The Boss
In 1977, I heard Born To Run for the first time. Perhaps I had listened to the song prior to that, but I really heard it in 1977. I was struck by the line "Wendy, I want to let you in, I want to be your friend, I want to guard your dreams and visions." I found it to be one of the most amazingly powerful testaments to love. For some reason, those lines stuck to me, as I grew, knowing that I needed to feel such passion.
And that was what Bruce came to mean to me - passion. Every song was sung in full voice, every sentence jumped off the lyrics page as being expertly crafted. He meant more to me as a writer than a singer, but I was hooked. And then, I saw him perform. My first Bruce concert was in 1983 in Buffalo. For just about four hours, he played, sang, made me happy, made me sad, and then made me happy again. He told jokes, he danced, jumped, rolled across the stage, and sold me passion in an unbelievably heavy dose.
Just over a month ago, I saw Bruce perform in concert for the 22nd time. When he emerged and said "Hello," and yelled, "Is there anyone alive out there?" I felt alive again.
The concerts are shorter, but perhaps even more passionate. The gospel according to Bruce, as it's been referred to is a story of love, togetherness, faith, hope, and peace. The end of each show turns into a faith-filled revival that must make his old nuns flush with pride.
I bring all of this up because I saw a photo of Bruce yesterday, and I realized that he was much older. He no longer looked like a rock star, but was more of a father-figure. The lines in his face, and the gray in his beard reminded me that I have been following his career, singing right along, for thirty years. There have been no tragic stories. He's never been the subject of a scandal, or a drug bust. He has never made me feel as if I wasted even a dime on his music, or his concerts.
At one of his shows, I was seated behind the stage. When the lights went down, Bruce, who was obviously suffering from the flu, would blow his nose and spit into a bucket. He played for a little over three hours that night, and the rest of my family who was watching from the front, had no idea that he was sick. Passion.
My hero is getting old, but so am I, and what makes me smile as I write this, is that it has been one hell of a ride. "I believe in the love that you gave me, I believe in the faith that can save me, I believe in the hope and I pray that someday it will raise me... above these badlands."
And that was what Bruce came to mean to me - passion. Every song was sung in full voice, every sentence jumped off the lyrics page as being expertly crafted. He meant more to me as a writer than a singer, but I was hooked. And then, I saw him perform. My first Bruce concert was in 1983 in Buffalo. For just about four hours, he played, sang, made me happy, made me sad, and then made me happy again. He told jokes, he danced, jumped, rolled across the stage, and sold me passion in an unbelievably heavy dose.
Just over a month ago, I saw Bruce perform in concert for the 22nd time. When he emerged and said "Hello," and yelled, "Is there anyone alive out there?" I felt alive again.
The concerts are shorter, but perhaps even more passionate. The gospel according to Bruce, as it's been referred to is a story of love, togetherness, faith, hope, and peace. The end of each show turns into a faith-filled revival that must make his old nuns flush with pride.
I bring all of this up because I saw a photo of Bruce yesterday, and I realized that he was much older. He no longer looked like a rock star, but was more of a father-figure. The lines in his face, and the gray in his beard reminded me that I have been following his career, singing right along, for thirty years. There have been no tragic stories. He's never been the subject of a scandal, or a drug bust. He has never made me feel as if I wasted even a dime on his music, or his concerts.
At one of his shows, I was seated behind the stage. When the lights went down, Bruce, who was obviously suffering from the flu, would blow his nose and spit into a bucket. He played for a little over three hours that night, and the rest of my family who was watching from the front, had no idea that he was sick. Passion.
My hero is getting old, but so am I, and what makes me smile as I write this, is that it has been one hell of a ride. "I believe in the love that you gave me, I believe in the faith that can save me, I believe in the hope and I pray that someday it will raise me... above these badlands."
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