Bruce Springsteen in Seventeen Pages
In the last decade-plus, I have come to think of Bruce Springsteen as massively overrated and regretted the day, many years ago, when I plopped down $3.98 for the Born to Run album.
The Boss? Please. The boss of what?
I’ll call him the little-d dude. The dude, so to speak, annoyed me with his clueless politics, but more so, because he too often sang like a man who hadn’t had a bowel movement in ten days and was in dire need of a stool softening product.
The Springsteen stuff I liked: Tenth Avenue Freeze Out, stuff he’d written like Blinded By The Light and Pink Cadillac, but especially Glory Days. Why Glory Days? Because it rang so true (without him sounding massively constipated) with a winking self-awareness about the older I get the better I used to be.
The Springsteen stuff I don’t like: the politics and the angsty, self-manufactured gritty Jersey working man slash tender and torn artist. The leftist pap while living like, literally, a rock star. Finally, the George Michael-like album cover (although all props to Freedom, perhaps the greatest music video of all time).
But if you’re down for a seventeen page read, you’ll come to realize, as I did, there is more to like (as well as more weirdness and contradiction) regarding Springsteen. And that Van Zandt guy? He has a powerful sense of observation and an eye (and turn of the phrase) to match.