Turns out Dani Shapiro and I feel similarly about the bromide everything happens for a reason. I’m a big fan of serendipity, of coincidence, of irony, of connecting the dots until it all comes full circle. But those five little words make my skin crawl.
Shapiro was reading from and discussing her new book, “Devotion,” at Porter Square Books Thursday. The book takes readers through her spiritual crisis and search for something to replace the Orthodox Judaism with which she was raised but tried to discard early in life. The audience looked mostly like my 91-year-old grandpa, and the man sitting in front of me fell asleep. But it was an interesting topic for me, one that I’ve struggled with as well, though clearly not to the same degree (I confine my quandary to periodic blog-length rants).
She read three of the 102 parts into which the book is divided. (Why 102? Why not. Yep, sounds like a Jewish upbringing.) Here’s what I heard: She began searching for greater meaning, direction and peace. She bought books she never read, attended classes, met with gurus. One day, a yoga instructor cited a poem that spoke to her, one that she just had to get her hands on. She identified the name of the poem and poet, ordered his book - and actually read this one. Later, after nearly canceling an appearance at a local charity literary event at the last minute, the man sharing her booth introduced himself. It was none other than the poet who’d inspired her.
The way all of our choices weave together, the cause and effect, the if this then that, seemed to be the point she stressed in her reading, if not the book. Still, she said, she doesn’t believe everything happens for a reason. When a woman in the audience asked whether Shapiro believed in karma, she ultimately responded “I believe what we do matters.”
Which was interesting even in the context of my attending her reading that night. I was there because a whole series of random events worked out just so. It started with some Twitter chit-chat about Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” video Wednesday that reminded me of Shapiro’s essay from the the book “The Show I’ll Never Forget: 50 Writers Relive Their Most Memorable Concertgoing Experience.” I recall it being one of the more evocative stories in the collection, in which the Jersey girl, a then-actress and model who grew up enamored with Springsteen, finally gets to see him only to feel withdrawn and isolated from her surroundings. But the story culminates with Shapiro’s reminiscence of an audition she’s called to at Brian DePalma’s house a few years later, where she meets the competition, a Southern belle named Courtney Cox. The audition was for “Dancing in the Dark.”
That’s likely the only piece of Shapiro’s that I’ve ever read and I never gave her much thought, so it was fortuitous that when I checked a schedule of upcoming local readings the following morning, I noticed she was stopping that night near my office. So I hoped to make it over even though I was zombie-tired and our crime reporter and I were already committed to a Chamber of Commerce event immediately before the reading. I ended up falling asleep on the conference room couch for a few, despite my reservations about the couch’s past activities, and woke up just in time to head to the mixer. Then, we mixed too much and hit a bunch of traffic on the way back, which made me 10 minutes late for the reading. I almost headed home under the assumption that it had already begun and I’d be interrupting. Shapiro, however, was about 15 minutes late.
The reading was interesting enough to make me want to a) re-read that essay about her audition now that I’ve seen her in the flesh, and b) read her previous memoir which explains a lot of tragedy that was alluded to. I couldn’t find the former and was disappointed to find cobwebs in that section of an otherwise gorgeous library. I did pick up the memoir “Slow Motion,” though and I’m already wincing.
While farting around the interwebs yesterday afternoon in search of - what was I looking for again? - I noticed that Steve Winwood was playing the MGM Grand Theater at Foxwoods. I bought a ticket on a whim, hoping I wouldn’t regret the distance (almost two hours), the traffic (no pun intended), the money (actually quite reasonable).
