springsteen’s “Worlds Apart” on The Rising a lbum and relying on his own maturing growth. “Worlds Apart” features the Pakistani Muslim qawwali singer Rahat Ali Khan, and in listening to it, an epiphany Manzoor describes as “an intensely emotional experience,” he draws saving hope that the Muslim and non-Muslim worlds can coexist (Manzoor 2007, 237). In “Worlds Apart,” Springsteen seeks to bridge the canyon gap between the Muslim world and the West before it is too late: Let’s throw the truth away we’ll find it in this kiss In your skin upon my skin in the beating of our hearts. May the living let us in before the dead tear us apart. (Springsteen 2002, “Worlds Apart”) And Manzoor’s own mature reflection culminates in the conclusion that what the Muslim bombers did in Britain was not in his name. Realizing there is more than one way to be a good Muslim, Manzoor elects to believe in “an Islam which was more tolerant” (Manzoor 2007, 238– 239, 264).
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Manzoor’s quest and his book end on a hopeful note as he openly embraces his Muslim faith and he discovers his real Promised Land, Great Britain. And even this discovery he attributes at least in part to the Jersey musician, writing, “Bruce Springsteen changed my life b ecause in his music I saw the promise of hope and escape and self-improvement, but where once I longed to escape to the United States, these days I’m convinced my father did the right thing coming to Britain” (268–269). And then in the words of a man at peace with himself, Manzoor adds: It has taken me three decades to realise that there is only one country which is truly mine. The life my father had built, the family he raised and the life I have fashioned are all due to living in Britain. Every opportunity, every job and e very chance to pursue my dreams has been offered by this country, not by America, and not by Pakistan. My father used to tell me he regretted coming to Britain, but in truth it was the greatest gift he gave his c hildren. I was born in Pakistan but made in England; it is Britain which is my land of hope and dreams. (Manzoor 2007, 269) Evidently, there is more than one way to be a devoted son, a patriot, and a Springsteen fan.
✧ Compassion and Understanding in Love (and Even in Politics) What I perceive in Springsteen’s lyrics is a call for compassion and understanding in h uman relationships. His writing indicates a willingness to reach out to others and even forgive them for the harsh, even cruel actions that many would see as unforgivable. The song, “Spare Parts” appears on Springsteen’s 1987 Tunnel of Love album focusing on the difficulties likely to confront all who seek to find happiness and fulfillment in a loving relationship. This a lbum w ill be discussed more fully later, but below I discuss an often- misunderstood character in “Spare Parts.” This is “Bobby,” “Scumbag Bobby” to some but not to Springsteen. Without condoning Bobby’s actions, Springsteen understands that we can never know what led to Bobby’s behavior. Understood beneath
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its sketchy and caricatured surface meaning, Springsteen’s depiction of Bobby can enlighten us about compassion, empathy, and forgiveness in regard to the perceived faults of others, even a once hated political figure.
Essay 16. “Scumbag Bobby” and Springsteen’s “Spare Parts” Springsteen gets right to the point in this song. The shocking sexually graphic opening lines are: “Bobby said he’d pull out, Bobby stayed in. Janey had a baby it wasn’t any sin” (Springsteen 1987, “Spare Parts”). Bobby promises to marry the pregnant Janey but soon gets “scared” and runs away. The jilted Janey is left to bear the consequences. Feeling her “whole life has been one big m istake,” Janey contemplates suicide, the desperate escape of death, for both her baby and her. She even takes her infant son to the river with the intention of permanently ending the hopelessness she is experiencing. Waist deep in the water, however, Janey is somehow moved by “how bright the sun shone” (Springsteen 1987, “Spare Parts”). What is happening here? Whenever Springsteen, raised a Catholic as I have been, employs lines about the sun, the light, the brightness, he is often invoking God’s grace. It is that grace that mysteriously reaches Janey in the w ater and pulls her and her baby back from the abyss. Rather than dying, Janey and her child are, in effect, baptized into a new and better life where women (and men) must be rough and ready for love and life even if that calls for the creative use of “spare parts” and some inevitable suffering of “broken hearts.” To signal this new sense of hopefulness and the beginning of a new life, Janey takes her son home, ties her engagement ring in a sash made from her unused wedding dress, goes straight to the pawnshop and walks out “with some good cold cash” (Springsteen 1987, “Spare Parts”). And what about Bobby? He never returns. Bobby appears to stand as the antithesis of ideal masculinity, faithfulness, and strength. He flees from his responsibilities. I often try to challenge students in my Springsteen class by emphatically dismissing Bobby as a real “scumbag,” hoping some of them will disagree with my facile, judgmental comment. Few ever do so. My students can be forgiven for not objecting to my seemingly self- righteous characterization of Bobby for several reasons. For starters, the
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song focuses more on Janey’s background, actions, and motivations and less on Bobby’s. Additionally, and more importantly, many if not all of the students understandably lacked a detailed and comprehensive grasp of what Springsteen had written previously about people, such as Bobby, who commit irresponsible, illegal, or immoral acts. What my students do not fully appreciate is that Springsteen’s work has often pointed to the pivotal role that societal, economic, and politi cal factors play in shaping human actions. Springsteen has noted that his Nebraska a lbum addresses the realization that individuals deprived uman needs including a safe and nurturing childhood of fundamental h can in the end lose all hope or turn to dangerous actions (Alterman 1999, 129; Humphries 1996, 50–51). Springsteen’s The Ghost of Tom Joad and Wrecking Ball a lbums explore this same phenomenon. In t hese a lbums and in the case of Bobby in “Spare Parts,” Spring steen is, I believe, implicitly making his contribution to what has become recognized as the “nature versus nurture” debate.” This debate focuses on the question of w hether h uman behavior is shaped more by inherent factors (i.e., nature) or by societal considerations (i.e., nurture). Like all reasonable p eople, Springsteen does not see the answer to this question as an either/or one. Along with all thinking people, he would conclude that both nature and nurture play critical roles in shaping human behav usic strongly support ior. Nevertheless, key aspects of Springsteen’s m his tendency to side with t hose who look to nurturing and not nature as uman behavior. Support for this conclusion the essential factor shaping h follows. In describing what confronts his desperate, often dangerous characters on the Nebraska a lbum, Springsteen clearly points to societal considerations: “The tension running through the m usic’s core was the thin line between stability and the moment when the t hings that bind you to your world, your job, your family, your friends, the love and grace in your heart, fail you” (Springsteen 2016a, 299). And even on that a lbum, t hese lost characters cannot fully explain their own motivations. Seemingly oblivious to the high-level nature versus nurture debate, the serial killer in “Nebraska” (1982) can only “guess” he did what he did because “there’s just a meanness in this world.” Additionally, when Johnny 99, a convicted armed robber who has shot a clerk is asked what led him to this action, his response, while ambiguous, bespeaks more nurture than nature.
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Now judge I got debts no honest man could pay. The bank was holdin’ my mortgage and they was takin’ my house away. Now I a in’t sayin’ that makes me an innocent man But it was more ’n all this that put that gun in my hand. (Springsteen 1982, “Johnny 99”) While Springsteen will likely never deny the role of free will and individual responsibility in determining h uman behavior, he generally places more emphasis on the collective, the role of society in shaping that behav ior. He would agree that much of human behavior is molded more by nurture (or its lack) than nature. This consideration must be factored into his sketched depiction of Bobby. To Springsteen, always aware of the frailties of human nature, Bobby would never be “scumbag Bobby.”
✧ The character of Bobby in “Spare Parts” and my political science research regarding the character of presidents of the United States clearly underlie the thoughts that follow. Springsteen’s “Bobby” can teach us that at some point in our lives any of us might succumb to the temptation to flee rather than stay and meet our responsibilities, to otherwise fail to be who we want to be. In that sense, we might all at some time become Bobby. That is a part of our flawed humanity. Springsteen is telling us that it a in’t easy being a man, a w oman, a lover, a parent—and sometimes we lose our way. And that even goes in the rough and tough world of politics. In 2009 I began preparing an essay on Richard Nixon. That endeavor gave me the opportunity to review my old Nixon files. As part of an earlier research project, I had gained special access to the papers at the Nixon Presidential Materials Project in Washington, DC. In rereading t hose files, I came across documents that revealed inter esting glimpses into Nixon’s complex, intriguing, and often jaded personality and character. B ecause the glimpses drawn from the files at times reflected negatively on Nixon’s character and personality, I was prepared to write an essay about him that reflected my own unqualified disapproval of the man. To me, Nixon was an intelligent person but nonetheless someone I had opposed and distrusted most of my life. He
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remained someone not worthy of my praise and not even deserving of my understanding. In preparing Essay 17, “The Nixon in All of Us,” Springsteen’s Bobby in “Spare Parts” stayed in my mind. Indeed, what I learned from Springsteen about understanding h uman weaknesses and having compassion for t hose who transgress was vitally reinforced by a close reading of the seminal book by the political scientist and presidential scholar James David Barber, The Presidential Character: Predicting Performance in the White House. Barber’s thesis is twofold. He argues that predicting a U.S. president’s overall performance in the White House can be best gauged by assessing his fundamental character, defined as “the way the President orients himself toward life not for the moment but enduringly.” Any president’s character, as, indeed, it is for all p eople, is largely s haped by his childhood experiences. Accordingly, the effort to comprehend any president’s character must closely examine his early years and the critical events that likely s haped his outlook on life (Barber 1992, 5–11). Barber describes Nixon’s character as one in which he combined an assertive and energetic approach to life with a lowered sense of self- esteem. In Barber’s view, Nixon as president would be extensively and energetically involved in life’s affairs but would also seem to receive little joy in d oing so. He would be inclined to engage in politics without a positive sense of satisfaction. Nixon’s character would also probably lead him to sees politics and other endeavors as a hostile zero-sum affair in which others are often perceived not as colleagues but as opponents and even mortal enemies (Barber 1992, 9, 123–168). In tracing the development of Nixon’s character, Barber provides us with a vivid, unsettling, and moving account of the future president’s early years. He notes that the young Nixon split his head open at three years of age after a fall from a buggy and then suffered motion sickness for the rest of his life. He almost died of pneumonia at four (Barber 1992, 124–125). Nixon’s mother had to leave him at home at an early age in order for her to care for a younger brother who was fighting tuberculosis and who eventually died. Barber notes that Nixon’s low estimation of himself is clearly reflected in a letter he wrote to his absent m other at this time. In the complimentary close of that letter, the young Nixon refers to himself as, “Your good dog” (128). Barber further notes that the lack of security and genu-
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ine joy surrounding the young Nixon is reflected in his being referred to as “Gloomy Gus” during his years as a law student at Duke (128). Barber’s conclusions about the shaping of the young Nixon are both halting and haunting. He notes: “Out of his childhood Nixon brought a per sis tent bent toward life as painful, difficult and— perhaps as significant—uncertain.” In Barber’s view, Nixon’s difficult childhood fits with his “lifelong propensity for feeling sad about himself.” A statement Barber attributes to Nixon’s Duke Law School roommate capsulizes a theme that would be persistent in the future president’s life: “He never expected anything good to happen to him or to anyone close to him unless it was earned.” Nixon learned to work very hard (Barber 1992, 128). In my classroom notes on Barber’s book, I have the following comment in quotation marks. “Among the many themes and contradictions in his [Nixon’s] life, there is a tenderness, a longing to reach out and help the hurt little boy he was.” I have not been able to trace that quotation to Barber after reviewing most if not all the book’s editions. I can speculate that it is a quote I came across at the time in another context that resonated with me regarding Richard Nixon and I jotted it down. That noted, I have been touched by t hose undocumented but meaningful words that can be applied to Nixon as well as to Bobby whose likely hurt- filled life contributed to his not taking responsibility for the child he fathered. Hurt often begets more hurt. Essay 17, “The Nixon in All of Us,” has a somewhat abrupt turnaround near its end. At the time, I was aware of what I was d oing, trying to understand and not judge Nixon too harshly but not at all certain from where that desire came. Only recently have I come to understand that my nonjudgmental effort stemmed in large part from the lessons in Springsteen’s presentation of Bobby in “Spare Parts,” and Barber’s insightful depiction and understanding of Nixon. And perhaps, even more recently, I have been influenced by Pope Francis’s h umble query regarding the choices o thers have made in their lives: “Who am I to judge?” Their messages s haped mine.
Essay 17. The Nixon in All of Us In 2009, and having retired, I returned to Maine after an absence of over twenty-three years. While packing, I rediscovered one of my many Nixon
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files, and reading through it convinced me that my fascination with him endures. I had come to Maine as a young college professor in 1971 when President Nixon was the center of the political world. My spouse and I worked diligently for Senator George McGovern in the South Dakota Democrat’s overwhelming, for us, heartbreaking, loss to Nixon in the presidential election of 1972. So much of my early teaching focused on Nixon as he took us through the drama and trauma of a prolonged Vietnam War, Watergate, and his own tragic demise. Even a fter his resignation in 1974, I continued to chart his seemingly endless cycle of political ruination and rebirth. What lies behind this sustained fascination? My rediscovered files contained copies of memorandums President Nixon wrote in the early 1970s. Th ere is r eally nothing surprising in t hese memos, which often confirm the insecure, mean-spirited, manipulative man Nixon could be at times. Still, the fascination endures. For example, in a March 2, 1970, memo, Nixon urged his subordinates to put the bite on some wealthy multimillionaires instead of just the mere run-of-the mill rich. Curiously referring to himself in the third person as if even Nixon remained detached from himself, the president wrote ught to do is get the names in regard to fund-raising: “I think what we o of 20 men in the country who can give $100,000 or more. Have them in for a small dinner, let them know they are RN’s personal backers and take it from there. What I have in mind here is that we tend to spin our wheels with a lot of people who mean well but who can’t do very much for us” (Nixon 1970a). Another memo provides a glimpse of Nixon carrying on his endless battle with the press. Reporting on information gained from a Nixon- friendly journalist, the president wrote, in a January 6, 1970, memo, that in regard to the press, “about 60 to 65 percent begin with a strong negative attitude toward RN which w ill inevitably be reflected in their writing or TV news comments.” While these hostile journalists, Nixon added, “now and then will throw us a bone, their whole objective in life is to bring us down.” Drawing on a comparison to the former president Lyndon Johnson, an embittered Nixon advises his aides to calculatedly treat the press “with the courteous, cool contempt which has been my policy over the last few years. The greatest mistake we can make is to
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try to do what Johnson did—to slobber over them with the hope that you can ‘win’ them. It just c an’t be done” (Nixon 1970b). Nixon’s insecurity regarding his perceived image is revealed in a final example in the file. He lost the 1960 presidential election to Democrat John F. Kennedy, in part because the first telecast presidential debate tellingly contrasted JFK’s youthful, cool television-friendly image with Nixon’s drab, sweaty, tired one. That unsuccessful campaign apparently left Nixon painfully insecure about his own projected television image long a fter 1960. On April 22, 1971, Nixon wrote a memo to his staff expressing a concern noted by the FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover had written that a Nixon television speech on Vietnam did not go as well as it could have. Nixon’s memo highlighted Hoover’s observation that the president’s tele vision image “had a yellowish rather washed-out look rather than the healthy appearance that he [Hoover] thought I [Nixon] projected in person last night.” Even while the dour Hoover hardly qualified as an expert in projecting a lively and engaging television persona, Nixon, ever cautious and reflective, went on to advise that “maybe we should do something about lighting or makeup or both before the next television appearance” (Nixon 1971). Richard Nixon’s flaws are not the essential issue here. As fascinating a politician as “RN” was, it is Nixon the man who intrigues me. When I think of Richard Nixon, I think of how much he magnified the possibilities and limitations of our human nature. He reflects the best and worst in humanity. His potential for soaring creative intelligence and global understanding and his capacity for pettiness, vindictiveness, and mendacity serve to remind us of our own capacity for both nobility and baseness. Our best dreams and aspirations, not unlike Nixon’s, are often so much better than we can ever be. We aspire to uplifting poetry but are often uninspiringly prosaic. We can be both benevolently smart and malevolently crafty. We desire to be magnanimously selfless but often end up myopically selfish. We are creative and yet destructive, imaginatively spontaneous and surprising— but also boringly shallow and predictable. All of us have something of Nixon in us (Farrell 2013). When I think of Richard Nixon and “scumbag Bobby,” I know I think of all human
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beings. We are tragically anchored by our own h uman weaknesses, insecurities, and fears but we are also capable of reaching for the heights.
✧ Springsteen and Tunnel of Love Through the years, I have given Springsteen’s album Tunnel of Love to family members, friends, and the children of friends as they have embarked on married life or a personal relationship. I have found this particular album to be a helpful gift, especially to those beginning that worthwhile, often beautiful, if sometimes scary, life together as partners. In Tunnel of Love, Springsteen paints remarkably accurate pictures of relationships that are uncompromisingly realistic at the same time they remain promisingly optimistic or inevitably doomed. Springsteen tells us that living with a close partner, and relationships in general, seldom proves an easy ride. It takes a strong, courageous commitment from each partner, an endlessly open heart, and a spirit always loving and willing to forgive. And even then, nothing is guaranteed. In Essay 18, dealing with marriage and relationships, I present aspects of the a lbum that I truly love, and, more importantly, focus on what the a lbum conveys about the attributes and dimensions of marriage, relationships, and gender politics in the contemporary world. Springsteen released his Tunnel of Love a lbum in 1987. He had married the actress, model, and non–New Jerseyan Julianne Phillips, in May 1985. It appears the marriage was doomed almost from the start. Springsteen reportedly wanted Julianne to start having c hildren and being a full-t ime parent and Julianne wanted to continue her career (Dolan 2012, 239–240). Before Tunnel was released, many Springsteen followers anticipated a very romantic a lbum that would be a testament to Bruce’s undying love for Julianne. And although that was probably what Springsteen (and Julianne) truly hoped their love would be, it sadly and clearly would not be so. The a lbum might have originated in Springsteen’s mind as a project to document the complexities of a working marriage, but its completion seemingly betrayed that mission by documenting a failed or at least nonworking marriage. Still, in making the a lbum, Springsteen clearly and wisely suggests what it ultimately does take to make a marriage, a lov-
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ing relationship, work even while his own marriage is failing. That alone makes this a lbum intriguing. Springsteen learned a lesson from this failed marriage. Today, he seems happy in his second one. Incidentally, he never says that he is married for the “second” time. He always says he is now married for the “last time.” As Springsteen’s biography has noted, on the Tunnel of Love tour that began in 1987, it soon became clear onstage that Patti Scialfa, the Jersey rocker, daughter of Deal, New Jersey, parents, and E Street band member had emerged out of the backup singer shadows to become the romantic force in Springsteen’s life. It appeared that Springsteen had married the wrong woman. The paparazzi soon published a photo of Springsteen on a balcony in Rome in his jockey shorts, snuggling Scialfa. Julianne and Springsteen split in April 1988 and Julianne filed for divorce in August 1988, ending their three-year marriage. Springsteen’s autobiography, Born to Run, offers more on this unhappy marriage and his connection to Scialfa (Springsteen 2016a, 330–333, 348–352).
