When I find myself in social situations that require an impromptu conversation starter, I usually begin with three quick personal facts: I'm from Norfolk, VA; I am one of the few people ever arrested for biking five miles naked on the Virginia Beach boardwalk; and I love Bruce Springsteen. For various reasons, I find that these three brief statements define my character fairly well. But if asked to elaborate on Bruce, I usually get flustered and distressingly inarticulate. So if you'll please indulge me this week, I'd like to put my liberal arts education to good use and offer a tribute to my hero.
Like many of you, I first heard Bruce Springsteen in the first grade when "Born in the U.S.A." blasted from every boom box and Rambo lunch boxes were all the rage. It wasn't until ninth grade, however, that I began to take The Boss seriously as someone that might fill some kind of personal need for guidance, even worship. I just couldn't get enough of his harmonica in "Thunder Road" or the wailing sax on "Jungleland." I realized that there was much more to his music than my early impressions of the bandana-clad superstar would suggest.
Perhaps I should begin by discussing the man himself. After all, how could anyone not love Bruce? By strapping on an old fender guitar and blasting out tunes about working-class heroes and hardships, Bruce single-handedly fused the sex of Elvis with the social consciousness of Bob Dylan. He further distinguished himself within this new American rock triumvirate by writing with brutal honesty, often singing about his disillusioned father, his failing marriage or his ailing hometown. His performances also mirrored his art. In an age of David Bowie and Queen, Springsteen was the only man who dressed like his fans. Even today he continues to change and mature with his followers, as demonstrated on his recent tour. While a 50+ year old Mick Jagger still sings about honky tonk women, Bruce relates more relevant stories about his wife and kids. It is this honesty that transforms his shows from musical concerts into religious experiences and assures the credibility of his art.
It might surprise some of you that many people consider Bruce Springsteen, the same man who danced in the dark with Courtney Cox, as one of the country's great artists. Bruce falls into that national poetic tradition first galvanized by Walt Whitman, who sang of railroad tracks and the open road in his "Leaves of Grass." Many of Whitman's contemporaries abhorred his verse, just as today many people might laugh at the suggestion that ballads about cars and migrant workers have any artistic value. But by singing about cars, Exxon signs and old factories, Bruce beautifies and sanctifies the world we all live in by imbuing the most common of American images with value. When I listen to Bruce, America seems somehow more precious, as if the anwers to my biggest questions can be found in "the engine of an old parked car," or for that matter, a leave of grass.
It is difficult to imagine talking about Springsteen without discussing the United States. He is, after all, as American as Budweiser and beef jerky. There is something undeniable in his music that says something compelling about us as a people. A literary critic once said that "to be an American is precisely to imagine a destiny rather than inherit one; since we have always been inhabitants of myth rather than history." While perhaps true for Horatio Alger, the Americans that people Springsteen's songs live in a more uncertain world of both myth and history. They have faith that "there's magic in the night," but also realize that "the door's open but the ride it ain't free." Like many Americans, Bruce's heroes are sustained by hope but constrained by the limits imposed by their past. It is this common struggle for redemption that Springsteen finds heroic, and his efforts to document this drama constitute a modern reinterpretation of the elusive American Dream.
I find Bruce Springsteen more worthwhile today than ever before. It seems like all I ever hear these days involves the valuation of the stock market or the development of a new palm pilot. Where's the passion in that? Everyone seems to be obsessed with making life faster and more efficient, rather than more sincere and meaningful. Bruce is all we have left, the only man daring enough to try for the great American novel or the epic rock anthem. He is everything we ought to strive for, a man whose personal life offers public instruction, and whose darkest moments are tempered by an intrinsic hope common to all Americans. I have no idea how one man offers such passion and promise, but I love him for it.