I can’t fairly claim disappointment, but I will say this: never in my life have I longed for a three-minute pop song as much as I did last night. I appreciate talented musicians as much as the next gal, but I also savor great lyrics and vocals. Words and music. I know, I’m a walking Eddie and the Cruisers trailer. No matter how good the musicians - and these guys were phenomenal - 20-minute jams are not likely to hold my attention for the duration; unless, maybe, they are performed by the E Street Band. Winwood and his band were on the stage for about an hour and forty five minutes, and they probably played fewer than 10 songs. I should have expected that, but…
“Higher Love,” “Dear Mr. Fantasy” and “Gimme Some Loving” made it worthwhile. All three were tacked on at the end, by which point all the people with too few teeth or too much hair had left, giving me more dancing room. And Winwood’s current touring band, which I know nothing about, definitely impressed. One guy easily switched between sax, clarinet, flute, organ throughout the night, while also adding backing vocals.
The drive wasn’t too bad either, and while I’m not a gambler, I find casinos fascinating. They remind me of the Jersey Shore. You get the impression none of these people owns a full-length mirror - too-tight outfits, hairdos that never made it out of the ’80s, gaudy jewelry and the stench and discoloration of stale smoke. You can see why I jumped at the opportunity, yes?
The crowd seemed filled with people who barely knew who Winwood was, but needed some entertainment after a rough day of gambling. There were a few hardcores, but not many. I saw Winwood on two other occasions in the past year and a half - though he wasn’t the biggest draw on bill for me either time. Once with Clapton, and the second time, which took me a little while to recall yesterday, with Tom Petty. (Initially, I was thinking it was Jackson Browne, whom I also saw with Petty, so we come full circle. Don’t argue - this makes sense in my head. Dude, I seriously need to sleep more.) They were both great shows, hence my trek last night. Glad I went, but it doesn’t make any of my “best” lists.
A couple of nights ago, I caught the last 20 minutes or so of “Man on Wire,” a great documentary about the infamous funambulist Philippe Petit, who walked the wire between World Trade Center towers. I’m left with some of the same questions I had when I saw it in the theater. For one, how did Petit and his co-conspirators finance their unusual lifestyle? And how did he manage to find the only men in New York who sound precisely like the stereotype? I lived my first 18 years in Brooklyn and Staten Island, and I don’t know anyone who sounds quite so… New York.
But mostly, I’ve been ruminating on how a person develops that sort of passion. I don’t mean that degree of passion, though that fascinates me, too - but how do you learn that walking on a taut, absurdly thin wire, hundreds, thousands of feet in the air will do it for you? Where does that desire come from?
I don’t know. I have my passions, too, I suppose - music and literature - which are significantly and pleasingly less likely to claim my life. How often do people die in bookstores? But also worth considering - how often do I branch out to discover something new? Not very. So, I’ve made myslf a promise: for the foreseeable future, I will spend one day a week in a new environment or doing something I’ve never done before. Day trips. Or partial-day trips. Learn something new, experience something different. Not terribly important what it is. I’ve already begun this mission, sort of. Last weekend, I spent an afternoon in Portsmouth, N.H., which is a mere 75 minute ride, but a first for me. Highlights? River Run, a fabulous independent bookstore and an Bull Moose, an expansive music store where a staff member burst into a vocal performance for the benefit of some enthusiastic teenage girls. The weekend before, I drove about an hour to Newburyport, Mass., where I’ve admittedly been a few times, but not often. Favorite part? Dyno Records. I’m so predictable. Small steps, though, right?
My immediately family is rarely collected in one room. With the parental units in NYC, the bro in Portland, Ore., and me in Boston, we only gather once or twice a year. So, between Christmas and New Year’s we decided to meet nowhere near the middle: Florida. Learned a lot.
- It’s hard to believe my hippie brother and I came from the same womb. He hangs out on private frolf (no, that’s not a typo) courses maintained for free for the benefit of society by individuals who say things like “My path is one of service.” He seems to believe in big business conspiracy theories, probably uses more sunblock than every personal hygiene product combined and has an unnatural fear of plastic, pesticides, or corn-fed anything in his home. He sulked for a while because one night we asked him to wear a button down shirt that wasn’t torn and suggested my desire to check e-mail once a day constituted a higher than average internet need. Worst of all, he told me Springsteen only made three great albums - his first three - and should have quit after that because rich men can’t write good music. It took most of the week for us to finally arrive at the common ground of Old Crow Medicine Show and the Avett Brothers.