Essay 18. Springsteen on Relationships in Tunnel of Love On Tunnel of Love, we are a long way from the passionate yet immature lovers of Springsteen’s song, “Born to Run” (1975) as they hop into a car and desperately try to escape troubles and responsibility by driving down a highway g oing nowhere. The maturing Springsteen is no longer writing h ere about the young lover of “Born to Run” who wants to die dramatically and tragically with his beloved “on the streets tonight in an everlasting kiss.” Rather, many of the older and wiser lovers of Tunnel of Love want to continue to live, love, and work with their partners because that is what true lovers do. Still, two songs on the album clearly point to the mistrust and unhappiness that can irreparably work its way into a relationship. The first is the underrated “One Step Up.” The second is the brilliant “Brilliant Disguise.” “One Step Up” is a clever song that is often underappreciated. It is very similar to “Brilliant Disguise,” as both songs dwell on a relationship going backward fast and likely doomed to failure and causing heartache. Notice how each stanza in “One Step Up” takes the narrator physically and spiritually farther (concrete distance) and further (abstract distance)
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away from his loved one. These doomed partners are taking “one step up and two steps back.” First, he leaves home in his old Ford, then he is at a motel, then he is at a motel bar, and then he is at the motel bar and with a woman who “ain’t lookin’ too married” at the same time he is just “pretending.” And, one suspects, he ends up in a motel bed with the stranger who was not “lookin’ too married” (Springsteen 1987, “One Step Up”). There are the good and the bad in any relationship but h ere the good- to-bad ratio is terribly skewed against the couple. If you are only going one step up and two steps back in a relationship, you are g oing backward and w ill never reach your ideal destination. I have not been able to document the official source, but I recall reading a report that Mao Tse-tung has spoken of a seemingly contradictory “Dance of the Dialectic” that was happily and optimistically performed by Chinese communist children. In the dance, the c hildren take four steps forward and three steps back reflecting how the Communist Revolution w ill come about in a series of forward and backward and forward again steps. Mao’s dance as learned by the Chinese c hildren, however, is so much more optimistic than the situation faced by this sad couple in “One Step Up.” The lyrics accompanying the young Chinese dancers boldly boast of the circuitous but inevitable victory of the revolution: “Four steps forward, three steps back, always advancing, always advancing.” I love the wonderfully contradictory line h ere, “always advancing, always advancing.” At least the communist kids are to get t here a fter a long forth-and-back-and-then-forth-again route, but the married couple in “One Step Up” w ill never get t here as they are slowly but inevitably going backward. An additional tellingly sad line in “One Step Up” says: “Another fight and I slam the door on another b attle in our dirty l ittle war.” The male narrator of “One Step Up” even gazes at his image in the mirror and does not at all “see the man I wanted to be.” At the end of the song, a fter his one-night stand, he dreams, but only dreams, of getting back together with his wife/lover. In the song, even this dream, however, ends in a sad fade to black as one might expect from a relationship going one step up and two steps back. oman singing backup to Springsteen on this song is Ironically, the w his second (and last) wife, Patti Scialfa, perhaps helping to address what
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had happened to Springsteen and Julie. At one time, I swore I heard Scialfa singing the reverse: “two steps up and one step back.” Her revision of the lyrics, counter to the other lyrics of the song, suggests that Scialfa and Springsteen’s relationship was definitely and defiantly going forward. Interesting thought, perhaps, but I was likely, albeit only likely, mistaken. More than one of my students, however, has remained convinced that Patti, indeed, sings “two steps up and one step back.” I’ll make no claim. Listen and see what you think. For additional observations on “One Step Up,” see interesting comments of the award-w inning singer-songwriter Martyn Joseph (2019, 121–122). In 2013, Joseph released Tires Rushing By in the Rain, an acoustic album of Bruce Springsteen’s songs, to great public and critical praise. “Brilliant Disguise” provides another glimpse into a relationship that is not working and probably doomed. First, there are the hints of unfaithfulness or, at least, marital uncertainty. She whispers as she turns away; is “out on the edge of town”; gets secret calls from “underneath our willow”; and, most curiously, tucks something “in shame underneath [her] pillow.” These are the seeds sowing distrust within a relationship. The doomed lovers here are so uncertain they c an’t even trust their eyes: “tell me what I see when I look in your eyes, is that you, baby, or just a brilliant disguise” (Springsteen 1987, “Brilliant Disguise”). “Brilliant disguise” is a thoughtful and apt term in this context. This couple is trying to make it work but the odds are overwhelming—so much mutual growing distrust that they cannot even trust themselves: “I want to know if it’s you I don’t trust ’cause I damn sure d on’t trust myself.” And then, they try to “act” as if they have a working marriage: She “plays” the “loving woman,” he, “the faithful man,” but it appears just that, an act. They are seemingly performing roles in a play. And yet he loves her enough to warn her that while she is likely wearing a disguise, so is he: “So when you look at me, you better look hard and look twice. Is that me, baby, or just a brilliant disguise” And so, their bed “is cold” and w ill probably get colder. Happily, I have been fortunate not to have lived through the pain of divorce—a result achieved due to the willingness of both my spouse and me to make the marriage work, combined with a large amount of luck. I sense that divorcing is a traumatic experience that raises all sorts of issues of uncertainty and self-doubt. Divorce must call into question our
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very sense of ourselves and force us to ask whether we are what we really want to be or are just wearing a brilliant disguise. These are questions we all have to answer in any relationship, but they seem to be much more intense after a divorce. During my own depressive episodes, all my doubts came back to me, as I suspect they would during and after a divorce. I think that in my bouts with depression I have come close to experiencing what Springsteen is expressing in “Brilliant Disguise” about a couple heading for a divorce. W hether in marriage, depression, or life in general, “God have mercy on the man who doubts what he’s sure of.” And what advice does Springsteen offer in the Tunnel of Love a lbum for building a happy, loving, lasting marriage or relationship? There is much to be found in other more hopeful songs on the a lbum. Springsteen clearly reveals in the a lbum that he has been influenced by the feminist movement’s emphasis on gender equality. Throughout the a lbum, he cites the need for equality and even sometimes a reversal of traditional male and female roles as being critical to any successful relationship. You get this vibe in the first line of “Tougher Than the Rest” (1987), in which the w oman is dressed not in soft pink but in strong masculine blue, suggesting a reversal of sorts. Also notice that while the guy in this song is watching the woman, seemingly referencing the sexually objectifying male gaze, he is aware that maybe she has been “watching me too.” And while he notes he has “been around,” he’s willing to accept that maybe she’s “been around too.” And while the narrator states he is “tougher than the rest,” he observes that she too is “rough and ready for love.” Gina Barreca, for one, has called attention to Springsteen’s feminist- omen on this a lbum as well as in many of his other endorsed portrayal of w lyrics. Barreca asks why do so many women not only in America but also around the world find Springsteen’s m usic compelling? She answers: Is it b ecause the female figures in his songs are not blank spaces on which to project male desire but are instead presented as h uman beings: flawed, passionate, fierce, and smart, defiant, and daring even when damaged? Is it because, despite whatever difficulties they’ve faced, they remain intricately fascinating because of, not despite, their resilience? Is that why Springsteen’s line “You a in’t a
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beauty, but hey, y ou’re all right” from “Thunder Road” remains a one-line anthem for the strong, defiant, and imperfect w oman? Yes. (Barreca 2019, 163–164) Springsteen’s emphasis on gender parity conveys each partner’s willingness in a working relationship to strive for equality and remain open to an accommodation to or a reversal of any society-imposed traditional roles. Each partner can and should play an equal, active, assertive role in making the relationship work. There are few rigidly scripted roles in a love relationship that can only be played by one of a particular sex. What exactly does Springsteen mean in claiming he is “tougher than the rest”? He is making a dramatic anti-macho “play” on the word “tough” h ere. Note that his “toughness” is linked to his capacity to love and not to his physicality: “Well if you’re looking for love, Honey, I’m tougher than the rest” (Springsteen 1987, “Tougher Than the Rest”). This loving guy is not tough in the staid traditional masculine model of being physically strong, unemotional, and s ilent in the John Wayne/Sylvester Stallone mode. He is strong where it r eally counts—in tough yet sensitive persistence in making a love relationship work. That takes real courage, humility, and perseverance. Put another way, although wonderful and exciting while it lasts, starry-eyed love alone cannot make a relationship endure. A man and woman must be willing to work at loving each other day a fter day, night after night, taking the good and the bad with an often-mystical mixture of strength and tenderness. Springsteen does not so much “subvert” the traditional meaning of male “toughness” in this song as he “converts” it to a much more important end than mere physical conquest—that end being the genuine love of another person and the equality of the partners in making a relationship work. Implied in this relationship is the understanding that both partners w ill have their own individual and sometimes separate needs for self-expression and self-fulfillment and the partnership must provide room for that growth. Springsteen’s writing in this regard brings to my mind the work of the author and psychologist Eli J. Finkel on modern marriages. Finkel has argued that what people in the United States have come to expect from and within their marriages over the years has significantly changed. He posits that earlier (1600–1850), so-called institutional marriages were
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primarily based on meeting the material needs of the partners including such basics as food production, shelter, procreation, and protection from violence. Starting around 1850, Finkel maintains, Americans began adding the concept of love to t hese material considerations. Finkel identifies t hese relationships as “companionate marriages.” In these marriages, the material needs of the partners remain important but the central focus is on intimate needs like loving and being loved. Finkel maintains further that since around 1965, we have been living in the era of the “self- expressive marriage.” Material needs and love are still serious considerations in t hese marriages, but another important factor arises, the need for self-expression and actualization (Finkel 2017, 7–27). Finkel astutely points out the seemingly contradictory results of adding self-expression and actualization to the material and companionship aspects of marriage. He warns that adding the expectation of personal fulfillment within a marriage has put additional pressure on securing a happy, successful marriage. He emphasizes that as the expectations anticipated from marriage have changed, “the potential psychological payoffs have increased—but achieving those results has become more demanding” (Finkel 2014). Accordingly, Finkel concludes that in this relatively new marital era—which he has identified as the era of the “All- or-Nothing Marriage”—the divorce rate will likely increase but those marriages that do succeed can flourish as never before (Finkel 2017, 5). Note that even before Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love a lbum boldly underlined the need for mutual love and self-fulfillment within a marriage and a relationship, he at least hinted at his awareness of that need. As early as 1980, in a song, “I Wanna Marry You,” in which Springsteen seems to refer to his potential bride patriarchally, as “Little Girl,” he still appears aware that she has her own hopes and desires for her f uture within the marriage. He pledges to her that he w ill not “clip your wings,” and modestly adds, “To say I’ll make your dreams come true would be wrong but maybe, darlin’, I could help them along.” “Tunnel of Love,” the title song of the a lbum, contains the clearest expression of the a lbum’s overall theme that successful marriage does, indeed, require much work on the part of both parties. Notice the brilliant first image in “Tunnel of Love” of a seemingly sleazy carnival worker taking tickets for the couple’s r ide into the “Tunnel of Love”—a marriage, a relationship. “Fat man sitting on a l ittle stool.
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Takes the money from my hand as his eyes take a walk all over you.” Notice the clever, very Springsteenian play on the word “take” here, a sort of double take. And, can’t you visualize this scene? The burly, gnarly carnival guy in his stained sleeveless undershirt luridly sizing up the attractive young potential bride. He “whispers good luck” to the young male rider, which one might easily translate here into the sleazy, “I hope you get a piece.” Of course, this is just the opposite of what a mature and enduring relationship is ultimately about. Both passion and love are needed in a relationship but the former, I believe, cannot ever replace the latter in an enduring one. And so, the couple starts the marital mystery r ide and the physical part is really fun but then come the scary responsibilities in a genuine marriage or relationship. Springsteen conveys this in the song with a line that is difficult to hear: “it’s just the three of us; you, me and all that stuff we’re so scared of.” The fear and doubts we experience on the haunted tunnel of love r ide will, Springsteen suggests, threaten to undermine any marriage—so much so that it is very easy “for two people to lose each other in this tunnel of love.” Surely, it o ught to be easy. True love should easily conquer all, but it ecause, as Springsteen’s lyrics state metaphorically, doesn’t. This is so b “the house is haunted and the ride gets rough and you’ve got to learn to live with what you c an’t rise above if you want to ride on down, down in through this tunnel of love.” The couple has to do this together but also individually. This responsibility is there for both of them. The willingness to persevere, to forgive, to continue to try making a relationship work, and to stoutly and courageously resist the human temptation to flee from the responsibilities of love is still another dimension essential to building a lasting connection. In the song, “Cautious Man” Springsteen invokes this theme. In “Cautious Man” (1987), Bill Horton has the words “love” and “fear” tattooed on the knuckles of his hands. Springsteen makes us consider which of these two strong emotions will control Horton’s life and all of our lives. The answer, Springsteen concludes, is never clear and never will be clear. When we love another, the joy and all the positive attributes of that relationship come packaged with responsibilities and other often frightening concerns. Despite the strength of our love, the fear of love’s responsibilities and obligations can overwhelm us and cause us to
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flee and even hurt our lover. Love is not for those who are not tough. It is for those who are bold and strong in confronting trepidation, because love and fear always exist together. They are inevitable in any partnership, an odd but enduring c ouple themselves, a part of the existential human struggle. In “Cautious Man,” Bill Horton initially flees from “love” out of “fear.” He finds himself estranged from his wife while she paradoxically “lays breathing beside him in a peaceful sleep, a thousand miles away.” Unlike the more youthful Springsteen characters of “Born to Run,” however, Horton comprehends that the purported freedom of the highway and his r unning away from love’s responsibilities w ill not lead to his genuine happiness. Sadly, the supposed and tempting escape of fleeing offers him “nothing but road.” Horton returns home, bravely recommits to a loving working relationship, and finds strength in divine grace that Springsteen represents as “the beauty of God’s fallen light.” A happy ending seems to emerge h ere at least for the moment, but it must be noted that there are no certainties, no guarantees in human love and life. The fear will always be there. And so, with love and Sisyphus- like perseverance we must continue to fight against giving in and r unning away from our responsibilities. This is revealed in the insightful and critical last line of “Cautious Man” that all lovers should remember: “the words tattooed ’cross his knuckles he knew would always remain.” I know that the greatest threat to my being able to love others has been the fear that comes with the responsibilities of love. I am emphatically not the man I want to be when fear conquers my love, but I am so much closer to that person when the love trumps the fear. And, so it goes— and w ill continue to go.
✧ As noted, there is l ittle question that Patti Scialfa and Bruce Springsteen’s intimacy during the 1987 Tunnel of Love tour contributed to ending Springsteen’s marriage to Julianne Phillips. To some, Scialfa appeared to be the villainous “other woman” who contributed significantly to destroying Springsteen’s marriage to Phillips (Dolan 254–255; Marsh 2004, 652–659). In her a lbum Rumble Doll, released in 1993, Scialfa courageously and forthrightly appears to present her own thoughts and motivations at that
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critical time in 1987. One can never be certain that sentiments expressed in song lyrics reflect the real-life experiences of the songwriter. Accordingly, Essay 19 is admittedly speculative. Readers w ill decide for themselves, but it seems to this writer that Scialfa was truly in love with Springsteen and pursued that love. Additionally, Springsteen was neither an unwilling nor a passive innocent in reciprocating that love. I recommend the entire a lbum, but I comment on three selections that point specifically to Scialfa’s apparent thoughts at that difficult and generally unsympathetic time for her.
Essay 19. Bravery and Honesty in Patti Scialfa’s Rumble Doll Album “Come Tomorrow” “From the first time that I saw you I wanted nothing but to make you mine” (Scialfa 1993, “Come Tomorrow”). The opening lines of this song suggest Scialfa’s long love for Springsteen going as far back as the first time she met him. This was in the early 1980s before Julianne Phillips entered the picture. In 1985, along comes Phillips, as Scialfa’s lyrics seem to describe her: “this girl with milk white hands and on her finger your wedding band shines.” Still, as the lyrics further convey, Springsteen and Scialfa eventually “tempt” each other, reflecting the couple’s equal blame for the situation. Scialfa conveys they are both responsible for what happened. “Come Tomorrow” tells us Scialfa is determined to “go” with her heart and her feelings at this time and not her head: “Ain’t gonna struggle no more with this” and “I’ll do the right t hing come tomorrow.” Does d oing the “right t hing” tomorrow not convey her uneasiness about doing what she might perceive as the wrong thing now? Her sense of guilt as well as her own uncertainty of the future with Springsteen is reflected in the line: “I may never mean more to you than a sin that lied waiting in your hands.” And then the line “forgive me darling and I’ll forgive you” suggests her sense that few others w ill forgive them and the only t hing that really m atters is forgiving and loving each other. Also noteworthy is Scialfa’s pride and determination: “I’m gonna stay right here.” She admits again her own personal responsibility: “a in’t gonna turn the blame on you.” And she is not g oing to deny her feelings of love: “I’m gonna take what I can” and “Ain’t nobody gonna make me
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walk in shame for loving you” even if she, Scialfa, does not have “diamonds on my fingers.” Whatever others might perceive as to has transpired h ere, Scialfa provides a richer and honest perspective on her thoughts and motivations at this critical time. “Baby Don’t” This song suggests a tougher Jersey but still gentle side of Scialfa. She appears to warn Springsteen to stop the relationship if he is not serious about a lasting one with her: “don’t dress me in your kisses when t hey’re not mine to keep” (Scialfa 1993, “Baby Don’t”). She loves him but emphasizes she is not “carved out of stone” and, therefore, cannot long resist his advances. For the better of all concerned, she warns, he should stop. She doesn’t just want to “steal a l ittle happiness at anyone’s expense.” Although she is not mentioned directly, Julianne Phillips is clearly a presence in both “Come Tomorrow” and this song. Scialfa warns Spring steen to “stop this little drama” b ecause “that ring around your finger this time won’t hold me back.” Nevertheless, Scialfa’s uncertainty and indecision seem evident in most of what she says in this song, telling Springsteen: “You may not be looking for trouble but boy you sure have found it.” She seems to be saying: D on’t fool around with me u nless you are really serious, boy. And, I guess he and she were. “Spanish Dancer” This is another song of Scialfa’s apparent love for Springsteen but also of her uncertainties and doubts about where the relationship is going. Notice the contrasting duality of her strength and vulnerability in the telling line: “The red dress of temptation over a long black slip of fear” (Scialfa 1993, “Spanish Dancer”). And then in her uncertainty (“Will I gain entrance or be denied?”), she turns to her mother for advice, asking: “Did you ever love a man so much as if he was some fantastic jewel that you should never be worthy of?” She seems to show her maturity h ere by understanding that while Springsteen is a good and special man, he is just a man: “But all these illusions strip and fall and he is just a man after all.” I think it is her understanding of Springsteen’s limitations, frailties, and battles with depression that has endeared her to him. And, like the Spanish Dancer, she will go on loving him.
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As a New Jerseyan, I can seldom discern a New Jersey accent but clearly Scialfa’s pronunciation of “dancer” is classic and charming Jersey here. Don’t you think so? For an additional discussion of the midlife interplay between Scialfa’s 2007 a lbum Play It As It Lays and Springsteen’s 2009 Working on a Dream a lbum, see Daniel Wolff’s perceptive “Work and Play: Midlife Music” (2019).
✧ The Sacred and the Profane I have always loved and found delightfully amusing in Springsteen’s lyrics his surprising juxtaposition of seemingly disparate terms. He often mixes and contrasts the natural with the artificial, affluence with poverty and, my favorite, the sacred with the profane. There are many examples of this in Springsteen’s long career. In his first album, Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J., we get, “I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parked car” (1973, “Growin’ Up”). This technique continues. On Nebraska, the seemingly harmless and innocent young lovers go “for a r ide, Sir, and ten innocent p eople died” (1982, “Nebraska”). And the vivid contrasts continue. On Tunnel of Love, the narrator experiences in the dreamy voice of a friend who has just become a f ather not only the naturalness of “the light of the skies and the rivers, the timberwolf in the pines” but also the manmade, “that g reat jukebox out on Route 39” (1987, “Valentine’s Day”). The Ghost of Tom Joad provides the sad contrasting image of a poor soul, Preacher, “Waiting for when the last s hall be first and the first shall be last in a cardboard box ’neath the underpass” (1995, “The Ghost of Tom Joad”). And in the 2009 Working on a Dream album, t here is a vividly sweet juxtaposition of the profane, or at least the mundane, with the sacred. Invoking his relationship with his wife, Patti Scialfa, Springsteen writes: “This life, this life and then the next. I finger the hem of your dress, my universe at rest” (2009, “This Life”). Jim Cullen has justifiably observed that in Springsteen’s’ lyr ics, “Even the most transcendent moments, like the birth of the child in ‘Living Proof,’ take place against a profane backdrop of a ‘world so hard and dirty, so fouled and confused’ ” (Cullen 2019, 195).
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These contrasts, especially the linking of the sacred and the profane, led to further examination of that technique not just in Springsteen’s work but that of other artists as well.
Essay 20. The Sacred and the Profane: Springsteen, Caravaggio, “Earth Angel,” and “Reno” Earth angel, Earth angel, Will you be mine? —The Penguins 1955, “Earth Angel”
Springsteen’s song, “Reno,” appears on his 2005 Devils & Dust a lbum. “Reno” is a curiously contradictory sweet little love song featuring a prostitute and her john negotiating about graphic sex as well as engaging in it. The song earned Springsteen his first ever adult-content advisory. Posted on the a lbum’s back cover is the warning, “This song contains some adult imagery.” To say the least. In this song, however, and as I w ill argue below, Springsteen was following an ancient and honored artistic tradition of combining the sacred with the profane, the heavenly with the mundane. Before making that argument. I must trace that ancient tradition. One of the first rock ’n’ roll love ballads I can remember listening to in the 1950s was the Penguins’ “Earth Angel.” At that time, I related to the song’s plaintive lyrics about a boy wanting and desperately needing an idyllic girlfriend. Only later, albeit still not mature, reflection, I developed an appreciation for the meaning underlying the deceptively simple, yet complex title of the song. I concluded, however incorrectly, that the song “Earth Angel” originated a unique tradition in rock ’n’ roll music and the arts in general. In this tradition, artists in many genres seek to unite the sacred with the profane, the spiritual with the material, the soul with the body. After all, what is an “Earth Angel” other than a transcendent creature who is sometimes anchored in the material world but also abides in the spiritual and heavenly realm beyond. She is earth and heaven, profane yet sacred, a finite, physical body within an infinite, ethereal soul. A living enigma.
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How wrong could I have been? “Earth Angel” may have helped in some minor and belated way to bring the theme of the sacred and the profane to rock music but even that is highly problematic. The more likely fact is that long before the arrival of “Earth Angel,” the origin of rock or rhythm and blues can be traced in part to both the heavenly inspired religious gospel music of Southern Black churches as well as to the gritty, blues- inspired drudgery of Southern slaves toiling in the fields. The linking of the sacred to the profane could be the essential soundtrack not to a fictional film but to the grim reality of slavery in the United States. And yet the presence of that sacred and profane theme in the Black diaspora is neither unique nor unprecedented. That theme has been so prevalent in the course of h uman history that it is probably impossible to locate its origin. I suspect that going as far back as the classical Greeks if not even e arlier, a connection was perceived between the sacred and the profane. Surely, the inclination of the early Greeks and then the Romans to attribute to their gods specifically human attributes such as anger, jealousy, love, lust, and a host of other earthly and ungodlike characteristics embodied the effort and, perhaps, the need to link the sacred with the profane. Millennia later with the coming of Christianity, the inclination to link the sacred and the profane, heaven and earth, continued in a similar but different form. Jesus Christ viewed as the Son of God the F ather, a combination of h uman and divine capacities, reflects mankind’s continuing drive and apparent need to combine the sacred and the profane. Thomas Aquinas, the bold Catholic defender of Christianity, told us that because God became h uman in the form of Jesus Christ the things of this earth can become reflections of the holy. The profane can be sacred (Beattie 2012). And although one can argue convincingly that at least through the Middle Ages of western history Christianity maintained this linking of the sacred and the profane, the spiritual likely dominated over the secular during that dark period. Then along came the Renaissance and Enlightenment and a renewed emphasis on individuality and the elevation of humanity. This refocus on the earthly highlighted the h uman ability to reason and to understand if not challenge the divine. And, once again, the divine and the earthly were combined with appropriate status assigned to each.
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On trips to Italy in part to see the brilliant and provocative paintings of the Renaissance bad boy Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio and a fter reading Francine Prose’s Caravaggio: Painter of Miracles, I was reminded once again of the h uman desire and need to link the sacred and the profane. Caravaggio daringly employed common p eople, often dirty and disheveled, as models in his depictions of religious scenes. His combining of the majesty of lofty biblical scenes with the grittiness and often sexiness of human earthiness caused a sensation in Renaissance art that was not at all immediately appreciated. For readers not familiar with Caravaggio’s career and his paintings I recommend Prose’s book as well as Sebastian Schütze’s 2009 book, Caravaggio: The Complete Works. Prose’s book wonderfully and clearly sets out this theme of the sacred and the profane in Caravaggio’s paintings. I rely extensively on her observations in this essay. She notes the following regarding Caravaggio’s work: “In order to love Caravaggio, we ourselves had to learn to accept the premise that the angelic and the diabolic, that sex and violence and God, could easily if not tranquilly coexist in the same dramatic scene, the same canvas, the same painter” (Prose 2005, 12). Prose specifically highlights how the angelic and diabolical play out in many of Caravaggio’s paintings including even his still life, The Basket of Fruit: Nearly every fruit in Caravaggio’s basket looks as if it has spent too long on the vine or on the ground in the orchard. The pear is speckled with brown spots, the figs have begun to split, and no one has even turned the apple around so that the wormhole won’t show in the painting. The leaves are in even worse condition, half wilted and autumnal, or disfigured by dry, discolored patches, frayed edges, and the ragged gnawing of insects. The water droplets sprinkled above only serve to make us aware that the fruit is anything but dewy or fresh. (Prose 2005, 47) She makes a similar point regarding Caravaggio’s mixing of the sacred with the profane in her comments about his famous painting and my part icu lar favorite, The Calling of St Matthew: “The generic saints of mannerist art have been replaced by a specific man, a recognizable portrait from nature, from life, a h uman being whose wonder and whose
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understandable concern affect us more than we could have been moved by a figure who looks like a saint in the painting—which is to say like no one we know” (67). Prose also notes this continued mixing of the sacred with the profane in discussing the painter’s The Death of the Virgin. This painting—in which Caravaggio reportedly used as the model for the dead Virgin Mary a prostitute, perhaps his mistress—was so shocking at the time that it was rejected by the very fathers of Santa Maria della Scala who had originally commissioned the work. Prose writes: “The Death of the Virgin expressed the essence of everything Caravaggio believed about art. The simultaneously theatrical and naturalistic casting of ordinary human beings in intensely affecting religious dramas and the translation of biblical narrative from storybook fantasy into contemporary reality have an emotional immediacy and an impact on the viewer that the idealized, saccharine, and spiritually ‘uplifting’ work of his contemporaries could never come close to attaining” (105). Prose adds that the very rejection of Caravaggio’s painting tells us much about t hose who, even today, seek to mix the sacred with the profane: “The news of that rejection must have been a relief to those whose essentially conservative tastes w ere offended by the principles and the power of Caravaggio’s work. And how it must have reassured them to find out that they had been right all along in preferring Cesari’s neatly coiffed, brightly robed, squeaky-clean saints to Caravaggio’s barefoot laborers and dirty whores masquerading as dignified apostles and virginal Madonnas” (105–106). What I like about Caravaggio’s painting The Burial of Saint Lucia is its modernism, realism, and focus on humanity. I saw this painting regularly during a long stay on Sicily’s island of Ortigia. It does not depict the usual glowing, sanitized, idealized version of the death of a saint, in the midst of beautiful birds, welcoming angels, clouds and spirits, and a powerful God. Rather, Caravaggio’s painting of Saint Lucia’s burial depicts the reality of torture, blood, earthiness, and the very stench of humanity as well as the general human indifference to the demise of some other, even a martyred saint. The center of the piece is the vast nothingness that surrounds Saint Lucia at the moment of her burial. Even a martyred saint is seemingly diminished amid the time and space of eternity and the mystery of human existence. Indeed, the dead saint is denied center stage by two powerful, fleshy workers seemingly intent on getting this damn burial
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over with so they can get home for a decent meal and a roll in the hay. I do not mean to disparage the needs and desires of the workers in the painting. Caravaggio seems to be telling us in the voice of the human- centered Renaissance that life is always more important than death. Whenever I consider Caravaggio’s work, I keep in mind the words of my friend, the art curator Ruth Greene-McNally. In educating me about art, Ruth had earlier told me that she loved Caravaggio’s work b ecause she loved what is beautiful. The Socratic academic in me pounced as I protested to her that Caravaggio often paints the ugly if not the grotesque and how could she square that with what is “beautiful.” Without any hesitation, she responded profoundly and cogently: “I didn’t say I like ‘pretty’ but that I like the ‘beautiful.’ ” The sacred surely but also the profane if artistically created can be beautiful. With a spirit I see in Springsteen’s work, Caravaggio’s paintings convey that even the lives of poor hardworking humans, regardless of their being deemed insignificant and devalued by the privileged of the world, remain so much more important than the celebration of a saint. In painting a death scene and in many of his other work, Caravaggio celebrates life, the only life we w ill ever have. And what of the sacred and the profane and the artistic work of Bruce Springsteen? This use of the sacred juxtaposed with the profane in Springsteen’s m usic has been adeptly observed by several others, including Andy Whitman in his essay “Bruce Springsteen and the Long Walk Home.” Whitman notes that even though Springsteen has never affiliated himself with orthodox Christianity, his songs are nonetheless “rife with Christian and Catholic imagery—Adam and Cain, faith, hope, and love, sacred hearts, precious blood buying redemption, the Stations of the Cross, saints and sinners, death and resurrection” (Whitman 2010, 100). Whitman also astutely observes that the religious and spiritual imagery in Springsteen’s music is, as it is in Caravaggio’s work, often anchored in the gritty and fleshy aspects of earthly life. The sacred and the profane coexist and, in effect, support each other in his m usic. Whitman concludes that Springsteen can’t stop talking about God. But the talk can be unnerving. The spiritual language—and t here is a lot of it—is as far removed from the ethereal realms of abstract theology as can be. Springsteen’s iconography is idiosyncratic,
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earthy, and always intensely personal and incarnational. The wall between the sacred and the profane is obliterated at every turn. God shows up through the tangible means of redemptive h uman connections, through commitment and faithfulness, through the miracle of new life. The clarity of the divine light is clouded by the murkiness of messy relationships—and t hose complex relationships are suffused with the divine. (Whitman 2010, 100) Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz in his The Gospel according to Bruce Springsteen: Rock and Redemption from Asbury Park to Magic also testifies to Springsteen’s perspicacity and social awareness in linking the sacred and the profane: “The great lie of our contemporary, celebrity-crazed culture is that only the rich and famous have stories worth telling. We are led to believe that the life experience of the rest of us ‘regular’ men and w omen isn’t terribly significant. So, we deprecate our own experience; we dismiss it or ignore it altogether. We look elsewhere (to the tabloids, or tele vision, or to the outside ‘experts’) to tell us what’s really important. Springsteen’s work stands as perhaps our culture’s most forceful and per sistent challenge to this great lie” (Symynkywicz 2008, 182). In comments above, I have already noted some examples of Spring steen’s juxtaposition of the sacred and profane. Not surprisingly, two well- known illustrations of this motif appear on his classic album Born to Run. What might inaptly now be called the “Earth Angel” tradition of combining the sacred and the profane appears in both “Thunder Road” and “Born to Run.” In “Thunder Road” (1975), Springsteen offers: “All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood.” And in “Born to Run” (1975), the young male lover makes the sacred and profane plea to his beloved would-be angel Wendy to “guard your dreams and visions” while at the same time urging her to “just wrap your legs round these velvet rims and strap your hands across my engines.” The sacred and the profane? The soul and the body? Wendy as a part of the “Earth Angel” tradition? An even more explicit example of this tradition occurs in the Spring steen song “Reno.” Its opening lines reflect the trope of combining the profane and the sacred. The young prostitute takes off her stockings and the narrator, her john, holds them to his face. This earthy eroticism triggers in the narrator not the anticipated thoughts of imminent sex but rather a curious spiritual vision of Maria, his wife or partner.