- There’s an aura surrounding places like South Beach as a whole or fancypants Miami Beach hotels that makes me feel actively ill. It’s not just that I don’t like the glitz and glam, but it actually turns my stomach. That didn’t stop me from dragging my peeps over to the Fountainbleau to see the Max Weinberg Big Band debut. Cute to watch a rock star’s family act a little like… mine. His kids dutifully followed their mom into the lobby bar looking slightly uncomfortable as they shook hands with the requisite people. His son hung out with the guys, whom appeared to be family friends, while his daughter sat with their mom and took pictures of dad and the band.
- A disproportionately large number of gorgeous Indian women in spectacular saris can at least partially make up for dragging one’s family to events they do not care to attend. So can a lot of alcohol, which we never even got to come New Year’s Eve. If you’ve seen one New Year’s ball drop, you’ve seen ‘em all. Going to bed at 11:30 p.m. is fun, too. It feels rebellious.
- To the best of my understanding, Florida has contributed shockingly little to American culture. We tried to assemble a list - stripmalls, condo-ization, little pink houses - but none of them actually originated in Florida. After rednecks, we had nothin’.
- I’m afraid of flying. This happened recently - within the past year or so - and without any conscious thought. One day I flew, relatively undisturbed by the process, and the next time I boarded a plane I was convinced I was going to die. These four flights to get to and from Ft. Lauderdale were particularly painful, not to mention embarrassing. When you put the death grip on your armrests and close your eyes at every bump, people notice. The fear hasn’t deterred me from doing anything I wanted yet, but I need to somehow nip this in the bud before it does. Also, as far as flying goes - if you plan to tweet about your distaste for sitting next to breastfeeding babies on a plane, be prepared for the onslaught of the angry mommy mafia. They’re relentless.
- Jai-alai is a very funny sport. I can’t say why, it’s just inherently funny. It’s also, apparently, far less popular than it used to be. We showed up about 20 minutes before the first game and were the only ones there. By the time we stood for the National Anthem, I took an approximate headcount: 25. It filled up a bit later in the evening, but I think that’s only because they stopped charging admission. Aren’t we in a recession? Shouldn’t there be gamblers galore?
- I have superhuman hearing. Sometimes when I lift the phone receiver to my bad ear, I can’t tell that anyone is talking. But I find the fam watches television at volume levels that make me want to put my hands over my ears and rock back and forth. I’m also an excellent driver. Slow on the driveway. On Sundays. When I set the TV volume, the parentals can’t hear a thing and even the bro sits forward in his chair. I can also hear cell phones ringing from several rooms away, even when tucked inside a purse.
- Seven full days in close quarters with my family and no vehicle is essentially a hot poker to the eye situation. Had a great time, was glad to go home.
I used to think I had an amazing memory. How many people can recall verbatim of an inconsequential conversation they had 15 years ago? Remember the location, the body language and the voice, too? As a kid, my mom’s storytelling often irked me because it lacked detail, and in the retelling, she’d put words in people’s mouths that they’d never use. The stories were completely accurate, but sort of misleading.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve lost some of the precise recall. Sometimes I can remember verbatim - for a few hours. Then, unless I write it down, I’ll remember something close but with corrected grammar, maybe a changed article.
With my passion for live music, you’d think I would at least remember details of my favorite shows. You’d be wrong. It always intrigues me when other fans can account for every song in a musician’s catalogue: heard it live vs. must hear before I die. I assume a lot of them have awesome spreadsheets, but I secretly believe some of them just know. Me? Apparently not so much, unless it’s a true rarity.
So when Pete over at Blogness on the Edge of Town asked a few of us to participate in his Decade of Bruce panel - naming the best tour and personal best show of the oughts - I started thinking back.
Around the same time, Dave tweeted about an incredible setlist from a Springsteen show he saw in D.C. in ‘99. I also saw Springsteen in D.C. in ‘99, but wasn’t sure on which of three nights, or what he played. Curiosity got the best of me and I was able to dig up my ticket stub and look up the setlist. A few surprises there, including “Point Blank,” which I was pretty convinced I’d heard for the first time this summer in Mansfield. I do remember it being a damn fine show - which is more than I can say for my memory of the guy who took me there.
Years later, I’m typically left with a recollection of my final thoughts after the encore, which are pretty consistent from show to show: That. Was. Amazing. And then: Again!
A few years ago, a photo of Bruce Springsteen ran in my newspaper’s arts section. The photo, really. I clipped it out and tacked it to my cubicle wall. It’s followed me to at least three cubicles in two different cities.
It’s in black and white, and beautiful even on years-old, yellowing newspaper. It shows a tank top-clad Bruce caught in a dramatic moment - knees bent as he leans toward his audience, eyes wide, mouth agape, soaked hair matted to his forehead. His guitar is slung across his chest, with his left hand on the neck and a pick in his right. It was taken during a show at the Worcester Centrum in 1984. Somewhere in the back of my mind I always imagined it was taken by a fan, not someone just trying to make a buck.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago when Lawrence Kirsch let me know a contributing photographer for his new Springsteen book, “The Light in Darkness,” hailed from Somerville, my current newspaper’s territory. That gave me a great opportunity to legitimately perpetuate my thinly-veiled musical agenda at work. I was also glad for the opportunity to help get word out since friends Pete at Blogness on the Edge of Town and Dave at Wings for Wheels had contributed to the project as well.
But imagine my surprise when that photographer turned out to be Ron Pownall, the man whose photo had been staring me in the face for years. Pownall’s had a distinguished career as as a rock ‘n’ roll photographer - shooting album covers, posters, T-shirts, designing tour programs and functioning as a photo archivist - for musicians like Aerosmith, Boston, The J. Geils Band, Ted Nugent, Meatloaf, the list goes on. It took a couple of weeks to catch up with him, only to learn his involvement was as minimal as saying “OK” when Kirsch asked if he could use one of his photos - thereby crushing my hopes for this particular story.
But when talking to someone with the fascinating career he’s had - story or no story - a girl has questions, ya know? I wanted to hear more about Aerosmith’s “family spat.” Or how their management asked Pownall to never release photos of the band smiling. But mostly, he wasn’t getting off the phone without telling me his favorite Springsteen story. His voice perked up a bit.
“Oh, I have a neat story that shows what a nice, down-to-Earth guy he is,” Pownall said.
It was 1977 and Pownall had just shot a Springsteen show at the Music Hall - now the Wang Center. He was hanging out backstage when he mentioned he had to drop off a package at the airport - storyboards for a tour program he was producing that needed to get to Aerosmith’s management in New York.
“Bruce said, ‘Hey, man, I’ll take it down for ya,’” Pownall said. He protested at first, but at the Cambridge Hyatt later that night, Springsteen insisted.
“He delivered it the next day,” Pownall said, with a hint of laughter in his voice. “Bruce is my delivery boy. He’s just a very human, very delightful guy.”
I decided to head to Brickbottom Open Studios Saturday, in which Pownall was participating, to check out more of his work and introduce myself. A framed, poster-sized print of the photo in my cubicle faced me when I walked in. It was for sale: a mere $3,500. It’s one of Pownall’s favorites, too. He likes it so much, in fact, that he’s stopped licensing the image for commercial use - it’s now only available to collectors.
Though his attention seemed permanently pulled in a million divergent directions, he indulged me in more stories, always carefully explaining - not condescendingly so - the history for the benefit of our 30-plus year age gap. He ran around his studio reaching for artifacts to reinforce his tales, showing me equipment, letting me thumb through old tour programs while he made deals with other visitors.