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Those who know Springsteen’s work well understand that using the name “Maria” h ere is hardly a random choice. Springsteen apparently employs it to reference the best-k nown Earth Angel of Catholicism, the Virgin Mary. Mary is herself a noted combination of heaven and earth, body and soul, as in prevailing Catholic doctrine she is the heavenly summoned and immaculately conceived earthly mother of Jesus Christ, the Son of God the F ather. “Reno” (2005) then recounts the john’s thoughts at this would-be erotic moment. And what are those thoughts? Lust? Lewd anticipation? Hardly. Springsteen has his john thinking, “She had your [Maria’s] ankles. I felt filled with grace.” Filled with grace? Yes! And then in the spirit of this song’s sacred–profane mixture, “Reno’s” lyrics immediately swing away from this felt moment of grace to the profane matter at hand. Negotiating with her john, the prostitute states the prices for her services as if casually reading off a restaurant’s menu or robotically reciting an overmemorized ritual prayer, “Two hundred dollars straight in. Two-fifty up the ass,’ she smiled and said.” Decisions are evidently made. The corporeal encounter continues. Springsteen’s john graphically recounts, “She slipped me out of her mouth . . . took off her bra and panties, wet her fingers, slipped it inside of her and crawled over me on the bed.” And what might be g oing through the john’s mind at this time? Springsteen conveys he is focused not so much on hot sex with the prostitute as he is on an ironically even more passionate, more loving and innocent time with Maria: “Sunlight on the Amatitlan. Sunlight streaming through your hair. In the Valle de dos Rios, the smell of mock oranges fills the air.” The most telling of Springsteen’s lyrics in “Reno” occur in the final stanza. Laughing together, the c ouple exchanges a postcoital toast of whiskey shots. The prostitute, boasting of her professional expertise in matters of the flesh, offers, “Here’s to the best you ever had.” The john counters with, “It w asn’t the best I ever had, not even close.” And what does that final exchange tell the listener about the sacred and the profane? In a song about an unfaithful man seeking the services of a prostitute, Springsteen captures, not unlike Caravaggio, another dimension of the foil-like nature of the sacred and the profane. Through the john’s final words in this liberally graphic song, Springsteen is telling us in a voice echoing conservative religious mores that although physically inti-
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mate connections taken alone can be satisfying, they remain significantly inferior to physical intimacy coupled with deep and enduring love. Springsteen has gone on to confirm this interpretation of “Reno.” Symynkywicz reports that in speaking of the song’s message, Spring steen has noted, “Casual sex is a kind of closing the book of you. Sex with somebody you love is opening the book of you, which is always a risky and frightening read” (Symynkywicz 2008, 160). Despite that read, Springsteen is confirming that relationships that seek only the profane can leave us empty, unsatisfied, and alone. True bliss lies in coupling spiritual closeness with the physical act. The sacred and the profane? We can all be Earth Angels.
✧ My spouse Kim and I have tried to raise three kind, knowing children. In many ways that process has at times involved being aware of, if not always resorting to, a blending of the sacred and the profane. We have tried to love our c hildren deeply even sacredly, with care and affection, perhaps beyond mere human capability. Springsteen and I both have two sons and a daughter. It is the latter intriguing and often enigmatic relationship that sparks Essay 21. While remaining mysterious gifts from another realm, Springsteen’s children and mine, like all children, must exist and cope in a sometimes tough and unwelcoming world. Parents worry about this regarding all their c hildren. For fathers and daughters, however, this worry is even more urgent. Most f athers see and love the tenderness in their d aughters. Yet t hese f athers remain troubled that this very tenderness w ill leave their daughters unprepared to deal with the toughness in this world. Spring steen addressed this concern when he was asked how his then twenty- eight-year-old daughter Jessica Rae Springsteen, a competitive equestrian, is “navigating a world that has had a rebirth of misogyny.” A fter noting that “women t oday learn a lot quicker,” Springsteen added that Jessica came with a set of tools that . . . allowed her to make her way through the world in a very aware way. Consequently, there’s a lot of bullshit she doesn’t put up with. My d aughter—she’s really tough. She’s in a competitive sport. She’s physically very brave, very strong, and inde pendent. That came through Patti. Patti was very independent.
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So she [Jessica] has a roaring independence that has served her very well. (Hainey 2019, 80) The events described in Essay 21 spring from concerns similar to Springsteen’s I experienced regarding my own daughter, Summer Massaro Roy. I cherished and embraced Summer’s compassion, empathy, and sensitivity but did worry at times whether she had the toughness to deal with the world she would have to face. I know now that I need not have worried so much because Summer, like Springsteen’s d aughter, Jessica Rae, had a strong, smart woman for a mother, who made sure our daughter came into this tough world “with a set of tools” and a “roaring indepen dence.” I did try, however, to do my small part as the following attests.
Essay 21. The Sacred and the Profane? The Love of a Daughter and George Carlin’s “Seven Dirty Words” “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words w ill never hurt me.” That’s bullshit! Words can and do hurt. But words can also help. And, they can heal. Today, my daughter Summer is a speech pathologist helping to provide effective voices, efficient words, for those struggling to express themselves. This essay is about words and how they helped shape my daughter. Like all parents, I am interested in the development of my children. Summer did not escape that interest. When she was a young child, her intellectual development was outstanding. Her diction and vocabulary were particularly noteworthy. Even her errors were creative. She insisted that the final line of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was not “He’ll go down in history” but “He’ll go down in my story.” Summer’s astute understanding that she was the tune’s narrator logically made her aware of the perceived inaccuracy and apparent sexism of “his story.” When she turned eight, my confidence in her word choices was abruptly shattered. One Maine summer afternoon, she returned home in tears. She and her eleven-year-old brother, JP, had a shouting match in the neighborhood schoolyard. I anticipated no major problem as heated exchanges between brothers and sisters are a part of any family’s traditions. I then asked the ques-
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tion that I am certain Summer was expecting, “And what did you do to get JP so mad at you?” A child’s usual response might be, “Nothing.” Still, even at that early age, Summer was into honesty and confessed, “I called him a ‘fatso.’ ” Now, I was r eally worried and not just b ecause JP was almost anemically rail-thin at that time. I pondered how this bright child could express her tear-filled anger, her creative snarkiness, with the incredibly mild and obviously inaccurate descriptor, “fatso.” I did not necessarily want my daughter to speak only the gritty, tough parlance of an Erica Jong but I also did not want her to be limited in expressing herself to the narrow saintly language of a Mother Teresa. I envisioned the f uture Summer speaking pablum when called for but also poison when needed. We had failed her. Then again, given her m other’s family’s Midwest utterances of white-bread and mayonnaise-safe expressions of anger such as, “My heart and my gizzard” and “H-e-double toothpicks,” I realized, damn it, it was I who had failed her. The Jersey-raised, street- smart, profane parent had let her down. Help soon arrived. In 1978, the United States Supreme Court announced its decision in the case of Federal Communications Commission v. Pacifica Foundation. The court concluded that the FCC had the constitutional power to discipline Pacifica Radio Stations and any other broadcasters for playing George Carlin’s “Dirty Words” monologue when c hildren might be listening. In that piece, Carlin sarcastically and humorously comments on the seven words one cannot say on the public airwaves. Likely to avoid offending its readers, the Portland Press Herald’s report on the FCC case did not cite Carlin’s seven dirty words. Still, much to its credit, the newspaper did convey that readers wanting to receive a copy of the list merely had to request it. This then became a project for Summer and an ethical test of the resolve of the local paper. With my urging, Summer, in the careful and deliberate style of an eight-year-old, handprinted her request to the newspaper. She was almost as thrilled as I when an envelope addressed to her arrived bearing the return address Portland Press Herald. Sure enough, in clear, unambiguous prose w ere the magic seven. Summer pored over Carlin’s seven dirty words. We discussed the meaning of each word and its appropriateness in specific contexts. As Springsteen has probably done with his c hildren, Summer and I came
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to understand that while these words w ere unsuitable for her to express at the time, they might be appropriately useful as she matured. I did not immediately learn w hether t hese lessons helped Summer, but I comforted myself in the belief that as she matured she would be able to hold her own verbally on the rough terrain of the schoolyard and of life itself. My hope remained that her vocabulary would reflect her ability both to throw a perfect spiral and to kick a soccer ball rather than cheer on the sidelines. I r eally wanted her to know how to develop her vocabulary not just for the sake of swearing but to know how and when to escalate her language to the point where people would know she’s mad and not going to take it anymore. Flash forward ten years. I am listening for the first time to a tape recording of a collection of songs Summer made me for my birthday. The collection consists of old selections she knows I like and current ones she thinks I will enjoy. Listening to and enjoying the tape, I am struck by her sophisticated selections as well as how perceptive she is in knowing my taste. Toward the end of the tape, evidently recorded in her room at college among her friends, is a telling exchange. Her friends are aware that Summer is recording this tape for her father and in good fun want to lay a trap for her. B ecause the recorder is being switched on and off, some friends attempt to draw Summer into a conversation when they assume that she is not aware the recorder has been turned on. You know the routine: secretly flip on the recorder, ask a friend about the last time they got wasted, record the confessional, and then threaten to send the tape home in a “gotcha” moment. Despite her friends’ best efforts, they cannot catch Summer off guard. She knows what they are plotting. Frustrated with their antics and displaying her ability to speak not just pablum but poison, Summer has the last word—words clearly reflecting how she has enriched her repertoire beyond “fatso.” I cherish listening to the songs on the tape, but my favorite part is when Summer, channeling the spirit of George Carlin, says, “Shut the FUCKIN’ tape.”
As an addendum to the above, I must note that when Summer married Buzzy Roy on August 11, 2002, the wedding serv ice blended the sacred with the profane or at least tradition with innovation, religion with rock. A
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key reading that day, a sort of rock gospel, was titled the “Good News according to Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.” The intent was to convey the often-unrecognized beauty, meaning, and spirituality in Springsteen’s m usic, the sacred in what had heretofore only been seen as the prosaic. An additional intent was to project the impact of Springsteen’s musical message on the Massaro family, including Summer. Some traditionalists at the ceremony w ere offended, later complaining of having to partake in what they perceived as a cultlike service in the Church of Springsteen. O thers understood and praised the effort. It appears in Essay 22 as it appeared in the wedding program handed out that day. See what you think.
✧ Essay 22. The Good News according to Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band Greetings from Asbury Park and congratulations to Summer and Buzzy. In a world without love, WE “blew up the chicken man in Philly last night and blew up his house, too.” WE “closed down the auto plant in Mahwah.” WE are “stuck in the mud somewhere in the swamps of Jersey.” And, WE even “got a b rother named Frankie and Frankie a in’t no good.” In a world without love, WE have “debts no honest man can pay.” WE are “caught in a crossfire that we don’t understand.” And WE can “end up like a dog that’s been beat too much till we spend half our lives just covering up.” In a world without love, WE know sorrow is always “lying out t here like a killer in the sun.” WE know we can get “cut loose like a deuce.” WE know we can “get killed just for living in our American skin.” In a world without love, t here are “no wedding day smiles, no walk down the aisle, no flowers, no wedding dress.” In a world with love, WE “learned more from a three-minute record than we ever learned in school.” WE “sleep in the old abandoned beach house, getting wasted in the heat.” WE are “laughin’ and drinkin’ ” with a brother named Frankie and “nothin’ feels better than blood on blood.” In a world with love, WE “ain’t ever gonna r ide in no used car again.” WE will “keep pushin’ till it’s understood and these Badlands start treating us good.” WE’re “gonna get to that place where we really want to go and w e’ll walk in the sun.”
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In a world with love, WE know “Summer’s here and the time is right and w e’re goin’ racin’ in the street.” WE know w e’re ready to join Crazy Janey and Hazy Davy and “dance like spirits in the night, all night, in the night, all night.” WE know we are “just a close band of happy thieves,” ready today to “steal what we can from the treasures of the Lord.” In a world with love, there’s a young man with “a new suit of clothes, a pretty red r ose, and a w oman he can call his friend.” He’s “rough and ready for love and tougher than the rest.” Whenever he “feels the first breeze of Summer, in her love he’s born again.” In a world with love, t here’s a young w oman “whose dress sways and like a vision she dances across the porch.” She suffers “a toast from [her] daddy to the prettiest bride he’s ever seen.” She knows “that two hearts are better than one.” She knows in finding the young man, she has found the special one “to stand by [her] side” and to be “a good companion for this part of the r ide.” In a world with love, and forever, t here is a c ouple and a pledge: “If as we’re walking a hand should slip f ree, I’ll wait for you and should I fall behind wait for me.” They promise to “fill [their] h ouse with all the love, all that heaven w ill allow.” They w ill never “break the ties that bind.” In a world with love, the rooms of their lives will always be filled “with the beauty of God’s fallen light.”* * Springsteen songs: “All That Heaven Will Allow,” “American Skin (41 Shots),” “Atlantic City,” “Backstreets,” “Badlands,” “Better Days,” “Blinded by the Light,” “Book of Dreams,” “Born in the U.S.A.,” “Born to Run,” “Cautious Man,” “Highway Patrolman,” “If I Should Fall Behind,” “Johnny 99,” “Land of Hope and Dreams,” “Leap of Faith,” “Living Proof,” “No Surrender,” “Racing in the Street,” “The River,” “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight),” “Spirit in the Night,” “Thunder Road,” “The Ties That Bind,” “Tougher Than the Rest,” “Two Hearts,” and “Used Cars.”
✧ Springsteen’s 2002 a lbum The Rising helped heal the wounds inflicted by the 9/11 terrorist attack on the United States. As noted e arlier, it did so not by focusing on vengeance but on love, understanding, and tolerance. In Essay 23, I present a little known aspect of that a lbum. This involves an incident that while it might not approach the synchronized mean-
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ingful coincidence associated with Jung, to be discussed later, it does point to an interesting similarity in the post–9/11 thinking of Spring steen, o thers, and me.
Essay 23. Springsteen and Apocalypse Sex Question: What possible connection can t here be linking seemingly disparate entities such as a moving Japanese film, Departures; Spring steen’s post–9/11 thoughts as noted in his song, “The Fuse” from his album, The Rising; timely relevant reports from both Time and Backstreets; and my own musings? Answer: apocalypse sex. More than seven years after the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the United States in 2001, I saw the Japanese film Departures (Takita 2008). This wonderful 2008 film, directed by Yojiro Takita, is a touching, life-affirming, death-is-a-normal-part-of-life treatment. It focuses on a young man, a dedicated but insolvent cellist, who out of financial necessity must take a job preparing dead bodies for burial. He becomes an “encoffiner.” The Japanese title of the film, Okuribito, best describes an encoffiner as “one who sends off.” The Japanese are not alone in sharing a culture that looks with disdain upon t hose who deal with the aftermath of death, a part of life many cultures would prefer to ignore. The young cellist thus faces many obstacles as he seeks to be a worthy encoffiner while also trying to lead a robust, connected, normal life. I loved the careful reverence for the dead demonstrated in the film by the old encoffiner, an elderly widower, and the young encoffiner, the struggling cellist. I thought it was a l ittle theatrical having loved ones at times instantly moved by the simple enhanced physical appearance of the deceased, sort of a Hollywood-inspired magic trick from the encof eople finers. All the time, however, I believed what r eally moved t hese p was the encoffiners’ gentle care and beautiful reverence for the dead— at least I wanted to think so. A related subtheme is developed in this film, but it is not mentioned in any of the reviews I read. The reviews focused on the main theme of showing g reat respect for the dead and then getting on with life. The intriguing subtheme depicts how one never feels so alive as when one is intimate with death or tragedy. Two scenarios in the film point to this.
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In the first, the young novice encoffiner, soaked with the putrid smell of death, becomes a constant if uncomfortable reminder to others of the Grim Reaper’s disturbing perpetual proximity. The novice reacts to this by trying to forget his almost constant connection with death by losing himself in hot sex with his surprised and confused wife. In a second scenario, the old encoffiner, daily confronting death and tragedy, tries to forget himself in enjoying his passion for g reat food and drink, especially after his beloved wife has died (Takita 2008). I love the humanity of both men. The simple but profound message of the film provides the best h uman answer to our mortality: respect death and the dead but live well, love well, eat well. Stay cool. Stay h uman even in confronting death. Seeing Departures brought to mind a somewhat odd event that tran spired in 2001 shortly a fter 9/11. Before Springsteen’s 2002 a lbum The Rising was released, my SUNY Potsdam colleagues in the politics department, Phil Neisser and Richard Del Guidice, and I w ere discussing how we and our students w ere reacting to and coping with the devastating attacks. A fter the usual, somewhat predictable exchange, I blurted out—coming from where I am really not certain—that sometimes in reaction to the ugliness and trauma in our lives, all I r eally want to do is to “fuck my brains out.” Phil, single and not romantically linked with anyone at that time, wistfully responded, “That’s easy for you to say.” The usually loquacious Richard seemed uncharacteristically speechless, thrown off stride, no doubt, by words that w ere, indeed, unusual coming from me, especially in a somewhat formal department setting. I tried to go ahead and make my point that one very possible h uman reaction to the severe mental stress of the post–9/11 world might be to try to escape from the tension by fleeing into carnal pleasures. As I recall, my colleagues’ eyes glazed over. They seemed uncomfortable. We quickly moved on to another topic, or maybe they fled quickly— I am not sure which. I do remember having one of those moments in life when one chastises oneself for being too loose-lipped and stupid, and promises never to speak again. Springsteen released The Rising a lbum shortly thereafter. As noted, he attempts in that a lbum to heal the wounds of 9/11 by appealing not to our anger, hatred, or taste for vengeance but to our better angels. He
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seeks to remind us just how human we are and how much better humans we can become. The a lbum offers many ways of coping with seemingly unbearable loss, trauma, and tragedy. One song, “The Fuse,” seemed an odd choice to include on the a lbum. Still, the more I listened to that song, the more I reflected on the Japa nese film and my conversation with Phil and Richard. W ere Springsteen, Takita, and I making the same point? A few months later, the Springsteen-focused magazine Backstreets, whose writers are astute in analyzing Springsteen’s body of work, published a piece by Chris Nelson that supported my thesis. Nelson noted that Time magazine had recently reported on the phenomenon I shared, however crudely, with Phil and Richard. He also reported that Time had already even coined a term for the phenomenon. Wisely getting beyond my limited street vocabulary and lack of creativity, Time, according to Nelson, referred to the noted phenomenon as “apocalypse sex.” Nelson then went on to discuss the term and the phenomenon and specifically referenced Springsteen’s song, “The Fuse.” He wrote at length: A couple of weeks a fter 9/11, Time magazine ran a story on tending emotional wounds that focused on p eople who’d had passionate encounters with strangers in the days since the attacks. “Apocalypse sex” was the term for it suggested by one man who’d taken part. To my mind, that’s the specific situation from that time that underlies the general yearning for physical closeness in “The Fuse.” “The Fuse” i sn’t a typical Springsteen piece. Instead of a narrative, we get images: weddings, funerals, and bad moons rising. The only clear picture is the passionate meeting in the last verse: “A quiet afternoon, an empty h ouse. On the edge of the bed you slip off your blouse. The room is burning with the noon sun. Your bittersweet taste upon my tongue.” [In the original version on the a lbum, Springsteen sexily turns the word “taste” into a three-syllable word drawing even more attention to the intriguing connection happening during the funeral.] Why is the house empty? But a fter the first two verses and bridge, what is sure about it is this afternoon encounter is taking place amid chaos. Amid too many funerals. Amid too many bad moons. Like the folks in the
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Time story, these characters are mitigating their pain with passion. Again, from the specific comes the universal. Who h asn’t tried to mitigate pain at some point? (Nelson 2002, 63) In that same edition of Backstreets, Andrew Massimino and the magazine’s editor and publisher Christopher Phillips note that the “part of the [9/11] story that ‘The Fuse’ fills in is why there are war-babies: a natural way of coping with such times of struggle is by making a real connection through sex. It’s about finding someone that you trust then getting out of the way to allow that sexual healing” (Massimino and Phillips 2002, 23). All this reminds me that so many of my thoughts are derivative or at least nonoriginal and that Springsteen seems to be able to read some of my thoughts. More accurately, perhaps, he says powerfully and concisely what I and probably many o thers are feeling. My kind and supportive colleagues Richard and Phil still give me a rather odd look every now and then. I have still not shared this piece with them because I sort of like to imagine they are thinking that the passive, sedate, correct child I often seem to them has a crazy, devilish, inappropriate twin.
✧ Conclusion Springsteen’s musical treatments dealing with love and relationships range broadly. He tells us of the innocent bittersweetness of unrequited young love, especially amid the vicissitudes of the cold realities of class. And he has even pointed to the human desire for apocalypse sex in times of stress. He also brings to our attention the often difficult and the likely cross- cultural, cross-generational tensions that can exist between f athers and sons seeking to find and express love. Too many fathers have been unable to openly show love for their sons, even refraining from the seemingly simple but often profoundly difficult statement of “I love you.” Sons, in turn, longing for that affection, strive to see some shades of love in their fathers’ silent loving actions. In the arc of that lifelong relationship, some fathers and sons reach a beautiful, loving reconcilement, but some sadly do not.
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Springsteen, especially in his Tunnel of Love a lbum, has much to tell us about marriage and intimate human relationships. He consistently notes that these relationships must be built upon love, mutual respect, equality, understanding, compassion, patience, and a willingness to forgive. Additionally, he seems to understand the need for both partners to achieve some level of self-expression and self-fulfillment within the marriage or relationship. Indeed, these very sentiments are further reflected in examining his account of the strength and character of his spouse Patti Scialfa. Her own song lyrics and, more importantly, Springsteen’s emphasis on the critical, healing role she has played in his life identify her as an example of a strong woman intent on loving a partner who is not idealized but is “just a man after all.” Within a marriage of equals, she rightfully and effectively insists on seeking her own self-expression and fulfillment. As early as 1980, even in the song “I Wanna Marry You” in which Springsteen patriarchally refers to his potential bride as “Little Girl,” he is still aware that she has her own hopes and desire for her future within the marriage. He pledges to her that he w ill not “clip your wings,” and that “To say I’ll make your dreams come true would be wrong but maybe, darlin’, I could help them along.” As a loving and caring father, Springsteen has reminded us that the worry and fear parents have that the beauty, compassion, and tenderness seen in their offspring w ill hinder them in dealing with the “meanness in this world” (Springsteen 1982, “Nebraska”). And while this worry and fear exist for all our c hildren, it is especially acute when f athers view the little girls who seemingly overnight have become their grown daughters trying to coexist in what is maybe not still a man’s world, but is a world not free of misogyny. As I have with my own daughter, Springsteen has come to realize that the model of strong womanhood represented by his spouse coupled with his more modest contributions have provided his daughter with a “roaring independence” in taking on this world. As f ather to a d aughter and sons, Springsteen rightfully insists on his children having the freedom to become the p eople they desire to become without unduly carrying any of the baggage of their ancestors. Springsteen reminds us that both parents and their c hildren must be free to shape their own lives.
4
Springsteen, Synchronization, Sports, and Masculinity
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James Joyce’s father had evidently often told him that the great and fit track coach, Mike Flynn, had in the past trained some of the best runners of modern times. When Joyce was later trained by Flynn, the young would-be runner could not help but observe his coach’s “flabby stubble- covered face,” his “long [cigarette] stained fingers,” and “lusterless blue eyes” (Joyce 1992, 46). In noting how the ravages of time had aged the once fit coach Joyce provides us a glimpse of an athlete growing old in the early twentieth c entury. Much later in that same c entury, Bruce Spring steen provides more insights on the effects of aging on the psyche, the thoughts, and behavior of an aging athlete and others who once had better days. Th ere is a connection here. Perhaps, even a synchronization.
“Glory Days” Essay 24. Springsteen’s “Glory Days” and Synchronization Springsteen’s funny but unusually poignant and prescient song “Glory Days” appears on his 1984 a lbum Born in the U.S.A. This song features three aging people who experienced early fame and recognition in their younger days only to see t hose sweet “Glory Days” quickly fade. Both James Joyce and Bruce Springsteen have been moved by and noted the sadness of fading glory. Their perceptiveness leads them to understand, 184
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respect, and at times even pity a faded hero’s desperate need to somehow recapture those days. In “Glory Days,” we first meet one of the narrator’s (Springsteen’s) old high school friends who could “throw that speedball by you, make you look like a fool” (Springsteen 1984, “Glory Days”). When Springsteen meets this old friend in a bar, he expects the ensuing conversation w ill focus on what has transpired since their high school days. All his old friend would talk about, however, was his high school “Glory Days” of fame and recognition. In the second verse, we meet an attractive, now aging woman who in high school “could turn all the boys’ heads.” She, too, has seen her “Glory Days” blow by. More recently, this w oman endured a difficult and painful divorce. She confesses to the narrator that she loves talking about the old times because when she “feels like crying, she starts laughing thinking about Glory Days.” The bittersweet core of this song occurs in the last verse. Springsteen, as the narrator, looks back and ahead. He wonders as he continues to age if he too w ill soon be left telling his own “boring stories of Glory Days.” In so d oing, Springsteen captures the universality of the theme of the aging as they become obsessed with enhancing memories of their past. He does this neatly, expressing the hope that this w ill not happen to him, even while he honestly confesses, it “probably w ill.” Alas, we are all, as we age, so likely to find ourselves telling t hose stories that “capture a little of the glory” of our “Glory Days.” I connect to Springsteen’s observations in “Glory Days.” For decades I have told my children and friends the following shamefully embellished tale. In 1959, my senior year, a local newspaper headlined a report that as a third baseman for St. Peter’s Prep I led the Hudson County high school baseball league in batting percentage. Honey Russell, a local scout for the then Milwaukee Braves, immediately contacted me offering an invitation to come to a tryout the next day. I passed on the tryout and instead went for a drive down the shore with the Academy of St. Aloysius’s good, smart, and beautiful Peggy Coyle. I knew exactly what I was d oing. Peggy was more than worth it but I also reasoned that if I had gone to the tryout, I would have failed and that would be the sad end of the story. I clearly recall thinking that if I willingly skipped the tryout, I could always, in Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” fashion, tell my kids, grandkids, and
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anyone who would listen that I actually passed up a Major League tryout with the Milwaukee Braves, thus allowing their then third baseman Eddie Mathews to go on to a Hall of Fame c areer. Had I gone to the tryout and failed, as I know I would have, my future perennial “Glory Days” story would have been diminished by reality. Deliberately missing the tryout left so much more room for dramatic exaggeration. Many of us have made connections with Springsteen and his music. Sometimes, however, t hese connections can move beyond the level of mere coincidence to what the psychologist Carl Jung has referred to as “synchronization.” While I w ill not pretend to understand all of Jung’s work, I was struck by how his concept of “synchronization” resonated with my experience in relating to Springsteen and his m usic over the years. Jung tells us that synchronicity involves instances of “meaningful coincidences.” He asserts that when coincidences pile up in this way, one cannot help being impressed by them. For Jung, synchronicity served a role similar to that of dreams with the purpose of shifting a person’s egocentric conscious thinking to greater w holeness (Jung 1960, 104–115). Meaningful connections? Jung employs an example to convey his understanding of the phenomenon of the difficult-to-comprehend concept of synchronization. He reports that in 1805, the French writer Émile Deschamps was treated to some plum pudding by a stranger named M. de Fortgibu. Ten years later, the writer encountered plum pudding on the menu of a Paris restaurant, and wanted to order some but the waiter told him the last dish had already been served to another customer who turned out to be de Fortgibu. Many years later, in 1832, Deschamps was invited to partake of a plum pudding as a special rarity. He recalled the earlier incident and told his friends that only de Fortgibu was missing to make the setting complete. At that very moment, the door opened and an old man who had gotten hold of the wrong address burst into the party by m istake. It was de Fortgibu (Jung 1960, 15n26). At least sometimes in my life, Springsteen’s lyrics have seemingly approached the level of synchronization or “meaningful coincidence” where I could not help but be impressed by them. I am also aware of the concept of “confirmation bias” where one is inclined to more readily notice events that seem to confirm some significant meaning but which might only be merely coincidental. Confirmation bias aside, I wonder
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hether or not others who have connected with Springsteen have also w experienced a level of connection approaching synchronization. Please let me know. Randomness? Meaningless? Perhaps. Meaningful coincidences? Synchronization? Perhaps. Who really knows? Here is what I do know. My coincidences with Springsteen presented in Essay 25 might not rise to the Jungian level or even to the level of Deschamps’s connections with de Fortgibu. Still, I know I have experienced many connections with Springsteen and some have seemed to approach synchronization. Because the phenomenon of synchronization just might be more widespread than we realize, I anticipate I might not be alone in sharing possible meaningful coincidences. I wanted to share my experiences with a wider audience in the event that others have experienced this phenomenon. I believe any sharing of Springsteen-linked incidents and stories can tell us something about synchronization, Springsteen, and ourselves.
✧ In my mind, Springsteen’s song “Glory Days” resonates to the level of synchronization. I am an athlete, a basketball player who always took the most shots and consequently was the high scorer on my high school team which won the coveted “Catholic A” state championship in New Jersey in 1959. I went on to play some basketball in college, where I basically failed as a player and spent most of my college career as a disappointed benchwarmer. If anything did, my time as a high school basketball and baseball player constituted my athletic “Glory Days.” Perceptive readers with a slight touch of cynicism might even see my writing of this book as an effort to recount my Glory Days, Such a common connection alone would merely make my link to the Springsteen song a s imple coincidence shared by many o thers. Still, there are other coincidences occasioned by “Glory Days” that possibly make them meaningful synchronic ones.
Essay 25. Synchronizing with Springsteen The baseball scenes in Springsteen’s video for “Glory Days” w ere shot in Miller Stadium in West New York, New Jersey. Additionally, the Spring steen and E Street Band performance scenes in the video took place at
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Maxwell’s Tavern in Hoboken, New Jersey (Marsh 2004, 547). The latter might not be so surprising as Hoboken’s native and renowned film director John Sayles directed the video. Another interesting feature of the video is that Springsteen’s former wife, Julianne Phillips, and his present spouse, Patti Scialfa, both appear in it. The video can be viewed at https://w ww.youtube.com/watch?l ist=R D6vQpW9XRiyM&v=6vQp W9XRiyM or on the Springsteen video anthology (Springsteen, Bruce 1988). Miller Stadium and Maxwell’s Tavern have long played memorable roles in my family’s and my lives. After departing Union City, New Jersey, in the early 1950s, my parents, older brother, younger s ister, and I, moved to the New Jersey town of West New York, which quite unsurprisingly is west of New York City, overlooking the Hudson River. With a few “Glory Days” interspersed, I played and practiced grade school football and youth baseball at the very Miller Stadium where Spring steen and Sayles chose to shoot the baseball scenes in the “Glory Days” video. Additionally, my uncle, Phil Cirelli, an outstanding athlete in his day and the subject of a “Glory Days” essay below, was the head coach of my Little League team that played some of its games at Miller Stadium. Like Springsteen in the video, I sometimes pitched for my Little League team. Continuing the possible meaningful coincidences h ere, my s ister Jeanne who introduced me to Springsteen’s music, had her own “Glory ere, in 1960, as a thirteen-year-old, she won Days” at Miller Stadium. Th the town-wide baton tossing/twirling contest and was acclaimed West New York’s “Miss Majorette, 1960.” Both Jeanne and I so easily relate to this song and have the stories to prove it. Adding to the coincidences is that the “Glory Days” video was shot in part at Maxwell’s Tavern in Hoboken. For several summers in the early 1960s while attending college, I worked at General Foods/Maxwell House Coffee in Hoboken. Maxwell’s Tavern, built in 1978, was actually constructed at the former site of a working-class bar that was then only a block away from the Maxwell House Coffee plant situated on the banks of the Hudson River. I was too young to frequent the bar, but on Fridays I would go t here to cash my paycheck with the other Maxwell House workers. “Glory Days” of a sort.
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All of these might be mere coincidences. Still, I am inclined to accept Jung’s view that these and similar events are meaningful, even if for the present they remain beyond our human capabilities to comprehend fully.
✧ The connections I have made between Springsteen’s “Glory Days” video, Miller Stadium, and my Uncle Phil are further explored in Essay 26, “ ‘Glory Days’ and U ncle Phil.” Other sports-related essays in this section emanate in one way or another from my own “Glory Days.” They are, indeed, true in my memory even if they might not ever have happened. They are old stories and, hopefully, not boring but as Spring steen tells us in the final verse of “Glory Days,” they probably are. And I hope when I get old I d on’t sit around thinking about it But I probably w ill. Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture A l ittle of the glory of, well time just slips away And leaves you with nothing mister but boring stories of Glory Days. (Springsteen 1984, “Glory Days)
My beloved uncle and former baseball coach, Phil Cirelli, comes to mind when I hear Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” Because of Phil and Springsteen, I learned a useful lesson not simply of the human need as we age to tell stories of our “Glory Days” but something more profound about human compassion and kindness. The message that old people enjoy recounting stories of their Glory Days to anyone willing to listen is easily evident in Springsteen’s song. What is often missed, however, is another consideration. Notice that Springsteen as the narrator of “Glory Days” elects to listen and listen again and again to t hose telling him their stories of momentary fame. He does not mock them but listens respectfully to their stories and in doing so honors them and their past accomplishments. Th ere is a lesson in that I hope to develop in the following essay.
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Essay 26. “Glory Days” and U ncle Phil Before U ncle Phil died, my spouse Kim and I talked with him for the last time in the 1980s. Phil’s devoted wife, Esther, had already died at that time and he was living alone and probably lonely somewhere near the Hudson/Bergen County line in northern New Jersey, not very far from West New York. Phil lived his entire life in this area. He was a gifted baseball and competitive softball player and well-k nown in his hometown of West New York. On the last night Kim and I talked with Phil, I remember reintroducing him to Kim but without in any way embellishing that introduction with a word about what kind of man Phil was and what he had proudly accomplished in his life. I mentioned nothing of Phil’s athletic prowess, which very likely stood in his mind as one of the outstanding accomplishments of his life. My failure to mention his accomplishments was, I hope and believe, unintentional. It simply never even occurred to the youthful me to include t hese details. With my silence placing the burden on Phil to make some relevant or meaningful conversation, he had to fend for himself. I remember he told us that “just the other day” he had been having a drink at a bar in West New York. His words, “just the other day,” were meant to convey that the tale he was about to tell was not fabricated or even very old. It was a contemporary story that placed him in a setting that was a vital part of the current street culture of West New York. Phil added that in the bar that day, the bartender or someone else—I forget who—asked him a question, something like, “Aren’t you Phil Cirelli?” Phil noted that a fter he answered yes, the questioner, excitedly seeking more details, asked, “Didn’t you lead the West New York Senior Softball League in batting average at the age of fifty-five when you were one of the oldest players in the league?” Phil then told Kim and me that he, of course, said yes to this also. What is the point of all this? It seems to me that the story Phil told that day was, at least in part, false—but only “Glory Days” false. Oh, sure, he did, indeed, lead that league in batting average at a time when he was likely much older than most of the players. But, what is so likely false, I believe, is the introductory setup—that the bartender or someone else had recognized Phil and asked a contrived, far too specific question.
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It is more likely that a lonely, aging Phil wanted to feel even in some remote way the warm glow of one of his “Glory Days” moments. I think he wanted to remind me and, especially, to tell Kim of his proud “Glory Days.” Uncle Phil had likely fabricated the bar scenario so he could more modestly tell of the meaningful and beautiful accomplishments in his past. The more I have reflected on that moment over the years, the sadder and angrier I become. I am not at all upset with Phil but with myself. Why didn’t I in reintroducing Phil to Kim more thoughtfully and lovingly throw him a verbal softball so that he could have been allowed to more gracefully launch into his tales of glory without the indignity of having to resort to an awkward fabrication to tell that tale? I promised myself after that day that when I meet anyone, especially relatives or friends older than I (I realize this group dwindles swiftly as ill be more aware, more assertive, more I write), I will act differently. I w creative—a nd, hopefully, not obvious—in providing an occasion for them to relive their “Glory Days,” their cherished if faded moments in the sun. They deserve as much. Springsteen’s “Glory Days” taught me so. And, of course, I hope someone is always there to kindly and patiently do this for me.
✧ Two More “Boring Stories” of Glory Days With the reader’s indulgence hopefully sparked by Springsteen’s understanding of his friends and even his own inclination to be unable to resist telling boring stories of “Glory Days,” I offer the following two essays. Their connection to Springsteen is a stretch of sorts, predictably and tellingly revealing the obvious fact that I cannot resist relating these accounts. I can at least vouch that the incidents described in Essays 28 and 29 did occur on the playing fields and courts of West New York, New Jersey, where, as noted, the video accompanying Springsteen’s song, “Glory Days” was shot. Indulge this old man as he should have indulged his Uncle Phil and o thers. In Essay 27, “Replay,” I have changed the names of the participants, Coach Casey and his son. It is a true story, as accurately as I can remember it from my childhood. I trust it suggests my own developing sense of good sportsmanship and tender masculinity
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Essay 27. Replay Berra? Campanella? Fisk? Bench? Piazza? Massaro? Famous baseball catchers? Yes, of course, except for the last curious entry. Still, I do have a distinction that, I believe, has eluded even the greatest catchers. I am very likely the only catcher to have recorded a unique 9 to 2 put out (right fielder to catcher) at first base. The play occurred almost seventy years ago in a West New York, New Jersey, Little League game. Still, it is not that rare play that dominates my thoughts t hese days. As this child of summer moves into winter and the mysterious seasons beyond, my thoughts are with the opposing team’s Coach Casey and his son. In 1953 I modeled my catching style on the major leaguers. I watched my armament-bedecked heroes clatter down the first base line on any ball hit with the bases empty. I faithfully followed their example even though I did not understand the strategic purpose of this ritualistic sprint. I only knew I could impress my coaches and other baseball purists with my hustle as I took off, big league style, on any ball hit. It was only much later that I learned that a catcher’s mission in running down the line is to position himself to retrieve errant throws to first base. Casey’s son, as I believed, suffered from an ailment that had weakened his legs and slowed his gait. And while he dressed in the uniform of the team coached by his father, he never played. In the sometimes heartless pecking order of adolescent boys, this boy’s permanent bench- sitter status signaled he did not even merit teasing. His fate was much worse. He was unnoticed and ignored. We are comfortably leading Coach Casey’s team. Last inning. One out. No hits for our opponents. I am b ehind the plate, giddy at the prospect of catching my first no-hitter. The studied lore of baseball superstitions dictates that my teammates and I remain silent about the no-hitter in order not to anger the baseball gods and jinx our pitcher. With victory out of reach and seemingly nothing to lose, Coach Casey decides to have his son pinch-hit. Absorbed in the game and my youth, this seminal moment for Casey and his son means l ittle to me. The first pitch is high and outside the strike zone but up where Casey’s son can reach it. He swings and connects solidly, driving a low-liner toward right field. Impulsively, I fling off my mask and sprint down the first base line. Our first baseman, having leaped for the liner, lies sprawled
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on the infield. I notice that the well-hit ball has been drilled on one short hop to our right fielder and that I am now several paces ahead of Casey’s struggling son. Rather than veering to the right of first base as my role models do, I instinctively lock eyes with the right fielder and race for the bag. The right fielder fires a perfect strike to me at first base beating Casey’s son by two paces. Our pitcher retires the next batter. The no-hitter is saved. Surrounded by parents, friends, and fans offering congratulations on what they eagerly convey to me is a heads-up and rare gem of a play, I glow in a “Glory Days” moment. Casey’s son never enters my mind. As the years pass and I tell this story, I reflect so much more on the price Casey and his son paid for my self-perceived moment in baseball history. The stories of our lives have lives of their own, taking on added dimensions as we age. In my child’s mind, Casey’s son is a nondescript foil for my good fortune. In my mature mind, he remains Casey’s son but also becomes a man, a husband, a f ather, a friend, living stories I w ill never know. I realize now that at that time I was young and self-absorbed but also relatively naive, often oblivious to the pain of others. I do not berate myself for my actions on the field that day. I was playing the game the right way, hard but fair, the way good professionals should. And in some complicated way, I even believe I was honoring Casey’s son by showing no favoritism, cutting him no slack on the field, and uncondescendingly seeing him as a worthy opponent deserving of my best effort. Nevertheless, I wish at that time, I had the wisdom, the maturity, the sensitivity, the whatever it would have taken to simply have told Coach Casey’s son, “Nice going”—and to have used his name.* * I actually contacted the father, “Coach Casey,” of the boy in the above piece and he happily confided that his son was not at all scarred by the incident I convey here. Casey’s son went on to be a successful high school and college baseball catcher and, more important, to live a happy married-with-children life. As so often happens, our perception of our “reality” is not at all the “reality” of o thers—and so it goes.
✧ Essay 28, “The Stuff of Life,” is based on an incident I often recounted to my own children one of whom, my younger son, Aries Massaro, has become a cowriter of the piece. He continues to tell our story.
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Essay 28. The Stuff of Life It’s the summer of 1960. The local legend Golden “Sunny” Sunkett visits the outdoor courts in a northern New Jersey city. G oing boy-to-legend with “The Golden One,” I have the ball twenty feet from the basket. Sunny faces me. I fake to go right and Sunkett seemingly bites like a lonely drunk at a bar pursuing a wink. I drive left, thinking, “ ‘The Golden One’ is surely ‘The Overrated One.’ ” Suddenly, t here’s a blur. My body hair registers the presence of electricity and I even hear thunder. With a gifted burst of speed, Sunny has not only blocked my shot but has ignominiously swatted it off my head and out-of-bounds. I have just been “stuffed.” Humiliated, I retreat to the relative safety of defense with profound respect for “Mr. Sunkett.” Upon releasing a shot, most shooters generally envision the ball gently arching t oward the basket and softly splashing through the net. Sometimes, however, this idyllic anticipation unfolds in quite another way. There are t hose not infrequent moments when a defending player reaches up and rudely and abruptly swats the ball directly back at the hapless shooter. Indeed, this is such a part of the game that an extensive lexicon has developed and, one suspects, w ill continue to develop, celebrating this special moment of ecstasy for the defender and of surprise and embarrassment for the would-be shooter. Experience indicates that the terms employed over the years to describe or otherwise celebrate this event range from the profane to the poetic. They include: “Blocked,” “Rejected,” “Eat leather,” “In your face,” “Salted,” “Stuffed,” “Not in my h ouse,” “Enjoy your lunch?” “Swallow the rock,” “Kiss the rock,” “Mr. Spaulding’s sandwich,” “Leathered,” “Eat it,” “Taste good?” and “Swatted.” I also vividly and painfully recall my older and then taller b rother’s personal favorite in our one-on-one contests, “Would you like ketchup with them fries?” Even telecasters have, in effect, gotten into this game reportedly altering the earthy playground boast, “Get that shit out of here” to the more media-correct, “Get that shhhhhhhhhot out of h ere.” What is most interesting and heartening about this lexicon is that it harks back at least in spirit to the first game of basketball ever played. Basketball’s innovative inventor, the doctor James Naismith, has vividly described that first game played in his physical education class in Spring-
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field, Massachusetts, in 1891. Naismith provides the earliest and likely the gentlest version of “The Stuff,” writing quaintly: “Sometimes when a player received the ball, he would poise with it over his head to make sure he would make the goal. About the time that he was ready to throw, someone would reach up from b ehind and take the ball out of his hands. This occurred frequently and was a never-ending source of amusement. No matter how often a player lost the ball in this manner, he would always look around with a surprised expression that would plainly say, ‘Who did that?’ His embarrassment only added to the laughter of the crowd” (Naismith 1996, 58). My son Aries Massaro has since reminded me that today’s hipper sportswriter reporting on the first basketball game ever played would have used more contemporary language than the good Dr. Naismith. Nevertheless, the essential substance, the very “Stuff” of the report as well as its joyous spirit would remain the same a fter over one hundred years of hoops. Aries adds that such a report might read as follows: Sometimes when a baller takes the rock, he would bring it up high over his head to be closer to the old peach basket. About the time he’s ready to launch it upward, a crafty defensive ace abruptly swats the Wilson away, sometimes rejecting and projecting, wheeling and dealing it right back at the head of the shocked shooter. This occurs frequently and always stirs the fans. No m atter how many times a player got stuffed, he would always look around sheepishly as if to say, “Who sent me packing?” His embarrassment only added to the amusement of the crowd. Fans of “The Rejecter” often hooted and ose of “The Rejectee” either silently covered their eyes and gloated. Th shook their heads or vainly berated the referee for not calling a foul. The language changes regarding the stuff of basketball but the stuff of our lives, our telling tales of “Glory Days,” remains the same.