Eventually I had to ask what I’d always wondered and he responded: “I’m a total fan.” It started in 1974 when Pownall first saw Springsteen at “a little 800-seater in Providence,” at the urging of guitarist David Landau, his friend and the brother of Springsteen’s manager Jon Landau. “It was before he was really of any notoriety. David said, ‘You’ve gotta see this guy my brother knows,’” so they both headed to the show with their girlfriends.
From that point on, Pownall would call Bruce’s office anytime he wanted to shoot a show and they’d provide credentials. But the culture changed in the 1980s and by the time that ‘84 Centrum show came around access was drying up. They offered Pownall tickets instead of credentials for one of the shows - and he came out with some of the best Springsteen photos he ever took. He and a friend showed up with equipment strapped to their ankles and the shots were taken somewhat surreptitiously from the eighth row, center. He didn’t even risk taking shots until halfway through the show because he didn’t want to risk getting the boot. The better shots, he said, came from the better angle. He didn’t have to shoot straight up from directly in front of the stage that time.
“It was also probably a little exciting,” he said smiling, shaking his head. “Bruce saw me - I’d know him for 10 years at this point.
“The business has become so corporate, it’s hardly rock ‘n’ roll anymore,” Pownall said. “Back then, they’d never make you leave. You’d sit on the side, they’d say ‘we have a place for the press - you can watch the show when you can’t be up front shooting.’ Now, you can drive to Worcester and shoot two songs and they escort you out of the hall.”
Before I left, Pownall grabbed a small, framed photo of Aerosmith. The band was sitting around a table in their managers’ office, pouring over storyboards. It was taken a few weeks after Bruce had delivered them.
If you’re any kind of fan of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, the first few minutes of last night’s history-making show should have blown your mind. It wasn’t just the music or even the concept (though the very thought of The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle played in its entirety reduced me to a shrieking mess when announced). It was actually Springsteen’s introduction to the festivities that had my mind reeling.
When they hit the stage 75 minutes late thanks to paperless ticketing snafus (the biggest Will Call clusterfuck I’ve ever seen) I expected the band to launch right into the first song with maybe a quick “Good evening New York City” or “Is there anybody alive out there?” from Bruce, but he instead took a minute to set it up. After two years on the road he wanted to make the last few shows really special, wanted to try something that, as noted later, had “never been done before.” (We’re well aware, Bruce.) He wasn’t shy about reminding us that WEISS, a mixture of Jersey scenes and his fantasies of NYC, barely sold when it was released in 1973.
They started with what he called a rarely played outtake from WIESS (later released on Tracks). Well her brains they rattle and her bones they shake. There it was. “Thundercrack.” Baby’s back.
Bruce and the band rocked our faces off for the next several minutes with a blistering version of the song. I watched people turn in shock to whomever they came with, their eyes bugging out of their heads, their hands fluttering in front of their mouths. The screaming and jumping followed.
I tried not to let anything else permeate my brain while they performed it, but it was a staggering thought. In minutes, he generated this response with a song that wasn’t deemed good enough for an album that no one bought. That’s actually an incredible legacy to have as a musician and songwriter. Your so-called lesser work can still make 20,000 people clutch their chests.
He could have played “Mary Had a Little Lamb” for the next four slots and I wouldn’t have uttered a complaint. I didn’t want to wish away the evening, especially given my fear that it might be the last E Street Band show I ever saw, but I was ravenous for “The E Street Shuffle.” I’ve heard all of the songs on the album live before, but together?
He and the band kept us waiting while they played a solid “Seeds,” “Prove It All Night,” “Hungry Heart,” and “Working on a Dream.” During “Hungry Heart” Bruce ran out for some crowd-surfing. But for the first time (that I’ve seen) he aborted an attempt when folks seemed unable to hoist him. He ran further into the audience and when the next group started to lift him he asked “You got me?” He continued singing as fans mauled him.