✧ Springsteen and Fatherhood While the following essays focus on models of masculinity and the relationship between fathers and sons, they do so from a different perspective.
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arlier in examining the links between fathers and sons, the narrative E unfolded from the son’s point of view. The younger man—whether Bruce Springsteen, Sarfraz Manzoor, John Massaro, or any other son—usually tells the story. Essays 29 and 30, however, emanate from the perspective of a father and a grandfather viewing his sons and grandsons’ on their own path to manhood. The older man now tells the story. This change in perspective should not be at all surprising. Like many of us connecting with Springsteen over the span of his c areer, I first encountered his music at a time when he was a young man and I was also a relatively youthful forty- four- year- old. Springsteen has now become the father of three grown children with a “grandpa” designation possibly coming in the not-so-distant f uture. I am today a father of three and grandfather of seven. In connecting with Springsteen today, I have learned that what we once could only perceive from the perspective of a son, we can now view from the point of view of a father and, in my case, a grandfather. This enhanced perspective helps in several ways. It enables us to remember and reassess our roles as sons and to better understand and even reevaluate our fathers as fathers. And with an eye to the future, it can help in enabling us to connect more lovingly and effectively with our sons and grandsons and, indeed, all our children and grandchildren.
Essay 29. Fatherhood: From a Different Perspective Love for our c hildren and grandchildren can make all f athers and grand fathers and, indeed, all grandparents, acutely aware that for better or worse genetics plays a significant role in the shaping of who our children and grandchildren become. It is both ironic and instructive that the first utterance by Springsteen in his stage performance Springsteen on Broadway is “DNA” (Springsteen 2018). This opening utterance reveals Springsteen’s overt recognition of the key role of genetics in his own life and beyond. Springsteen is responsibly aware, as are most parents, that DNA helps determine the particu lar structure and function of every cell and is responsible for characteristics passed on from parents to child down through the generations. The bittersweet concern in all of this resides in the realization that those positive characteristics in us of which we are
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proud are as likely to be passed on to our c hildren and grandchildren as are the negative ones. In Springsteen’s “Adam Raised a Cain” (1978), he attests to this biological link between him and his father: “He was standin’ in the door, I was standin’ in the rain with the same hot blood burning in our veins.” Springsteen emphatically conveys the, perhaps, impossible-to-realize hope that any negative vestiges in the ancestry of his c hildren should not be visited upon them. They should be existentially free to live their own lives removed from any ancestral burden. He does this again in “Adam Raised a Cain” by railing against society’s disinclination to see c hildren as unique individuals separate from their genetic origins. He notes, “You’re born into this life paying for the sins of somebody else’s past.” Likewise, the hope that a child can escape the DNA trap appears in Springsteen’s “Independence Day” (1980), in which he assures his f ather and the world, “They ain’t gonna do to me what I watched them do to you.” Along with most parents, Springsteen understands, however, that DNA alone will not determine the fate of our children and grandchildren. The living examples set by parents, grandparents, and o thers as well as the variable social, economic, and political factors that also help mold any individual’s life will also continue to shape our c hildren and their descendants. Nature and nurture after all. In addition, every child’s independent soul and mysterious capacity for f ree w ill also shape our children. Springsteen’s understanding of the effects of DNA is evident in another concern that often finds its way into his lyrics. This involves an awareness of the power of lineage and an insistence on judging or evaluating c hildren on their own merits and not t hose of their parents or other ancestors. Springsteen’s remedy for ensuring that his c hildren and all c hildren are not unfairly saddled with the shortcomings or sins of their lineage is reflected in the theme of freedom for offspring found in his work. He expresses this theme by emphasizing that c hildren should be free to make their own path in life even if they have to make missteps in their daunting and demanding earthly journey. This message to his own c hildren is clearly presented in his 2005 song, “Long Time Comin’ ”: Well if I had one wish for you in this god forsaken world, kids It’d be that your m istakes would be your own That your sins w ill be your own.
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Springsteen wants us to understand the commendable necessity for parents to do all they can to teach their c hildren well but also to f ree them from the sometimes restrictive yoke of their lineage and, yes, even from what their parents might want for them in the name of love. Children can and should be guided, of course, but must be allowed to find their own way. I see in Springsteen’s message the ancient and often- repeated if less-practiced wisdom Kahlil Gibran has provided parents in his poem, “On Children”: Your children are not your c hildren. They are the sons and d aughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you. And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you, For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. (Gibran n.d.) What can we do for our c hildren? Both Gibran and Springsteen tell us we can love them knowing full well we can neither control nor determine their destiny. We can, nonetheless, try to set them on the right course. In that spirit, Gibran counsels in words Springsteen would likely endorse that parents “are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.” We can try our best to make t hose arrows travel far, straight and true. We can, however, never be certain of their flight because parents are finite and the arrows, our children, must travel “the path of the infinite” (Gibran n.d., n.p.). In his 2016 autobiography, Springsteen writes about what he wishes for his c hildren. His thoughts resonate with Gibran’s wisdom. This connection linking Gibran and all parents seems so evident in Spring steen’s critical words on parenthood. Read the following passage by
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Springsteen and you will also, I believe, hear the echo of Gibran. Springsteen wisely invokes love, freedom, ancestry, independence, luck, and maybe even a l ittle transcendence if parents are to ease life’s burdens so that their children can seek to live their own fulfilled lives. And still, there is no guarantee. Springsteen writes: We honor our parents by not accepting as the final equation the most troubling characteristics of our relationship. I decided between my father and me that the sum of our troubles would not be the summation of our lives together. In analysis you work to turn the ghosts that haunt you into ancestors who accompany you. That takes hard work and a lot of love, but it’s the way we lessen the burden our children have to carry. Insisting on our own experience, our own final calculus of love, trouble, hard times and, if we’re lucky, a little transcendence. This is how we claim our own lives as sons and daughters, independent souls on our piece of ground. It’s not always an option. There are irretrievable lives and unredeemable sins, but the chance to rise above is one I wish for yours and mine. (Springsteen 2016a, 503) These sentiments stir me when I recall my relationship with my older son, John-Paul Massaro (JP). As noted, like Springsteen, I have had to battle depression through the greater part of my life. JP, likely in part through inheriting his f ather’s DNA, has had to confront paralyzing anxiety attacks throughout his life. Springsteen has helped both of us in our struggles. ere both g oing through difficult times, we Years ago, when JP and I w found comfort, strength, and support in Springsteen’s song “No Surrender.” The critical and dramatic lyrics play through my mind as I write today: You say y ou’re tired and you just want to close your eyes and follow your dreams down. We made a promise we swore we’d always remember No retreat, baby, no surrender. (Springsteen 1984, “No Surrender”)
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In meetings, urgent letters, telephone calls, and emails, JP and I would cite t hese lyrics or simply remind each other of our mutual pledge not to surrender to our personal demons but to keep g oing. I know that connection helped both of us. JP now has two sons of his own, Kyler Massaro, age twenty-four, and Kobi Massaro, age twenty-one. I know he has shared with Kobi, and likely with Kyler, a continued invoking of the sentiments in Springsteen’s “No Surrender” in confronting daunting times and endeavors. Indeed, both JP and Kobi have permanently signified their pledge to each other to never give up by having Springsteen’s words, “No retreat, no surrender” tattooed on their bodies. Of course, the fiercely independent Kyler, and I, as a traditionally stodgy f ather and grandfather, might never join them in that par ticular inked endeavor. Yet I sense they know that Kyler and I join them in their intergenerational pledge of never retreating, never surrendering. Many of the essays in this book, including the following three, represent an effort to launch my parental (and grandparental) arrows into infinity. The hope remains that some of the lessons learned from my life including certainly connections I have made with Springsteen and his lyrics as well as with o thers will resonate with my descendants long a fter I am gone. It may not always be a successful effort but I trust it w ill remain a noble and worthy one.
✧ The Traditional Model of Masculinity Essays 30 and 31, respectively, indict the role of the traditional model of masculinity in my life and in Springsteen’s. As w ill be more fully addressed below, in the United States this model of masculinity can be described as the more dominant, more acceptable guide to the way boys should be socialized into becoming men. The traditional model of masculinity includes aspects of worthy and admirable character development for boys becoming men, including the teaching of discipline, perseverance, independence, courage, and strength. It has, however, come under attack more recently for its less worthy, even dangerous effects in shaping boys as they move toward adulthood. Two studies fault this model for instilling in boys a capacity for an extreme form of dominance, violence, and aggression, as well as for cheating and stoic concealment
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of their emotions. Carried into manhood t hese attributes can significantly harm the men themselves and o thers, especially the w omen in their lives (Kimmel n.d.; Mull 2019). As the following two essays indicate, Springsteen and I have had to deal with some of the negative consequences of this traditional model in moving toward manhood. Our early lives w ere significantly s haped partly by being situated in the presence of this model even while we both resisted aspects of it as we moved through life. I confronted the traditional model of masculinity primarily through the lens of sports, and that perspective underlies my account in Essay 30, “The Traditional Model of Masculinity and Me.” My more speculative account of Springsteen’s struggle in dealing with this model and resisting some of its attributes is presented in Essay 31, “Bruce Springsteen and the Traditional Model of Masculinity.” I prepared Essay 30, about manhood and sports, for my grandson Eli Massaro Roy, an athlete, on the celebration of his twelfth birthday, March 20, 2018. After completing it, I realized that, in far too typical jock fashion, I had slighted Eli’s older brother, Grady Massaro Roy, age fourteen as I write in October 2018. Grady does not play any sports at the moment and, again at the moment, tends to be as cerebral and focused in regard to his love of m usic and film study as Eli is in regard to sports, even though both still have promising if uncharted futures before them. This essay is focused on sports but it is meant to encourage all children to follow their own hopes and dreams, whether in film studies, sports, the arts, or elsewhere. I nevertheless want to note that I wrote the essay specifically for Eli and Grady. My hope is that they w ill both have healthy, happy, connected lives. In continued “Glory Days’ ” fashion, the essay recounts some of my early athletic endeavors but, more important, it speaks to a more humane way of competing in sports and life. It is a very personal statement of what I have learned about manhood and life as viewed through the lens of participation in competitive sports.
Essay 30. The Traditional Model of Masculinity and Me What is the traditional model of masculinity and how has it shaped my life? Let’s start with where it likely began for me.
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It is 1954. I am thirteen years old. I dream of being a professional athlete. I have also begun adding thoughts of young women and romance to my list of desires. In eighth grade, I must decide w hether to attend the all-male, private St. Peter’s Prep School or the enticingly coed, public, local Memorial High School. An older Memorial fan, a booster, eager to influence my decision, takes me to a festive Memorial football game. I recall all too vividly the Memorial majorettes. Their tight sweaters, short skirts, and high white leather boots are almost overwhelming to me. No doubt reading my hormonally driven mind, the booster whispers in my ear, “If you come to Memorial, you can have all of them. All of them.” His false but eagerly received words have long lingered in my mind. They lingered especially during the many dateless Saturday nights I spent alone while attending St. Peter’s. They linger today. In looking back, t hose words not only reflected a tempting offer but also sought to teach a lesson about the marginalized role many people at that time preferred women to play both in sports and in life itself. Women and girls were often viewed as objects, the spoils of athletic success, sweet, beautiful, loving possessions more than as people. In that time before the feminist movement began and especially before Title IX, they were to be fans, cheerleaders, twirlers, and majorettes rather than respected participating players. What led me to reject the offer to attend coed Memorial? I really do not know for sure, but what follows is a personal answer to the question, in which I also intend to address the issue of masculinity and the relationship between real men and sports in regard to two entities that I value highly: w omen and sportsmanship. I think I was either born an athlete or was soon turned into one by my father and my older brother. In one of my earliest memories, my brother Frank and I are chomping away at our usual breakfast of freshly delivered cold milk and hot buttered rolls as my father reads us reports from the sport pages of the Hudson Dispatch, the local Union City newspaper. Most sportswriters at that time were still writing in the dramatic, heroic, inspirational style of the influential Grantland Rice (McNulty 2015). My father would even more inspirationally convey the exploits of our local athletes, implanting in our young minds the then uncontested thought that every successful athlete was noble, admirable, heroic, and, indeed, a male demigod.
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If my father’s intention was to motivate us by his reading, he succeeded far too well, at least in my case. While he wanted us to fall in love with sports, as I know I did, I also fell even more passionately in love with writing and the beauty and power of words. Ironically, in the same year, 1956, that I became a sophomore starter on my high school’s basketball team, I won a literary prize for writing an essay, “Bitter Twilight,” focusing on my youthful anxiety in confronting the end of carefree summer and the start of the school year. And so, I became a would-be athlete with a would-be writer’s sensitivity. Such a combination, although it has brought me great joy, was also bound to cause some confusion and heartache in my life. And it has. This impressionable boy was not only drawn to athletics but also to a love of women and sportsmanship. It seems I have always felt more comfortable, more at ease, in the company of women than I do in the company of most men, and this is still the case. This is a rather strange phenomenon for one destined to spend the greater part of his formative years in the locker room, significantly detached in both a physical and psychological way from women. Additionally, I found I was most attracted to athletics for what they had to teach about sportsmanship—the capacity to take defeat without complaint; to win without gloating; to treat opponents with fairness, respect, and courtesy; and especially, to cherish the friendships developed with both teammates and competitors. In a sense, I followed a relational model somewhat at odds with the traditional model of masculinity. According to the psychologist Carol Gilligan, this relational model is one generally pursued more by w omen than by men. As a result, I played sports more for relationships than rivalry, more for companionship than competition, more for socialization than self-individualization (Gilligan 1982, 7–16). In many early instances, my love for athletics seemed strangely at odds with my love for w omen and sportsmanship. My attachment to sports clashed at times with my relational sensitivity, often leaving me a rather confused young man. Permit me to share some of t hese instances. A scholarly high school friend, Albert, tells me, “All jocks are assholes and All-County jocks are simply All-County assholes.” When I remind Albert that I am a two-time All-County jock and ask whether I am an All-County asshole, he surprises me by saying, “But you don’t act like
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other jocks.” What does he mean? Today, I treasure Albert’s words among the most complimentary ones that have ever been spoken to me. Still, as a confused young man, I wondered what was lacking in me that made me appear less like other athletes and, consequently, less like a real man. At about this same time, I try to convince an older friend that while I love sports, I really dislike competition. He responds by telling me that I could never have achieved the athletic success I had at that time without loving competition. But I realize, as contradictory as it might seem, that I do love sports and do dislike competition or, at least, competition as it has been taught to me. Only much later do I learn about good and bad competition (see Eitzen 2012, 125–134). As an eighteen-year-old in 1959, I accept a basketball scholarship to a small Massachusetts college where I am a teammate and a friend of an older player. Let’s call him Billy. I admired and looked up to Billy as I did all athletes, especially the successful ones. I am thrilled at the thought of playing on his team. In our first intrasquad scrimmage, I am matched up against Billy. I have never been shy about shooting and the very first time I get the ball, I fake Billy off with a quick jab of my foot, pull back, and arch a twenty- foot jumper that softly splashes through the net. The next time we have the ball, I launch another jumper. This time, Billy’s finger pokes my right eye and I miss. No big deal. Basketball is a fast-paced game of instant reactions and occasionally fingers have a way of accidentally finding an opponent’s eye. When Billy’s finger seems to continue poking my eye every time I take a shot and when he secretly grabs my shorts as I try to cut to the basket, it strikes me that I am no longer in Kansas or even in New Jersey. Billy and I apparently disagree on the definition of sportsmanship. As I get older, the instances of how real men are supposed to act occur more frequently, or perhaps I am just more conscious of and sensitive to them. E very instance suggests that the approach I have t oward w omen and sportsmanship seems out of sync with the approach of many other males drawn to athletics. The instances continue, involving even those I had come to admire. The widely respected Pat Riley is paid millions to coach professional basketball, but he discourages his wife from returning to school and beginning her own career. He boastfully conveys his estimation of all
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omen by telling his wife, “I know you want equality but I want you w home. I love seeing you bring in the groceries” (Heisler 1994, 121). A college teacher has publicly choked one of his students; tightly grabbed students’ groins and squeezed painfully; punched and broken a clipboard over a student’s head; and ridiculed other students he perceives as weak by referring to them as “girls” or “pussies” and by putting tampons and photos of vaginas in and around their lockers. Because the would-be instructor is Bobby Knight and his classrooms have been basketball courts at Indiana University and elsewhere, little serious action is taken against this abusive teacher (Feinstein 1989, 20–21 and passim; Isenberg 2012; Jadlow and Brew 2016, 60, 75, 87, 89, 90, 93). He is a bully but continues to be one of this nation’s most admired coaches. The Los Angeles Laker Magic Johnson knocks down and fouls the Celtic Dennis Johnson (DJ). In an otherw ise commendable display of sportsmanship, Magic helps DJ to his feet. Pat Riley, now the Lakers’ coach, is livid, remarking, “You foul DJ and then you pick his ass up. We’re down 40 points. If one man picks up a Celtic, [it’s a] $500 fine” (Heisler 1994, 94). Lost amid this display of unsportsmanlike coaching for the sake of seemingly unrestrained competition is the perverse irony of Riley, a white man in a position of authority, telling Magic, a Black man, not to help DJ, another Black man. As a young college basketball coach, Rick Pitino is understandably elated when his Boston University team upsets their major rival Rhode Island. On the return trip to the Boston campus, Pitino can think of no better way to celebrate the victory than to order the team bus to stop at a strip joint where he leads his players in wolf whistles, even distributing dollar bills so they can stuff them into the dancers’ G-strings (Wolff and Keteyian, 1991, 267). After enduring numerous shoving battles in the post where the referees’ whistles failed to control the aggressive play, a Baylor University basketball player has evidently had enough. The player, 6 feet, 8 inches tall, throws a vicious haymaker, flooring and bloodying an opposition player. The fact that the Baylor player is a woman as is her opponent testifies to the fact that violence and the lack of “sportspersonship” are not limited just to men (Abrams 2019). Instances in which female athletes seem to pursue the aggression and violence associated with the dominant
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male model of sports raise a legitimate concern. Michael A. Messner underlines this concern by concluding “it is as yet unclear whether women’s movement into sports will lead to the humanization of men and sports or to the dehumanization of women” (Messner 1994, 200). These instances continue to the present, indicating that the negative and misogynistic aspects of how athletes are supposed to behave remain with us. In 2017 the world learned more about Rick Pitino. At this time, as the highly successful, well-paid University of Louisville head basketball coach, Pitino provided convincing evidence that the feminist movement and the progress made toward s imple, basic respect for w omen have had little impact on him. In a scandal that soon became labeled “Strippergate,” a local escort revealed that one of Pitino’s assistant coaches had paid for parties where she and her daughters danced and had sex with high school kids on recruiting visits to Louisville as well as with current Louisville players. Even though the parties had been g oing on for four years, Pitino, the self- proclaimed all-knowing savant of everything associated with the Louisville basketball program, insisted he had no knowledge of them (Sokolove 2018, 17–18). The National Collegiate Athletica Association (NCAA) was reportedly primed to suspend Pitino for failure to properly monitor a staffer who paid for the strippers and escorts, when yet another scandal erupted at Louisville on Pitino’s watch or more aptly, nonwatch. One of the top high school basketball recruits in the class of 2017 surprisingly elected to enroll at Louisville a fter it appeared that the program had little chance of attracting him. An elated and reportedly “shocked” Pitino attributed this occurrence to good fortune, a gift that fell from the heavens. “We got lucky on this one,” he said (Sokolove 2018, 17–19). An FBI investigation subsequently revealed that executives at Adidas, the shoe company with which Louisville and Pitino had a multimillion dollar agreement, had played a significant role in the recruit’s unexpected decision to enroll at Louisville. In clear violation of NCAA regulations the Adidas executives had funneled $100,000 to the recruit’s father in exchange for the recruit’s signing with Louisville (Sokolove 2018, 21–22). Pitino claimed no knowledge of what had transpired between the Adidas officials and the recruit, but authorities at Louisville had finally had
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enough. Pitino was abruptly fired as Louisville’s basketball coach. A letter sent to him by the University of Louisville administration explained that the firing was made necessary by Pitino’s “conduct over a period of years” and what they saw as a “a pattern and practice of inappropriate behavior” (Sokolove 2018, 23). What does this litany of cheating, violence, misogyny, and lack of sportsmanship tell us? What significance can be found in the instances that have marked my life sending both obvious and subtle harmful messages about the real meaning of manhood to impressionable and uncertain boys? Most significant is the fact that many of t hese boys absorbed the negative aspects of this model as they moved into manhood, which resulted in shaping them as insensitive, hard, nonnurturing h uman beings. I, along with o thers, absorbed some of these harmful messages. I do not want to misrepresent myself when I was a boy and a young man. As I trust I have conveyed, I was never driven excessively by the traditional model of masculinity to be a stereotypical insensitive, homophobic, misogynistic male. Still, the traditional model did have an impact on me. As a young man, I know that I mockingly mimicked homosexuals and dismissed unathletic boys as “sissies” or, yes, even “pussies.” I know I told racist and homophobic jokes and used racist and homophobic language. My m other always referred to me as acting like “a l ittle tough guy” even though she likely knew better. The John Wayne/ Humphrey Bogart facade I tried to adopt was mostly a deflective pose, an attempt to conceal my insecurities about my identity. I did not generally mistreat w omen but t here were times that my immaturity, anger, or frustrations led me to behave in ways I am not proud of t oday. I will not recount h ere the worst of my offenses, misogynistic or other on’t wise. Paraphrasing a line from Springsteen’s autobiography, “I w tell you all about myself. Discretion and the feelings of o thers w ill not allow it” (Springsteen 2016a, 501). The worst action I will admit to was dismissively and uncaringly hurting a young woman. It was not physically brutal but brutal nonetheless. In 1962, at age twenty-one, I was dating a young woman from Jersey City who could not afford to go to college and was working as a secretary in New York City. We started to date exclusively and I began seeing her most weekends. She courageously took a bold step in our relationship by inviting me to meet her f amily on Christmas Eve at their Jersey
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City apartment. I accepted. Shortly before Christmas Eve, I reconnected with another love interest, and she and I agreed to spend New Year’s Eve together. I was ecstatic about the possibilities New Year’s Eve held of reviving a love I thought I had lost. As I began an early Christmas Eve dinner with my family and contemplated my date that evening in Jersey City, after drinking another glass of wine and then another, I grew far too comfortable, and decided not to go to Jersey City that night. I even lacked the character to telephone with some lame excuse. I horribly and cruelly, just did not show up. I cringe today when I think of the pain and embarrassment I caused that young woman. A few months later, I ran into her on a rainy day down the Jersey shore and when she saw me, she lovingly and playfully punched me very softly in the stomach. When I apologized for being such a jerk, she smiled and self-deprecatingly said, “Oh, I knew you wouldn’t show up.” I do not think I ever met a kinder, more forgiving person but I have spent many years worrying about my cold negative act so long ago. As Springsteen has told us, “You do some sad sad t hings baby, when it’s you y ou’re tryin’ to lose” (Springsteen 1992, “Living Proof”). Or, I must add, when it’s the decent man in you y ou’re trying to find. I know now I was wrong in following some of the potentially harmful traits of the traditional model of masculinity. I know now t here is nothing natural, inevitable, or unchangeable about that model’s conception of sports participation and manhood in general. That model is socially constructed and can be socially reconstructed. Boys becoming men do have a choice. We all do. In August 2018, the prestigious American Psychological Association (APA), further justified concerns about a model of masculinity, sports, and life based solidly if not exclusively upon a traditional view of masculinity. The APA Guidelines for Psychological Practice with Boys and Men issued the APA’s first official warning against what it identifies as the “traditional masculinity ideology” (APA 2018, 3). The guidelines note that “although there are differences in masculine ideologies, t here is a particular constellation of standards that have held sway over large segments of the population, including: anti-femininity, achievement, eschewal of the appearance of weakness, and adventure risk and vio lence” (2–3).
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This traditional masculinity ideology, the report further notes, “has been shown to limit males’ psychological development, constrain their behavior, result in gender role strain and gender role conflict and negatively influence mental health and physical health” (3). “Gender role strain” is defined by the APA as a psychological situation in which gender role demands have negative consequences on the individual or others.” “Gender role conflict” is identified as problems resulting from adherence to “rigid, sexist, or restrictive gender roles, learned during socialization, that result in personal restriction, devaluation, or violation of others or self” (2–3). The report concludes that conforming to this dominant masculine ideology can lead to negative consequences including suppressing emotion and masking distress in young boys, more risk-taking and aggressive behavior, and a lack of willingness to seek out help (1, 3). The report additionally contends that adherence to the masculine ideology can lead to traits like homophobia and pave the way for sexual harassment (11, passim). What can be done? It is critical to be aware of other models beyond the traditional model of masculinity for sports and for life in general. Interestingly, a wide array of athletes and nonathletes have spoken out bringing news of alternatives to the traditional model of masculinity. This group includes people such as the late tennis champion Arthur Ashe; the Chicago Bulls coach Phil Jackson; the author and feminist Mariah Burton Nelson; and even, according to Hiroshi Motegi one of my former Japanese students, Kanō Jigorō, the founder of judo. W hether one refers to this other model as the feminist model, the partnership model, the Lakota Sioux model, the champion model, the starting-with-appreciation–ending-with-appreciation model, or my own preference, the ideal model, the impetus behind this quest for a new model is the same. Millions of men and w omen have recognized that the traditional model of masculinity just does not work for them and that there must be an alternative. And what does that alternative model, the ideal model, look like? In general, it is a model that retains the very positive and constructive values of the traditional model of masculinity taught by sports. Th ese include assertiveness, boldness, discipline, teamwork, determination, and a host of other worthy ideals that would benefit all human beings,
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hether athletes or nonathletes, male or female. The ideal model is also w one that seeks to end the negative and destructive “values” taught by sport as we have known it. These include violence, cheating, self- centeredness, insensitivity, arrogance, homophobia, the objectification and degradation of women, and the lack of humaneness and civility. This ideal model does not seek to make men more like w omen or women more like men but rather to make all of us not only better athletes but also better h uman beings. I urge you as young, concerned men to give serious consideration to adopting this alternative model. You should be warned that in competitive sports and, indeed, in life itself, adopting the proposed model will most likely not make your life easier. It will also not necessarily f ree you from the ridicule of o thers who will continue to support the traditional model of masculinity. That model has long been entrenched in the consciousness of many, including coaches who will fight fiercely to defend it. I nevertheless believe that if you adopt the ideal model, your lives will become more enriched and enriching, more ennobled and ennobling. The ideal model primarily calls upon you to use your best-reasoned judgment and moral framework in making decisions both on and off the field. Many steps can be recommended as you pursue this model. There are rules for living a good, just, and full life beyond sports participation. One such model or “strategy” appears in the outstanding work of Don Sabo and Michael Messner (1994, 214–218). With deep appreciation and respect for Sabo and Messner, I build upon their work in presenting my own version of an ideal model of sports. An Ideal Model of Sports 1. Play the game with passion but also with fairness, honesty, and genuine respect for your opponent. Your opponent should not be an object of your hatred but rather your honored partner. To gain the ultimate gifts that sports and competition have to offer, you need a worthy opponent and in that sense alone your opponent demands your respect. 2. Train hard but respect your body. Resist definitions of masculinity that put your body at risk, including advice that glorifies pain, encourages continued play when you are injured, sanctions the use of steroids and other training techniques that give you a short-range advantage but long-term risks.
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3. Help stop excessive violence in sports. Support altering rules that promote unnecessary violence. 4. Assertively confront sexism and homophobia in sports and in life. Be aware as to how the seemingly innocent and acceptable denigration of women, homosexuals, and others in the confines of the traditional male locker room can fuel the dangerous and lethal antiwoman, antigay, antitranssexual bias and violence outside the locker room. 5. Resist all bullies including locker room bullies who try to intimidate younger or smaller individuals. 6. Insist on equal treatment of w omen’s sports as justly called for by Title IX. 7. Expand the notion of who are real athletes beyond the range of the so- called big five and male-advantaged sports of baseball, football, basketball, hockey, and soccer. This means giving proper, nonmocking respect to the following and similar sports: skating, gymnastics, swimming, running, biking, tennis, skiing, hiking, rock-climbing, skateboarding, and others. At the same time, respect genuine competitions beyond the realm of sports including but not limited to drum and bugle competitions, spelling and geography bees, debating, drama, and Odyssey of the Mind. 8. Be a nurturing, caring person in the athletic arena and in life. Support males who seek to convey the wisdom that intimacy, nurturing, and caring are ideal characteristics in a man. 9. Respect and listen to your coaches and o thers in legitimate authority, but never forget that their commands or advice should not be a substitute for your own sense of what is right or wrong, fair or unfair. If you disagree with them, you should always first consult them directly and voice your disagreements privately and calmly, in a forceful but respectful way. Should your coach and o thers in authority insist on your undertaking actions or voicing views that you truly feel are unethical, immoral, or unsportsmanlike, you have e very right to refuse to do so.
In closing this essay, I offer a profound and provocative quote from the late D. Stanley Eitzen, written years ago after the fall of the authoritarian Soviet Union but still so relevant t oday. And let me emphatically endorse Eitzen’s astute observation of the fundamental connection linking America’s cherished ideal of democracy with the teaching of sports.
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In words that provide helpful and needed guidance to athletes and all of us, Eitzen notes: Democracy is learned through practice. Young p eople do not learn democracy when their leaders are tyrants. They do not learn democracy when they are spied on, demeaned, and degraded by authorities. They do not learn democracy when their lives are regimented from above. They do not learn the qualities of democratic citizenship from verbal and physical punishments imposed arbitrarily. Nor do they learn democracy when they are denied fundamental human freedoms. In short, if young people are to believe in democracy, they must live in a democracy (Eitzen 1992, 147; see also Eitzen 2001, 155). These parallels between what our society interpreted as an authoritarian and oppressive Soviet regime and the way team sports in American schools are organized point to a glaring contradiction between the official ideology of the United States and a ctual practice. If we truly believe in democracy, then we must democratize our institutions, including sports.
✧ Essay 31. Bruce Springsteen and the Traditional Model of Masculinity ere is little doubt that Springsteen’s development into manhood was Th shaped in part by the traditional model of masculinity described in Essay 30. As suggested in the previous analysis of two Springsteen songs from his 1987 Tunnel of Love a lbum, “Walk Like a Man” and “Tougher Than the Rest” (see chapter 3, Essay 18), Springsteen is acutely aware of and concerned about the pitfalls and pressures, including a passive accep tance if not a dangerous embrace of misogyny, homophobia, detachment, insensitivity, and violence that boys face in being l imited to one narrow model of masculinity. In “Walk Like a Man,” he signals his need for a model of ideal masculine development by noting that t here is so much about being a man that “I d on’t understand.” He also laments his real-
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ization that many steps toward masculinity remain: “I’d have to learn on my own.” In “Tougher Than the Rest” (1987), he even takes the traditional model’s embrace of male “toughness” and converts it from a narrow concern with manly physical strength in competition or combat into a strong, tough perseverance in loving and caring for a loved one. He sings: “Well if y ou’re looking for love, Honey, I’m tougher than the rest.” Springsteen has hinted at the potential dangers the traditional model of masculinity held for him as he was growing into manhood. As early as 1975 in his classic “Born to Run,” he seemingly had some awareness of the manufactured need of many young boys to try to adhere to the stoic, unphased, tough guy image taught by the traditional model of masculinity. The young Springsteen, describing the youthful social scene in “Born to Run,” makes the simple but prescient, precocious, and profound observation that “the boys try to look so hard.” Springsteen has more recently noted that his own two grown sons have fortunately escaped significant negative effects of the traditional model of masculinity. In invoking that model, he states: “I do have two good men. And I would say their qualities are, t hey’re sensitive. They’re respectful of o thers. They are not locked into a 1950s sensibility of manhood, which I had to contend with. Consequently, their attitudes toward women and the world are f ree of those archetypes, and that f rees them to be who they are and have deeper and more meaningful relationships. They know themselves pretty well, which is something I c an’t say for myself when I was that age” (Hainey 2019, 80). In reflecting in Esquire magazine on his early struggles with parenthood and on being a good and involved father, Springsteen has emphasized, not with bitterness but with clarity, the critical absence of an observable model of enlightened fatherhood in his life. The Esquire article implies that the model the young Springsteen encountered early in his life was one that reinforced the then prevalent traditional model of masculinity. And the message of that model was that “a w oman, a f amily, weakens a man.” Springsteen notes that his early acceptance of this message made him feel that the idea of a home with a wife and children “filled him with distrust and a bucketload of grief.” He adds that it was only with Patti Scialfa’s patient guidance that he came to realize that “our ere formidable and could take family was a sign of strength, that we w on and enjoy much of the world.” Springsteen credits Scialfa with helping
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him live up to a promise he had long made to himself that “he would not lose his children the way his f ather lost him” (Hainey 2019, 79). Springsteen indicts the traditional model of masculinity when he notes that his sons are fortunate not to have been “locked into a 1950s sensibility of manhood.” And this indictment continues with his observation that while his sons know themselves pretty well that is not something he can say about himself when he was their age. Springsteen’s thoughts here reflect his own pronounced dissatisfaction with the lessons taught by the traditional model in shaping his own youthful development into manhood. What might be his concerns in that regard? One can only speculate, but it seems that the youthful Springsteen’s troubles, in somewhat unreflectively seeking to follow the traditional path to manhood, involved at least issues of mistreatment of and anger thers in general and especially in regard to women. and violence toward o Several notable incidences from his e arlier years point in that direction. One occurrence in 1976 is recounted in a l egal deposition Springsteen made in regard to his contract dispute with his onetime manager Mike Appel. That b itter encounter seemed to have brought out the worst in Springsteen. Revealing an angry, potentially violent side of his character, the twenty-nine-year-old Springsteen screamed at an attorney questioning him, reportedly employing the words “fuck” and “cunt” throughout his deposition: “You got a lot of fuckin’ balls to ask ‘bout my breakin’ my fuckin’ word when your client [Mike Appel] did it to me. He fuckin’ lied to me. I broke my fuckin’ word? He broke his fuckin’ word. Somebody stabs me in the fuckin’ eye. I learn to stab them back in the fuckin’ eye. Somebody stabs you in the fuckin’ heart and I stab them back in the fuckin’ heart” (Eliot 1992, 217–223, profanity likely added; see also Sandford 1999, 125). Another instance from Springsteen’s developing years is even more troubling b ecause it involves a disturbing example of the young Springsteen’s physical mistreatment of his fans and the women in his life. Both Lynn Goldsmith, a onetime girlfriend of Springsteen’s, and Dave Marsh, Springsteen’s friend and biographer, have testified to Springsteen’s troubling behavior in performing at the Musicians United for Safe Energy (MUSE) concert in New York City in September 1979. Goldsmith recounts that when fans at the MUSE concert presented Springsteen with a cake on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday, he
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became visibly incensed and threw the cake into the audience. Marsh adds that after the projected cake splattered the fans with icing, Springsteen snarled, “Send me the cleaning bill.” Marsh concludes, “It was an uncharacteristically ugly scene.” Goldsmith adds that viewing the scene, she knew Springsteen was angry but did not realize how really angry he was. She would soon find out (Goldsmith 1995, n.p.; Marsh 2004, 218–220). Evidently, Springsteen and Goldsmith had arrived at an agreement prior to the MUSE performance. Under their agreement, Goldsmith, a professional photographer, would be allowed to take photographs at the concert as long as she did not continue shooting during Springsteen’s performance. Goldsmith has since conveyed that some misunderstanding of the agreement that evening sparked a bad scene. She recounts that Springsteen mistakenly thought he saw her in the pit snapping shots as he was performing and he became angry. She claims she was, indeed, in the pit but was not taking photographs or violating the agreement. She further reports she had no idea t here was a problem. But then she felt people tapping her on the shoulder, saying, “He wants you.” She looked up and saw Springsteen pointing at her from the stage, wiggling his finger for her to come to him. She shook her head no and smiled. She reports that at this time she became scared because she clearly recognized the look in Springsteen’s eye when he was angry. She then notes: “I grabbed my camera bag and tried to head toward the back of the hall, but Bruce jumped from the stage and chased me. He twisted my arm behind my back. I thought he was going to break it. I pleaded for him to let me go. He twisted even harder. He pulled me up on stage to the microphone where he said, ‘This is my ex-girlfriend.’ Then he threw me across the stage, I was humiliated” (Goldsmith 1995, n.p.). A number of fans and fellow stars, notably including the rocker Meatloaf, called Springsteen “a jerk” for his crude and hurtful treatment of Goldsmith that night (Sandford 1999, 171). Marsh later wrote that this was “in the end, the most stupid public act of Springsteen’s c areer, and one which, for that instant, at least, made his rock and roll idealism hypocritical” (Marsh 2004, 219). What is most encouraging about Springsteen’s development into manhood is that despite what appears to have been a questionable start, he
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came to resist the worst aspects taught by the traditional model of masculinity. Specifically, as noted below, he would come to reject the solo stoicism, the anger and violence, the insensitivity to others, especially women, which have at times so marked that model. Later, in assessing his profanity-laced, angry, violence-flavored deposition in the legal b attle with Mike Appel, an older, more mature Springsteen revealed a better understanding of the nature of t hose remarks. In his autobiography, he not only owns up to the deposition but adds thoughtfully, “I did not play nice. My answers w ere profane, part theatre, part truly felt anger bordering on the violent” (Springsteen 2016a, 256). Further evidence of his coming into a more compassionate, sensitive version of manhood is that later in his life he even had a rapprochement with Mike Appel, the former agent whom Springsteen once perceived as a bitter enemy in their legal dispute over the contracts. For a November 22, 2009 concert in Buffalo, New York, Springsteen thoughtfully invited Appel and ended up dedicating the performance to him, warmly identifying his former manager as “the man who got me in the door” (Dolan 2012, 437). Springsteen has lived through the years of the feminist movement, which has surely helped reshape his stance toward women. As noted, his songs such as “Spare Parts,” “Walk Like A Man,” and “Tougher Than the Rest” reflect a more mature understanding of the plight of women in a world still generally controlled by men. And while Springsteen’s music does reflect his growth as a mature man sensitive to and supportive of women, this maturity seems most profound in his personal life. I hope I am wrong about this but as far as I can tell, Springsteen has never publicly or even privately apologized to Lynn Goldsmith or any other women he has mistreated—and t here have been many according to Springsteen. And yet, in his autobiography, he does apologize to Julianne Phillips and offers a contrite recognition of his mistreatment of other women (Springsteen 2016a, 351). In speaking of his past, less-than- omen, he confesses: “I’d had it ideal approach to his relationship with w down. I’d routinely and roughly failed perfectly fine women over and over again,” adding: I figured needing p eople too much might not provide the best payoff: better off playing defense. But it was getting harder and harder
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to pretend nothing was amiss. Two years inside of any relationship and it would all simply stop. As soon as I got close to exploring my frailties, I was gone. You w ere gone. One pull of the pin, it’d be over and I’d be down the road, tucking another sad ending in my pack. It was rarely the w omen themselves I was trying to get away from. I had many lovely girlfriends I cared for and who r eally cared for me. It was what they triggered, the emotional exposure, the implications of a life of commitment and f amily burdens. (Springsteen 2016a, 272–273) Springsteen’s growth in regard to his understanding and treatment of women is clearly reflected in the following. Eric Alterman notes that in 1982, the New York chapter of the National Organization for Women appealed to Springsteen to stop referring to women as ‘little girls” in his lyrics and accused him of “writing and singing sexist music.” Alterman himself has acknowledged that Springsteen can “engage thoughtlessly in prefeminist clichés” in his song lyrics. Additionally, Alterman has expressed a concern that at least during the 1984–85 Born in the U.S.A. tour, “Springsteen sometimes threatened to become a macho cliché, with his muscles bulging and his ‘hey, l ittle girlie, with your blue jeans so tight’ lyrics” (Alterman 1999, 189–190). And even while Alterman cautiously notes that Springsteen’s depictions of w omen in his m usic “are most often quite sympathetic to their female subjects,” he appears to have been unconvinced of Springsteen’s bona fide embracing of a profeminist view of women. This all changed for Alterman, as it certainly did for me, with Springsteen’s release of the Tunnel of Love a lbum. In Alterman’s view, that album clearly demonstrated not merely a temporary change but a “striking transformation” in Springsteen’s writing as it represented “the new power and depth he brought to his characterization of women and to all matters of the heart.” And Alterman leaves no doubt that what was happening h ere was a metamorphosis in the Jersey rocker’s understanding of masculinity, concluding, “Springsteen’s conception of manhood changed in conjunction with the shift in his view of women” (Alterman 1999, 189–191). And Alterman appreciates that Springsteen had to repudiate the more hard-edged, prevailing powerful Hollywood version of a model of masculinity in arriving at his transformed position:
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The hardest lesson a man can learn, particularly a man who has lived the life of a Springsteen narrator is “when y ou’re alone you ain’t nothing but alone.” What could be more antithetical to the ste reotypically romantic notion of American manhood, personified by icons like James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, and Marlon Brando? It’s true, Springsteen acknowledges in “Valentine’s Day” “that he travels fastest who travels alone / But tonight I miss my girl, mister, tonight I miss my home.” (Alterman 1999, 191) What is most notable about Springsteen’s significant growth in regard to his more enlightened view of women is how many contemporary feminists and feminist supporters have embraced his now developed version of the new masculinity and gender politics. In a piece aptly titled “Springsteen’s Women: Tougher Than the Rest,” the English professor and columnist Gina Barreca now praises Springsteen for presenting in his music women who “are not blank spaces on which to project male desire but are instead presented as human beings: flawed, passionate, fierce and smart, defiant, and daring even when damaged.” Barreca astutely adds that even while the women in Springsteen’s’ songs might not use the word themselves, they are “feminists.” She concludes that most woman in Springsteen’s songs are presented as “independent, loving, and courageous, she is nobody’s object, property, or plaything. She’s accepted the responsibilities of adult life whether or not she’s been given the choice” (Barreca 2019, 163, 165). Rebecca Traister, a writer at large on feminism and politics for New York Magazine and its online publication Vulture, has also notably recognized Springsteen’s rejection of the traditional model of masculinity. Reviewing Springsteen’s autobiography Born to Run, in a piece tellingly titled, “Bruce Springsteen’s Memoir Beautifully Dissects His Own Masculinity,” Traister testifies to how far away Springsteen has moved from the traditional model of masculinity. She writes that “one of the book’s most unexpected pleasures is Springsteen’s willingness to pick apart the kind of masculinity—the cars, the perspective on girls, the making of the man—to which he has been so firmly attached in our imagination” (Traister 2016). Traister highlights Springsteen’s confession in his book that despite his early obsessive writing about the dominant masculine conceit of cars
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he did not learn how to drive u ntil he was in his mid-twenties. Assessing this confession, Traister rightly surmises that Springsteen’s making of all those macho ballads about escape down the highways of New Jersey are “a manufactured fantasy, a projected idea of what male self- direction entailed.” Traister adds that in seriously questioning the traditional version of masculinity, Springsteen “lays bare the contradictions, complexities, and downright artifices on which his very public version of manhood has been built (Traister 2016). Traister concludes that in the autobiography, Springsteen “cracks the macho exterior and really pulls out the guts of Bruce’s thinking on identity, on his own manhood. It reveals an appreciation and respect for women, and questions about men and how they’re made, that many of us have long suspected underpinned his m usic” (Traister 2016). The Canadian writer and poet Carter Vance has closely examined the males in Springsteen’s songs and found them to be “in contrast to a lot of his [Springsteen’s] contemporaries” in that they are men who are “not two-dimensional creatures on the hunt for booze, babes and good times.” Vance then offers the following personal assessment as to what t hese male characters represent: they suggest a resistance to the traditional model of masculinity in many ways. He concludes: Springsteen’s male characters are traditional masculine archetypes, guys who work physical jobs during the day and burn rubber in big cars at night, but they are also so much more. By turns, they are sensitive, loving, defeated, angered, worldly enough to know they cannot speak for everyone but trying to better their empathy nonetheless. With the modern search for a model of masculinity which is untainted by toxicities of misogyny, homophobia, and other forms of bigotry, the greatest hope that the men in Springsteen’s songs give us is that this is possible. They are still distinctly masculine, but in a way that allows in complexity of feeling, solidarity with those differ ent from them (not for nothing was Springsteen drafted to write and perform the title song to “Philadelphia,” the first mainstream American film to deal sympathetically with the AIDS crisis) and loving, loyal connection to their families and communities. In short, the Springsteen man, if not necessarily Bruce Springsteen himself, is someone I keep aspiring to be. (Vance 2019)
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Springsteen appears to have dodged the most negative aspects of the traditional model of masculinity. As a man, he appears today to be in much better control of his temper, not reluctant to ask for help needed from o thers, generally skeptical of the use of violence in personal, national, and global relationships, and fiercely supportive of equal and just treatment for all, especially w omen, minorities, and the LGBTQ community. This mature growth did not happen overnight, of course, and Spring steen was probably never as unbridled macho as had been reported. There is little question, however, that his commendable growth into a caring and sensitive man, maintaining the positive attributes of the traditional model of masculinity and jettisoning the negatives, was aided by his connections to others. One can only speculate here, but the prevailing feminist movement and the efforts of the women and men linked to that movement have played key roles. There is the early presence in his life of a strong loving woman, his mother Adele, who countered what were, perhaps, the more negative aspects of the traditional model of masculinity reflected by his father. Remember it was Doug Springsteen who once believed that only the army could make a man out of his son Bruce. Springsteen might have had this thought in mind when writing the song he wrote to honor his mother. “The Wish” (1998) contains the line: “If Pa’s eyes were windows into a world so deadly and true, you couldn’t stop me from looking but you kept me from falling through.” Patti Scialfa, another strong woman in Springsteen’s life, has clearly played a major role in shaping the sensitive, caring man and father Springsteen has become. Throughout his autobiography, he recounts the pivotal role his spouse has played in shaping his life. His tribute to Scialfa in his autobiography represents his clearest expression of love and respect for women epitomized in the best ideals of feminism: “Patti is a wise, tough, powerful woman but she is also the soul of fragility, and t here was something in that combination that opened up new possibilities in my heart. In my life. Patti is a singularity” (Springsteen 2016a, 351). Springsteen has also spoken with the radio interviewer Terry Gross about the key role of Scialfa in turning his life around and shaping his views of manhood in the absence of a proper model: I didn’t have a blueprint from my childhood that I could call on, which is an enormous deficit when y ou’re trying to put together a
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f amily life. I didn’t see a family life where men were thriving inside of it. My dad tended to blame the f amily for his inability to achieve what he wanted to achieve, you know? So, unfortunately, I was coming from that particular frame of mind, and it took quite a bit of work and time and mistakes to begin to feel, to understand the strength that comes along with building a home life, you know? That was very mysterious to me, I was very skeptical of it for a long time, and didn’t understand it fully until Patti and I got together. (Springsteen 2016b) And then there is this reminder in the song, “Better Days” (1992) released on Springsteen’s Human Touch a lbum shortly before he and Scialfa had their first child. The lyrics here speak to a fundamental change in Springsteen’s life: “I’ve got a new suit of clothes, a pretty red rose and a woman I can call my friend. These are better days.” Springsteen’s manhood is encapsulated not so much by the fact that Patti Scialfa is his “pretty red rose” but that she is a woman “I can call my friend.” Finally, there is Springsteen himself. Escaping the false lure of the negative aspects of the traditional model of masculinity and even within the often macho world of rock stardom, Springsteen has forged his own enlightened path to manhood, one that is not always perfect but one that reflects a toughness touched by tenderness.
✧ Grandpa Bruce? This essay focuses on my youngest grandson, Jasper Massaro Roy, age ten years as I write in October 2020. In most of the essays in this book, Springsteen’s work has taken the lead, by which I mean that I have generally presented material generated by Springsteen and responded to what he has expressed. In the following essay, I break that pattern. I write again about being a grandfather, something Springsteen has not yet experienced but very likely will in the coming years. In Essay 32, “Man to Man in Maine,” I write of the special concerns of a grandfather in watching his youngest grandson setting out on that long and sometimes troubling path to manhood. There is a message of hope in
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this essay and a reaffirmation of one of the more positive attributes of the traditional model of masculinity, the very paradigm criticized above. That attribute is what I have taken the liberty of calling “manly courage.” Somewhat paradoxically, but nonetheless true, it is a characteristic any grandfather would hope for in all his grandchildren.
Essay 32. Man to Man in Maine I retired to Maine to be closer to my Ogunquit grandsons and to be t here for them. On this particular day, Jasper, my then four-year-old grand son, safely stays by my side. Still, I sense he wants to be elsewhere, no longer desiring to be in my protective cocoon. At a cousin’s birthday party in 2004, Jasper and I watch his two older brothers, eight and nine, playing on a driveway basketball court, testing their skills against some other “big guys.” A short time later, a fter I had momentarily drifted apart from Jasper, the game ends and the court is now open to the melee we euphemistically refer to as “free play.” Not unexpectedly, a swarm of boys, unruly as fruit flies, race onto the court. Jasper evidently also ventures onto the court joining the other boys. He is involved, intent, and as e ager as they to show off his athletic dexterity in a wildly competitive scramble for the single, precious basketball. Gaining possession of that inflatable rubberized grail offers the consummate reward, launching at the hoop one’s sublimely self-defining shot, as unique as one’s DNA. Returning to the court’s sidelines, I happily, if slightly apprehensively, see Jasper game-faced and active in the scramble. I quickly realize he has little chance of retrieving the ball in the lopsidedly asymmetric strug gle in which he is so seriously absorbed. Even were he fortunate to have the ball serendipitously bounce his way, he would still likely be deprived the opportunity of launching his own special shot. A quick but not intentionally unkind survival-of-the swiftest steal by one of the older boys ere he mercifully would inevitably strip him of the prize. And even w given the opportunity to shoot the ball, Jasper’s preadolescent lack of muscle mass would, t oday at least, rob his shot of any self-definition. His strenuous effort, however valiant, however portending f uture form and grace, would sail only a few feet toward the hoop. The big guys would perceive it as a nondescript, conceding pass, not as Jasper’s uniquely
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crafted shot of self-expression. Still, he is courageously out there, testing, probing, playing with relative giants. Without warning, an errant shot ricochets sharply off the rim of the basket striking Jasper directly, powerfully, and ignominiously on the top of his head. Sweetly oblivious momentarily as to what has befallen him, Jasper stands motionless, a stunned look on his face. I see that he is now hurt, scared, and confused, all at once, and embarrassingly exposed as the child he is. I have been t here and know that pain. Crying, of course, is always an immediate, understandable option. Big boys can and do cry these days, and even grandfathers know that. I eye Jasper as I edge slowly t oward him. Th ere are no tears, no other reaction. Just a desperate child trying to remain stoic, trying to be a big boy in a big boys’ game. When I do reach Jasper, he buries his head in my arms, staying in that shelter for a few seconds. I feel his body trembling and hear a slight whimper. I manage to sneak a peek at him to assure myself he is not seriously hurt. I see suppressed tears in the corners of his eyes withheld from everyone else. Seconds later, however, he is back on the court. I know I love him for so many more important reasons but in that moment, I love him for his manly courage. I am grateful I could be there for Jasper that day but I am ever so much more thankful that he was t here for me.
✧ Conclusion Connecting with Springsteen and others in the linked spheres of sports and masculinity has been most enriching. Through “Glory Days,” I experienced an intriguing coincidental connection with Springsteen that has led me to better understand Karl Jung’s provocative concept of synchronization. That same s imple Springsteen song, “Glory Days,” provides useful insights into the aging process and the universal need of all of us to try to tell our stories so that we might be remembered if only for a few more moments. Additionally, we should remember Spring steen’s implicit message in “Glory Days” for us to be willing to listen respectfully and kindly to these stories, and, indeed, to understand that we too will eventually tell our “Glory Days’ ” stories—if we have not already started.
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We have also learned that the stories we tell have lives of their own. They take on new forms and teach additional lessons as we age. As we have seen, stories we told as sons take on richer, deeper dimensions when we tell them as fathers and grandfathers. Self-absorbed youthful tales of personal achievement give way to stories reflecting a loving obsession with the happiness of our children and grandchildren. Our old “Glory Days,” tales, of course, are never r eally silenced even though time alters them. We have learned that participation in sports, done the right way, can teach us to play the game not only with passion but also with fairness, integrity, modesty, and, more importantly, to live our lives that way. Proposed models of masculinity are simply social constructs in time and culture representing how real men are supposed to behave. They should be resisted when they promote violence, inequality, cheating, misogyny, homophobia, and other negative attributes. In sports as in life, our adversaries should not be seen as hated enemies but as partners in the h uman dance. As Springsteen tells us, “We are all riders on this train.”
5
Loose Ends
✧
Loose ends? When nearing the end of writing this book, I realized I wanted to include two essays that while connected in some way to Springsteen were not at all linked to the main themes of music, politics, love, sports, and masculinity. I have always loved m usic and have lived my life in close association with the other themes of this book. I have been a teacher of politics; a lover as a husband, f ather, relative, and friend; an athlete, and a man seeking the ideal dimensions of masculinity. I sense that I fit these roles reasonably well. I have also spent much of my life trying to be a writer and in wanting to share my writing with others. Still, I remain uncomfortable, a touch defensive, in referring to myself as a writer. Accordingly, I view these last two pieces as “loose ends” that do not easily fit into the text’s themes but still deserve to be included. Ironically and fortuitously, even the thought of “loose ends” connects me to Springsteen who has written a song with the title, “Loose Ends.” The song appeared on his 1998 a lbum Tracks. Disregarding the end- of- a- relationship lyrics of that song, I focused instead on the title and knew “Loose Ends” would serve as the heading for this final section. The penultimate piece, Essay 33, connects Springsteen with many others who have been writing for most of their lives. Springsteen has composed a diverse and masterful body of music and lyrics. Additionally, he has written a well-received autobiography and written and 225
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performed for the Broadway stage. As a professional student of politics and as a teacher, I have written a few academic books and articles as well as essays and op-eds for the general reader. I have always sent my writing to captive but patient f amily members, friends, and colleagues. Those with whom I have shared my work have likely wondered why I write and why I share. Readers of this volume might be pondering the same. Essay 33 attempts to provide some answers to t hose questions. The final piece, Essay 34, serves as a brief parting word and a conclusion.
Essay 33. Why Write? Some Answers Provided by Bruce Springsteen, Roger Rosenblatt, Lin-Manuel Miranda, and Alexander Hamilton I found insights into the need to write and to share that writing in three pieces I read recently. The first is Bruce Springsteen’s forthright autobiography, Born to Run. The second is Lin-Manuel Miranda and Jeremy McCarter’s delightful behind-the-scenes look at the creation of the widely successful Broadway hip-hop musical, Hamilton. That book’s lengthy and bombastic title befits the verbose style of the eighteenth century and offers the promise of detailed cleverness and wit found in both the play and the book. The exact, unsuccinct title is, HAMILTON: THE REVOLUTION: BEING THE COMPLETE LIBRETTO of the BROADWAY MUSICAL with a true account of ITS CREATION and concise remarks on HIP-HOP, THE POWER of STORIES and THE NEW AMERICA. The third piece is a November 6, 2000, Time article, “I Am Writing Blindly,” by the perceptive essayist Roger Rosenblatt. Springsteen offers several answers in his autobiography as to why he has devoted his working life to both writing and wanting to share his writing. The first response, in the foreword, is a classic Springsteenian answer that forthrightly, if opaquely, lists just about every possible motivation for why he must write and share his writing and, in effect, ironically tells us enough but not all. He notes that he writes for the following reasons: “DNA, natural ability, study of craft, development of and devotion to an aesthetic philosophy, naked desire for . . . fame? . . . love? . . . admiration? . . . attention? . . . women? . . . sex? . . . and oh, yeah . . . a buck.
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Then . . . if you want to take it all the way out to the end of the night, a furious fire in the hole that just . . . don’t . . . quit . . . burning” (Springsteen 2016a, xi–xii). At another point in the book, referring to his need to respond in some way to September 11 2001, Springsteen offers the following: “First, you write for yourself . . . a lways, to make sense of experience and the world around you. It’s one of the ways I stay sane. Our stories, our books, our films are how we cope with the random trauma-inducing chaos of life as it plays” (Springsteen 2016a, 443). Near the end of the book a fter noting that the 510-page text itself might convey the only complete answer as to why he must write and share his work, he offers a more concise response. Not surprisingly and befitting the connections’ theme of this book, Shades of Springsteen, this more helpful response involves his need for relationships as well as his desire to tell not only his story but the stories of those with whom he has connected. In words I have taken to heart in writing Shades of Springsteen, Springsteen notes: I fought my w hole life, studied, played, worked, b ecause I wanted to hear and know the whole story, my story, our story, and understand as much of it as I could. I wanted to understand in order to free myself of its most damaging influences, its malevolent forces, to celebrate and honor its beauty, its power, and to be able to tell it well to my friends, my family and to you. I don’t know if I’ve done that, and the devil is always just a day away, but I know this was my young promise to myself, to you. (Springsteen 2016a, 505) And then directly invoking the connection one seeks in writing and encouraging all of us to tell our story, Springsteen adds that he hopes the telling of his story w ill “rock your very soul and then pass on, its spirit rendered, to be read, heard, sung and altered by you and your blood, that it might strengthen and help make sense of your story. Go tell it” (505). Reading the above, especially the part of Springsteen’s story being a part of “our story,” has encouraged me to link his narratives to mine; to respond to his call; to connect with him and o thers; to “go tell it.”
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Miranda and McCarter offer several notable reasons for writing and sharing one’s written work. One involves the human desire to be remembered. This reason, they imply, is not at all a desire for immortality. It is rather a more modest need to tell our story so that we remain a while longer in the hearts of others, especially those we love. The authors add that in telling our story we want to prolong, however momentarily, our ephemeral opportunity to have some positive impact on the lives of others. “We tell stories of people who are gone b ecause, like any power ful stories, they have the potential to inspire, and to change the world” (Miranda and McCarter 2010, 277). Lyrics drawn directly from the play Hamilton also provide some answers as to why we write. In seeking to explain the prolific Hamilton’s obsessive need to write, Miranda spotlights the workaholic Founding Father’s motivations. Hamilton is presented as driven by a haunting and vexing concern likely felt at some level by all who must write, the often unmet need to tell one’s story. Hamilton learns that he cannot control some key aspects of life that are very important to him: You have no control: Who lives, Who dies, Who tells your story? (Miranda and McCarter 2010, 280) We write to try to tell our story in our own words and in our own truth even while we all are, as Miranda’s Aaron Burr tells us, “running out of time” (Miranda and McCarter 2010, 143). The tempting power of writing in order to tell one’s story is evinced in the contemporary public’s phenomenal embrace of the play Hamilton. More than two hundred years after Hamilton’s death, his story is not only still being told but is now being more widely distributed than ever. The delicious irony of a twenty-first-century play about telling one’s story being, in effect, itself a freshly minted version of an eighteenth- century story has not been lost on Miranda and McCarter. In writing of Hamilton’s widow Eliza’s loving and valiant effort to tell her deceased husband’s story, Miranda and McCarter note: “Her whole life was to have her husband’s story told and we’re about to open this big honking Broad-
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way musical about him. On opening night . . . he [Miranda] realized that if Eliza’s strugg le was the element of Hamilton’s story that had inspired him the most, then the show itself was a part of her legacy” (277). Borrowing an image from the Hamilton script, Miranda and McCarter note that Eliza “had planted seeds in a garden that she d idn’t get to see, and one of them turned out to be Hamilton” (277). In telling Hamilton’s story, Eliza also tells her own story and Miranda then tells them both. And, we learn that writers will continue to plant seeds in a garden they will never get to see. Miranda and McCarter tell us not only of the drive to write that lies within many if not all of us but also of the need to share that writing with others. In words expressing a sentiment I not only feel deeply but also openly endorse, Miranda offers: “I’ve written something and I’m proud of it and I want to show it to the people I love” (169, side note 4). This is not only true of writing but of any passionate endeavor where human effort brings forth a result of which one is proud and which begs to be shared with others. In the Time essay “I Am Writing Blindly,” Roger Rosenblatt also attempts to explain why we write. He examines the case of the Russian naval officer Lt. Captain Dimitri Kolesnikov, who served on the doomed Soviet submarine Kurst. In 2000, after a series of explosions, the Kurst became trapped under the sea and was left powerless, helpless, and hopeless. Russian officials later claimed that the deaths of all 118 crew members had been instantaneous. Subsequent evidence indicated, however, that 23 of the Kurst crew members did not die instantaneously. They survived for some time in an isolated chamber. The most poignant proof of ying Kolesnikov’s written message of this is the later recovery of the d love to his wife (Rosenblatt 2000, 142). Rosenblatt reflects on this tragedy to speculate about why we write. While his explanation mostly focuses on tragic events such as Kolesnikov’s, I believe his explanation has a much broader application. Facing momentary, inevitable death, many of us will likely feel compelled to write. Why might this be so? There are others who even without confronting their dying moment are compelled to write. Why might this be so? Rosenblatt offers answers that respond to both of these questions. In reflecting on his own reasons for writing, he provides an insightful if
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humorously irreverent observation likely applicable to all writers: “I sometimes think one writes to find God in e very sentence. But God (the ironist) always lives in the next sentence” (Rosenblatt 2000, 142). Rosenblatt asserts that the hope of finding “God” is one reason people write. With some reservations, his answer resonates with me. I do not write in the conscious hope of finding God. Still, I do write (and read for that matter) in the hope of finding the meaning and purpose of life in the next sentence. I see a difference between Rosenblatt’s view and mine but, perhaps, we are saying the same t hing. My sense is I am not alone in feeling this way as I expect that many others write to find God or the purpose and meaning of life through their writing. Rosenblatt adds that we are drawn to writing because we are “a narrative species.” Our fundamental and existential need of human connection is often essentially fulfilled by our sending messages to one another. Rosenblatt writes: “We exist by storytelling—by relating our situations— and the test of our existence may lie in getting the story right” (142). I take from Rosenblatt’s words the meaning that the messages we provide to o thers fundamentally serve for us to connect with o thers and to help define who and what we are as human beings. The last statement Rosenblatt makes about why we write rings the truest to me. A fter trying his best to offer convincing reasons for why we write, he makes a humble retreat. He concludes that we really do not know and likely w ill never know completely why we must write and share that writing: “We have no clear idea of why we reach out to one another with t hese frail, perishable chains of words. In the black chamber of the submarine, Kolesnikov noted, ‘I am writing blindly.’ Like everyone else” (Rosenblatt 2000, 142). In the often black chamber of Earth, we are all likely writing blindly. Writers are like little c hildren playing at the beach. We diligently and carefully build our sandcastles, dig our canals, sketch images, and even write in the sand, literally and figuratively leaving our imprint. And yet unlike the children innocently dreaming the dreams of childhood, mercifully oblivious to the inevitable obliteration of time, we know our imprint will not last beyond the next tidal change. In an hour or so it will be lost forever. Still, like c hildren and Lt. Captain Kolesnikov, we go on. In writing, we assert the hope, however tenuous, that our imprint
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ill endure. Our story will be told. We will write it. We will share it. And, w we w ill connect.
✧ Essay 34. Concluding Statement The major themes we have examined in this book of connections and the work of Bruce Springsteen are music, politics, love, sports, and masculinity. We have also considered various subthemes including personal political development, critical patriotism, class, systemic racism and white privilege, depression, Democratic Socialism, the American Dream, community, models of masculinity, feminism, relationships, apocalypse sex, popular and classical culture, parenthood, the fleeting Glory Days, heredity, and the future. I trust that these themes and subthemes and their connection to Springsteen have registered with you and will continue to do so in your life. My assessment of these themes leads me to conclude that U.S. society has yet to reach not only the ideal but also even its own promises in regard to some basic and critical issues of humanity. Springsteen continues to hold out the hope that t here are really few limits to what we, specifically the p eople of the United States, but also including the people of the world, can be. Perhaps less confidently than Springsteen, I continue to share that hope. Springsteen calls upon us to be fair, h umble, caring, sharing, respectful, compassionate, and knowledgeable in our patriotism so that our leaders will use the power and wealth of the United States benevolently and wisely. He encourages us to try to do honest labor that serves society, to work passionately in our jobs if we can find such work. If we cannot, however, he encourages us to find enriching passion outside our jobs in creative and fulfilling work or avocation on our own time in order to improve and enrich communities and ourselves. Springsteen even challenges us to serve our community in our play, a play that can be so much more than soul-sucking individual consumption or even just an escape from our unimaginative jobs. He also tells us to remember, savor, honor, and share the “Glory Days” moments not only in our own lives but also in the lives of others, especially those we love and respect.
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Springsteen encourages us to be sensitive to new models of manhood and womanhood. He asks us all to seek to combine the best traits of both genders not so that men can become more like w omen or w omen can become more like men but so that men and women can become more decent, caring human beings. In this developing society, problems will be resolved and disputes settled not by a militaristic invoking of the demons within us but rather through appeals to the “better angels” residing within our souls. Springsteen also urges us to adopt and follow in all our actions the positive, loving message of most religious teaching. In doing this, however, we must not merely engage in the cold, formalistic rituals of religion that too often become not a path toward peace and understanding but an excuse for war and hatred. Springsteen believes in God as is readily evinced in his statement regarding Catholicism that “somewhere . . . deep inside . . . I’m still on the team” (Springsteen 2016a, 17). Despite this belief, he urges us to act as if God does not exist or at the least, to reject the position that God’s intervention is the only source of goodness in the world. In that existential spirit, he challenges us to live our lives as if any goodness in the world ultimately depends on what we do. Through a deeper understanding of the dignity of humanity, if for no other reason, we can become more forgiving, caring, loving h uman beings and learn to live together in harmony and peace. And finally, Springsteen invites us to strip away our fear, confusion, and alienation in order to find and embrace our special and unique individualism. Only in doing so can we grow to love and respect ourselves, our lovers, our families, our children, our community, our country, and our world as we have seen in the Stoics’ concept of ever-expanding circles of love. In these troubling days of political discord, the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic and its heightening of tensions, a realistic understanding of contemporary life in the United States and abroad might suggest that Springsteen’s call for a return to our “better angels” will fall on deaf ears. It is quite possible that in both domestic and global politics we will collectively never agree on the specifics of programs and policies that reflect our “better angels.” Still, is it not also possible for us to disagree over poli ecause we cies and programs while loving and respecting each other b understand our disagreements stem from a different interpretation of
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“better angels” and not from a repudiation of this approach as our guiding and unifying standard? As noted, my “better angels” lead me to desire a Democratic Socialist world in which the present income, wealth, and power in the United States and the other “have” nations of the world are shared more evenly and compassionately across the globe. Perhaps that is madness. Perhaps, that is naive. Perhaps, that is even a dangerous and wrong interpretation of the “better angels” approach. It is, nonetheless, my sincere voice ill probably always be my today in this country, at this time, and it w voice. I fully understand I do not take Bruce Springsteen or many of you along with me on this matter. Still, my distant dream is that in some future this sharing and compassion among all people will arrive as we all become citizens of the world. Let me close with some excerpts from Jim Cullen’s wonderful book, Born in the U.S.A.: Bruce Springsteen and the American Tradition, which speaks to the themes in Springsteen’s work. In a conclusion I generally share, Cullen notes: Indeed, the value of Bruce Springsteen’s art resides not in some vast, Promethean talent . . . but rather in his acuity in representing the people who populate his songs, p eople who have foibles and failings, but p eople who in the end constitute our last best hope for making this society work. At the same time, considered as a whole, Spring steen manifests a series of tendencies—his republicanism, his accommodation of personal and collective failures, his hope for his country, and his belief in something larger than it—which really do reveal better angels that at least coexist with lesser ones. (Cullen 1998, 201) Finally, I would like to respectfully disagree with the final sentence in Cullen’s book, where he writes, “When I listen to Bruce Springsteen, I remember how to be an American” (Cullen 1998, 202). As I hope I have shown in the preceding pages, my understanding of Springsteen’s desire to connect with o thers is not so geographically confined and l imited. In the Stoic tradition of expanding circles of love, he wants the connections to be universal. Accordingly, when I listen to Bruce Springsteen, I remember how to be a h uman being, a citizen of the world. It’s all about connection.
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I N DEX
Academy of St. Aloysius, Jersey City, NJ, 129, 133, 185 “Adam Raised a Cain” (song), 136, 197 Ali, Muhammad, 74 “All That Heaven W ill Allow,” (song) 178 “All the Way Home” (song), 33, 94 Alterman, Eric, 80; on Springsteen’s growth as a man, 217–218 American Psychological Association, 208–209 “American Skin (41 Shots)” (song), 30, 37, 119–124, 178 Antolini, Mr., 47 apocalypse sex, 179–182, 231 Appel, Mike, 11–17, 75–76, 214–216 Aquinas, Thomas, 4, 167 Ashe, Arthur, 209 Asif Ali Khan, 68 “Atlantic City” (song), 178 Atta, Mohamed, 4, 55 Avon, NJ, 127–132 “Baby Don’t” (song), 164 Backstreets (magazine), 139–141, 179, 181–182 “Backstreets” (song), 178 “Badlands” (song), 46, 49, 64, 73, 143, 177, 178 “Ballad of Tom Joad, The” (song), 28 Barber, James David, 150–151 Barreca, Gina, 158–159, 218 The Basket of Fruit (Caravaggio), 168 Bench, Johnny, 192 Berra, Yogi, 192 “Better Days” (song), 94, 178, 221 “Beyond the Sea” (song), 3 bin Laden, Osama, 56 Birnbaum, Norman, 109
Bittan, Roy, 12, 141 “Blinded by the Light” (film), 140 “Blinded by the Light” (song), 178 Bogart, Humphrey, 207, 218 Bolger, Dermot, 4 Bono, 23, 29–30 “Book of Dreams” (song), 178 Born in the U.S.A. (a lbum), 19–23, 68, 100, 103, 184, 217 “Born in the U.S.A.” (song), 21, 29, 44, 63, 65, 68–71, 101, 178 Born to Run (a lbum), 13–16, 19–20, 27, 90, 91, 100 “Born to Run” (song), 1, 63, 91, 143, 155, 162, 171, 178, 213; and adolescence, 46–49; and early reception, 12–13; as a romantic song, 143 Born to Run (Springsteen autobiography), 5, 7, 36–37, 72, 74–78, 198, 207, 218, 226; and Mike Appel, 75–76; and dealing with his and his f ather’s depression, 75, 83–85; and forthrightness and character, 75–78; and gifted writing, 74–75 Bourdain, Anthony, 116 Brando, Marlon, 218 “Brilliant Disguise” (song), 143, 155, 157–158 Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band Live/1975–85 (a lbum), 134 Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, 10–12, 23, 27–28, 187 Buchanan, Daisy, 126, 134 Buffett, Warren, 106, 113 The Burial of Saint Lucia (Caravaggio), 169–170 Burr, Aaron, 228 Bush, George, H. W., 28 Bush, George W., 30, 32–33
247
248 ✧ Index The Calling of St Matthew (Caravaggio), 168–169 Campanella, Roy, 192 Camus, Albert, 78 Caravaggio, Michelangelo Merisi, da, 4, 166–170, 172 Caravaggio: Painter of Miracles (Prose), 168–170 Caravaggio: The Complete Works (Schütze), 168 Carlin, George, 4, 174–176 Carlin, Peter Ames, 82 Carraway, Nick, 134 The Catcher in the Rye (Salinger), 47 Catholics and Catholicism, 9, 89–90, 105, 147, 167, 170, 172, 177, 232 Caulfield, Holden, 47 “Cautious Man” (song), 82, 161–162, 178 Chadha, Gurinder, 140 Charles, Ray, 33 Charleston, 140–141 Cheney, Dick, 32–34, 71 Chile, 114 Christ ianity, 108, 167, 170 Chrysler and “The Pride is Back” (Kenny Rogers), 71 Churchill’s black dog, 84, 93 Church of Springsteen, 177 Cirelli, Phil, 188–191 Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, 118 Class, depression and Springsteen, 83–86, 125 Class in the United States, 83–119; and hidden injuries of class, 96–100 Class warfare and Wrecking Ball, 100–106 Clemons, Clarence, 37, 52, 59, 75 Clinton, Bill, 28, 71, 107 Coach Casey, 191–193 Coates, Ta-Nehesi, 4, 121 Cobb, Jonathan D., 97–98 Cohen, Jonathan D., 6 Cohen, Leonard, 11 Columbia Records, 11–12, 14, 15, 20, 122 “Come Tomorrow” (Scialfa song), 163–164 Commager, Henry Steele, 22 connections and connecting, 1–6, 22, 27, 186–189, 196, 231–233
COVID-19, 2, 98, 232 Cowie, Jefferson, 111 Cox, Courteney, 20 Coyle, Peggy, 185 Cretecos, Jim, 11 critical patriotism, 66–67, 70, 124, 231 Cromwell, Oliver, 66, 81 “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” 53 “Crush on You” (song), 17 Cullen, Jim, 70, 106, 111, 165, 233 “Cynthia” (song), 127 Dahl, Robert, 42 “Dancing in the Dark” (song), 20 Dannenberg, James, 71–72 Darin, Bobby, 3 Darkness on the Edge of Town (a lbum), 16, 100 “Darkness on the Edge of Town” (song), 49, 50, 63 “Darlington County” (song), 20 Dean, James, 218 The Death of the Virgin (Caravaggio), 169 “Death to My Hometown” (song), 103–104 de Botton, Alain, 2, 91 Dedalus, Stephen, 4, 90 de Fortgibu, M., and synchronization, 186–187 Del Guidice, Richard, 180–182 Democratic Socialism, 106–119, 125, 231 De Palma, Brian, 20 Departures (Japanese film, Okuribito), 179–180 depression and Bruce Springsteen, 18, 42, 83–86, 164 depression and John Massaro, 42, 86, 94, 96, 158, 199 Deschamps, Émile, and synchronization, 186–187 Desilver Drew, 114 Devils & Dust (a lbum), 33, 166 “Devi ls & Dust” (song), 33 Devi ls & Dust Concert, May 19, 2005, 51 Diallo, Amadou, 119 DiFranco, Ani, 100 Dinerstein, Joel, 111 Dixie Chicks, 32
Index ✧ 249 DNA, 14, 125, 196, 199, 222, 226; and parenthood, 196–197 Dolan, Marc, 2 Doty, Mark, 52–53 “Dream Baby Dream” (song), 37 Dr. Zoom and the Sonic Boom, 10 Dylan, Bob, 4, 10, 11, 12, 19, 21, 102 “Earth Angel” (song), 166–167, 172, 173 “Easy Money” (song), 102 Economic Policy Institute (Report), 113 Eitzen, D. Stanley, 204, 211–212 Eliot, Marc, 76 Eminem, 141 “Empty Sky” (song), 55 Epstein, Jeffrey, 116 Erikson, Erik, 4, 45 Erikson, Joan M., 45 Esquire, 38, 213 E-Street Band, the, 16–17, 27–28, 33, 37, 38, 68, 87, 177; members, 11–12, 23–24, 155; re-uniting, 30, 120; The Rising, 30–32 fatherhood, 27, 137, 195–200, 213 fathers and daughters, 173–176, 183 fathers and sons, 134–146, 182–183, 195–200 Feagin, Joe, R., 121–122 Federici, Danny, 11, 37 feminist movement, the, 158, 202, 206, 216, 220 Finkel, Eli J., 159–160 Fisk, Carlton, 192 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 4, 126–127, 134 Fogelberg, Dan, 3 “Forbidden verses” (“This Land is Your Land”), 108–109 Forster, E. M., 1 Franklin, Aretha, 11 Freud, Sigmund, 17 Friedman, Milton, 118 Galbraith, John Kenneth, 114 Ganz, Patrick, 80 Gatsby, Jay, 126, 127, 134 General Foods/Maxwell House Coffee (Hoboken, NJ), 129, 132, 188 The Ghost of Tom Joad (a lbum), 28–29, 33, 62, 64, 69, 100, 108, 148, 165
“The Ghost of Tom Joad” (song), 37, 165 Gibran, Kahlil, 4, 198–199 Gilligan, Carol, 203 Ginger, Ann Fagan, 123 “Girls in Their Summer Clothes” (song), 131, 134 “Glory Days” (song), 20, 184–193, 201, 223, 231 God’s Little Devotional Book, 87 Goldsmith, Lynn, 81, 82; and confrontation at MUSE Concert, 1979, 214–216 “Grandpa Bruce?” 221 The Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck), 28, 142 The Great Gatsby, (Fitzgerald), 126, 127, 134 Greene-McNally, Ruth, 170 Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J. (a lbum), 12, 100, 165 Gross, Terry, 220 “Growin’ Up” (song), 46, 48 Guthrie, Woody, 28, 108 Hainey, Michael, 38 Hamilton (the play), 226, 228, 229 Hamilton, Alexander, 4, 226, 228, 229 Hamilton, Eliza (Schuyler), 228, 229 Hammond, John, 11 “Harlem (2)” (Langston Hughes’ poem), 102 Haynes, Bart, 69, 136 Hidden injuries of class, the, 97–100, 125 High Hopes (a lbum), 37, 84, 108 “Highway Patrolman” (song), 178 Hoboken, NJ, 86, 88, 129, 133, 188 Hoover, J. Edgar, 4, 153 Howe, Irving, 4, 114 Hughes, Langston, 4, 33, 102, 103 Human Touch (a lbum), 27, 28, 221 “Human Touch” (song), 52 “Hungry Heart” (song), 17 ideal model (of sports), the, 209–212 “If I Should Fall B ehind” (song), 52, 53, 178 “I’m a Rocker” (song), 17 “I’m on Fire” (song), 20 “Incident on 57th Street” (song), 144 “Independence Day” (song), 17, 136–137, 143, 197 individualism, 45, 48–50, 115, 232
250 ✧ Index International Ladies’ Garment Workers Union (ILGWU), 87 Iraq War, 32, 33, 34 Irving, Debby, 121 “I Wanna Marry You” (song), 160, 183 “Jack of All Trades” (song), 103 Jackson, Michael, 21 Jackson, Phil, 4, 209 Jersey City, NJ, 89, 129, 132, 207, 208 “Jersey Girl” (song), 131 Jersey shore, 126–131, 139, 208 Jesus Christ, 58, 167, 172 Joel, Billy, 4, 81 “Johnny 99” (song), 148–149, 178 Johnson, Dennis (“DJ”), 205 Johnson, Earvin (“Magic”), 205 Johnson, Lyndon, B., 152–153 Jolie, Angelina, 47 Jong, Erica, 175 Joseph, Martyn, 157 Joyce, James, 4, 49, 90, 92, 94, 132, 184 Jung, Carl, 3, 4, 179, 186, 187, 189, 223 “Jungleland” (song), 13 Juxtapositions in Springsteen’s lyrics, 59, 165, 171 Kalet, Hank, 33 Kalra, Viveik, 140 Kelly, Arthur, 35–36 Kelly, Valerie, 133 Kennedy. John F., 153 Kennedy Robert F., 131 Kerry, John, 32, 34 King, Steven, 86 Knight, Bobby, 205 “Kodachrome” (song), 134 Kolesnikov, Dimitri, 229–230 Kovic, Ron, 21, 72 “La Mer” (song), 3 Landau, Jon, 12–16, 21, 83 “Land of Hope and Dreams” (song), 54, 55, 105, 178 “Last to Die” (song), 34 “Leah” (song), 33 “Leap of Faith” (song), 178
Lerner, Michael, 97–98 “Let’s Be Friends (Skin to Skin)” (song), 56 Letter to You (a lbum), 38, 53 Little League Baseball, 188, 192 “Living Proof ” (song), 27, 54, 64, 165, 178, 208 “Livin’ in the Future” (song), 34 Lofgren, Nils, 52 “Lonesome Day” (song), 56 “Long Time Comin’ ” (song), 197 “Long Way Home” (song), 35, 67 “Loose Ends” (song), 225 Lopez, Vini (“Mad Dog”) 11, 12 love and politics, 50–62, 146–154 Lubrano, Alfred, 96 Lucky Town (a lbum), 27, 28, 108 Lymon, Frankie, 14, 15, 76 Magic (a lbum), 33–34, 35, 67, 101, 171 Manzoor, Sarfraz, 4, 139–146, 196 Mao Tse-tung, 4, 114, 156 Marcus, Greil, 13 “Maria’s Bed” (song), 33 Marsh, Dave, 214, 215 Masciotra, David, 110 masculinity, 17, 91, 191, 195, 200–221, 221–224 Massaro, Aries, 193, 195 Massaro, Frank, 88, 129, 130, 133, 137, 138–139, 202 Massaro, Irene (Cirelli), 42, 86–87 Massaro, Jeanne, 137, 188 Massaro, John, 196; and biographical material, 85–96; and Democratic Socialism, 111–119; and seeking and falling in love, 89–93; 126–134; and the traditional model of masculinity, 200–212 Massaro, John-Paul, 174–175, 199–200 Massaro, Kobi, 200 Massaro, Kyler, 200 Massaro, M Kimberlin (Hessman), 91–93, 94, 95, 96, 173, 189–191 Massaro, Palmo, 42, 87–89, 137–139, 202–203 Massaro, Valerie (Kelly), 133 Massimino, Andrew, 182 Masur, Louis P., 85, 116, 125 “Matamoros Banks” (song), 33
Index ✧ 251 Maxwell House Coffee, 88, 129, 132, 188 Maxwell’s Tavern (Hoboken, NJ), 188 Mayer, Mike, 14, 15 McCarter, Jeremy, 226–229 McCullough, J. J., 112 McKenna, Susan (Susie), 130–133 Meatloaf (rock star), 4, 215 mental illness. See depression and Bruce Springsteen; and depression and John Massaro Merolla, Marilisa, 96 Messner, Michael, 206, 210 Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, Newark, NJ, 87–88 Miller Stadium (West New York, NJ), 187–188, 189 Miranda, Lin-Manuel, 4, 226, 228–229 moderate patriotism, 66 Monmouth University, 40, 127 Moore, Michelle, 105 Morello, Tom, 37 Mother Teresa, 175 “Mr. Roth” (Philip Roth’s father), 87–88 Muller, Bobby, 21, 72 “My City of Ruins” (song), 61 “My Father’s House” (song), 136 “My Hometown” (song), 63, 103 Naismith, James, Dr., 194–195 Nathanson, Stephen, 66–67 nature versus nurture debate, 148–149, 197 Nebraska (a lbum), 18, 19, 28, 33, 73, 100, 101, 148 “Nebraska” (song), 64, 148, 165 Neisser, Phil, 180, 182 Nelson, Chris, 181–182 Nelson, Mariah Burton, 209 Nevins, Allan, 22 Newfield, Jack, 4, 66, 67 New York City, 61, 62, 86, 89, 121, 188, 207, 214 New York City Police Department, 119, 120 “New York City Serenade” (song), 48, 94, 144 New York Times, 31, 32, 37, 108, 113 “Night” (song), 90 Nixon, Richard, 4, 149–153 “No Surrender” (song), 142, 143, 178, 199, 200
Obama, Barack, 34–38, 107, 108, 123 “On Children,” (Gibran), 198–199; and Springsteen’s statement on children, 198–199 “One Step Up” (song), 155–157 “Only the Good Die Young” (song), 81 O’Reilly, Bill, 34 Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD), 113–114 Orren, Gary R., 111–112 “Out in the Street” (song), 17 Padavan, Frank, 40 Pakistan, Pakistani, 68, 139–146 “Paradise” (song), 59–61, 68 Pareles, Jon, 33 patriotism, 40, 43, 44, 60, 61, 66, 67, 68–71, 142, 231 Penguins, The, 4, 166 Pew Research Center Report, January 7, 2014, 113 Philadelphia (film), 28, 219 Phillips, Christopher, 139, 182 Phillips, Julianne, 22, 23, 24, 51, 141, 154–155, 162–164, 188, 216 Piaf, Edith, 3 Piazza, Mike, 192 Pitino, Rick, 205, 206–207 Play It As It Lays (Scialfa a lbum), 165 plum pudding, 186 “Point Blank” (song), 142 political socialization, 40–41, 45–66 politics, defined, 42–43 politics of lyrics, 43–45 Pope Francis, 151 Portland Press Herald, 44, 175 Potter, Sally, 4, 141–142 Presidential Medal of Freedom, the (to Springsteen), 37 Presley, Elvis, 13–14, 21, 29, 141 Primeau, Pat, 45 Prinze, Freddy, 116 profanity, 75, 214, 216; and in “Reno,” 33, 166, 171–173 Prose, Francine, 168, 169 Proust, Marcel, 2, 91
252 ✧ Index Quayle, Dan, 71 race, 119–124, 125 “Racing in the Street” (song), 49–50, 178 Rahat Ali Khan, 145 “Ramrod” (song), 17 Reagan, Ronald, 4, 18, 19, 28, 43–44, 63, 68–69, 101 Reinhardt, Django, 3 religion, 58–62, 145–146 “Reno” (song), 33, 166, 171–173 Rice, Grantland, 202 Rice, Susan, E., 123 Riley, Pat, 204–205 Rising, The (a lbum), 30–32, 33, 38, 55–62, 67, 68, 145, 178–180 “Rising, The” (song), 31, 38, 58–61 “Rocky Ground” (song), 105 Rolling Stone, 19, 36 Roman Stoics and personal political development, 46, 50, 53, 57, 232 Rome, Italy, 23, 39, 96, 155 “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)” (song), 178 Rosenblatt, Roger, 4, 226, 229–230 Roth, Philip, 87 Roy, Bruce (Buzzy), 176 Roy, Eli Massaro, 201 Roy, Grady Massaro, 201 Roy, Jasper Massaro, 221–223 Roy, Summer Massaro, 95, 174–177 Rumble Doll (Scialfa a lbum), 28, 162 Russell, Honey, 185 Sabo, Don, 210 sacred and the profane, the, 165–179 Salinger, J. D., 4, 47 “Same Old Lang Syne” (Fogelberg song), 3 Sancious, David, 11, 12 Sanders, Bernie, 110 Saint Lucia, 169 Santa Maria della Scala, 169 Sapienza, The University of Rome, 39, 96 Sawyer, June Skinner, 6 Sayles, John, 188 scholarship and Springsteen, 79–83 Schütze, Sebastian, 168
Scialfa, Patti, 4, 28, 35, 38, 51–52, 156–157, 173, 183, 188, 213, 220–221; bravery and honesty in Rumble Doll a lbum, 162–165; pregnancy, 26; Springsteen’s depression, 75–78, 83–86; and “Tunnel of Love” tour, 23–26, 155 Scott, A.O., 31 “Scumbag Bobby,” 146–149 “Secret Garden” (song), 90, 130 Seeger, Pete, 11, 108–109 Sennett, Richard, 97–98 Seno, Livedyxe, (“Seno”), 81–82 September 11, 2001 (or 9/11), 35, 67, 141, 144, 178–182; and The Rising, 30–31, 55–62 “Seven Dirty Words,” (Carlin), 174–176 Seymour, Elizabeth, M., 109–110 “Shackled and Drawn” (song), 102–103 “Shades” in Shades of Springsteen, explained, 4–5 “Sherry Darling” (song), 17 “Shock and Awe” (song), 104 Simon, Paul, 134 “Sinaloa Cowboys” (song), 64 Sinatra, Frank, 19, 21 Sisyphus, 78, 162 Smith, Bessie, 11 “Smith & Wesson 38” (song), 102 soccer, 176, 211 “Souls of the Departed” (song), 108 Spade, Kate, 116 “Spanish Dancer” (song), 164–165 “Spare Parts” (song), 146–151, 216 “Spirit in the Night” (song), 178 sports, 184–186, 187–195, 201–212, 221–224 Springsteen (Zerilli) Adele, 8–9, 41–42, 74, 220 Springsteen, Bruce, 165–174, 184–189, 195–199, 231–233; apocalypse sex and, 179–182; autobiography by Springsteen, 74–79; and awareness of his own shortcomings, 35; and biography, 8–38; building a peaceful world, 54–62; contract and settlement with Appel, 11–16, 76, 216; depression and class, 18, 24–26, 42, 83–85, 97–107; divorce, 23–24; early bands, 10–11; endorsement of Obama, 2008, 34–35; fathers and sons, 134–146;
Index ✧ 253 first guitar, 9, 26; Hall of Fame induction, 29–30; lyric changes in “The Wish,” 51; New York Times op-ed for Kerry, 32; and patriotism, 66–73; and politics, 106–111, 125, 146–154; potential grandfather?, 221–222; presentat ion of the American Medal for Freedom, 37–38; race and politics, 119–125; relationship with father, 8–9, 27, 134–137; reports of sexual indiscretions, 35–36; reuniting with E Street Band, 30; Springsteen and scholarship, 78–83; support for Obama, 34–35, 108–109; therapy, 22, 25, 42, 83–85; and teaching politics with, 39–66; traditional model of masculinity, 200–201, 212–221; violence in lyrics, 56, 103, 108; why write?, 226–227. See also specific albums, songs, personalities, and events Springsteen, Douglas, 8, 9, 27, 29, 42, 134–137, 143–144, 220; death of, 29 Springsteen, Evan, 26, 27, 38 Springsteen, Jessica Rae, 26, 38, 173–174 Springsteen, Pamela, 8 Springsteen, Sam Ryan, 26, 38 Springsteen, Virginia, 8 Springsteen on Broadway (Netflix film), 54, 59 Springsteen on Broadway (play), 38, 196 Springsteen Symposiums, 40, 78, 79, 127 “Springsteen the Bad?” 78–83 “Springsteen, Warts and All: An Existential Rock ‘n’ Roll Play in One Act,” 81–82 Steel Mill, 10 Stefanko, Frank, 5 Steinbeck, John, 28 “Stolen Car” (song), 17 St. Peter’s Prep, Jersey City, NJ, 89, 129, 185, 202 “Streets of Philadelphia” (song), 28 “Strippergate,” 206 students’ responses, assessments of Springsteen course, 48, 50, 62–65 Styron, William, 4, 75, 94 Sunkett, Golden, “Sunny,” 194 SUNY Potsdam College, 39, 41, 94–95, 180 Symynkywicz, Jeffrey, B., 57, 171, 173 synchronization, 3, 178, 184–188, 223 systemic racism, 121–124, 125
Takita, Yojiro, 179–181 Tallent, Garry, W., 11 Tchaikovsky, Peter Ilyich, 3 teaching politics with Springsteen, 39–66 “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” (song) 13, 46, 48–49 “The Boss,” 10, 38, 44, 141 “The Dead” (Joyce), 49 “The 1812 Overture,” 3 “The Fuse” (song), and apocalyptic sex, 179, 181–182 “The Lord’s Prayer” and Springsteen, 59 “The New Timer” (song), 108 The Penguins, 4, 166 “The Promise” (song), 16 “The Promised Land” (song), 108 The Rising (a lbum), 30–33, 55–62, 67, 68, 145, 178, 179, 180 “The Rising” (song), 31, 38, 58–60 The River (a lbum), 16, 17 “The River” (song), 17, 178; Springsteen’s introduction to, 134–136 “The Ties That Bind” (song), 17, 178 The Upstage, Asbury Park, NJ., 10, 11 “The Wall” (song), 108 “The Wish” (song), 9, 51, 220 “This Land is Your Land” (Guthrie song), and the forbidden verses, 108–109 “This Life” (song), 35, 165 Thriller (a lbum), 21 “Thunder Road” (song), 13, 16, 46–47, 48, 49, 143, 159, 171, 178 Time, 13, 30, 56, 179, 181, 226, 229 Time and Newsweek covers of Springsteen, October 27, 1975, 13 Tires Rushing By in the Rain (Joseph a lbum), 157 “Tougher Than the Rest” (song), 158–159, 178, 212–213, 216, 218 Townshend, Pete, comment on Born to Run, 13 Tracks (a lbum) 51, 225 Traister, Rebecca, 218–219 Trenet, Charles, 3 Trump, Donald, J., 7, 29, 44, 71, 98, 114, 116 Tunnel of Love (a lbum), 22–27, 146, 154–162, 165, 183, 212, 217
254 ✧ Index “Tunnel of Love” (song), 160 Tunnel of Love Tour, 1987, 23, 141, 155, 162 Twain, Mark, 81–82 Two Hearts” (song), 178 Union City, NJ, 86, 89, 127, 138, 188, 202 University of Louisville, 206–207 University of Rhode Island, 205 “Used Cars” (song), 63, 97–100, 178 University of Southern Maine, 39 “Valentine’s Day” (song), 165, 218 Vance, Carter, 219 Van Zandt, Steve, 11, 12, 16, 18, 52 Verba, Sidney, 111–112 Vietnam, 28, 34, 69, 71, 72, 108, 136, 153 Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall, 72 Vietnam Veterans of America, 21, 43, 72 Vietnam War, 21, 65, 69, 70, 71, 72, 152 Virgin Mary, the, 58, 90, 169, 172 Vulture, 218 Waits, Tom, 131 “Walk Like a Man” (song), 89, 212, 216 Warhol, Andy, 141 Warren, Elizabeth, 110 Wayne, John, 159, 207
“We Are Alive” (song), 105, 106 Weinberg, Max, 12 Wells, Maine, 39, 55 Werner, Craig, 5–6 West New York, NJ, 126, 187–188, 190–192 “We Take Care of Our Own” (song), 36, 101 white privilege, 121–125, 231 Whitman, Andy, 170–171 Whitman, Walt, 52–54 “Wild Billy’s Circus Story” (song), 48 The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle (a lbum),12, 100 Williams, Robin, 116 Wolff, Daniel, 165 Wolff, Edward, 114 Working on a Dream (a lbum), 35, 165 “Working on a Dream” (song), 35 “Worlds Apart” (song), 57, 68, 145 World Trade Center, 30, 55, 58, 144 Wrecking Ball (a lbum), 36–37, 100–106, 107, 102, 148 “Wrecking Ball” (song), 104–105 “Wreck on the Highway” (song), 17, 64–65 Young love, 126–134, 155, 182 “Youngstown” (song), 62, 69, 70, 139
A BOUT THE AUTHOR
John Massaro writes about politics and popular culture. He is a State University of New York (SUNY) Distinguished Teaching Professor, presently retired and living in Wells, Maine. He is the author of Supremely Political: The Role of Ideology and Presidential Management in Unsuccessful Supreme Court Nominations and Deflated Dreams: Basketball and Politics.