Before I knew it, the moment arrived. In particular, I’ve heard “The E Street Shuffle” several times before, but knowing the six songs that were to follow cast it in a new light. My uncle - my concert buddy - squeezed my shoulder. I wondered how they’d pull it off. There’s a lot of the late Danny Federici on WIESS, which could prove both technically and emotionally difficult to play. Would they play the album to a T or mix it up? Would casual fans be converted or would they sit, miffed and chatty, until “Glory Days”? I looked around but couldn’t spot a bored face.
When “The E Street Shuffle” turned into “Sandy,” the celebratory tone turned solemn. Unc looked over at me. “Are you ferklempt?” he asked, giving me a quick hug. Silly as it may sound, I was. I tried to imagine what went through their respective minds as they played the song most closely associated with Federici. In particular, I wondered about Roy Bittan, who was not yet an E Streeter when the album was released, but filled in on some of Danny’s parts. The most intense version of “Kitty’s Back” I’ve ever heard followed.
Then - get this - a tuba appeared on stage. A tuba! I imagined “Wild Billy’s Circus Story” might be a tough sell for the non-diehards, but you can’t argue with a tuba. Impossible. It might be one of the greatest things to ever happen at a rock concert. (Unc: Where’s the tuba? I don’t see it. Me: Sure, it’s easy to miss a tuba.)
The whole album is amazing and the performance of it was like the best mix tape you’ve never made. Festive and larger-than-life to somber, sexy to raucous, romantic to pensive. For that hour, emotions easily bended to the band’s notes.
Never more so than during the portion I’ve waited all my life to hear: the Incident on 57th Street-Rosalita-New York City Serenade trio, which was strung together beautifully by Bittan’s piano. When we first arrived I noticed a whole bunch of seats and music stands at the back of the stage, making it look like a high school orchestra set-up. Ultimately, and I couldn’t even tell you when, full horn and string sections appeared. Like magic. The fact that “New York City Serenade” is about as long as the unpopular “Outlaw Pete,” and far slower was irrelevant. I anticipated having to shush talkers at some point but everyone’s attention was rapt. The song just washed over us. Cheesy as it may be to say, it brought on a complete, unadulterated sense of joy. What more can you ask for from music?
The WIESS performance as a whole was close enough to the album - one of the most beautifully arranged in history - to remind you why you were there but reinvented to acknowledge three and a half decades have passed since its release. How do you sit down and write a record like that? I know Springsteen didn’t do alone - there were band members, producers, engineers. But those transitions, that emotion, the characters, the plot… To be that good at a craft, any craft, is almost unfathomable to me.
What came next? A well-deserved rest, for us, in the form of my setlist nemesis, “Waiting on a Sunny Day,” replete with adorable kid singing a verse before awkwardly screaming “Take it, Big Man!” while all the adults laughed. I think I can speak for 20,000 people when I say we needed a couple of minutes to sit down, collect our emotions and let the previous seven songs marinate. Maybe it was sheer brilliance on Bruce’s part to play a filler there. But for future reference, I’m begging, pleading - Make. It. Stop.
The requests portion of the evening brought the unexpected NYC treat “Does This Bus Stop on 82nd Street?” I haven’t heard it in a while and it was great to get something off of Greetings from Asbury Park.
But the requests also gave us “Glory Days,” which Bruce dedicated to the Yankees, several of whom got a shout-out by name. It was cute, and Springsteen swung his guitar at Little Steven’s imaginary pitch. But if I ever find the sorry bastard who brought a “Glory Days” request sign to a Springsteen show, I will make sure they are never seen or heard from again. Capiche?
And while it’s completely preposterous to bitch about even a moment of this show, let me say, not for the first time - “Lonesome Day”? Perfectly good song. But The Rising is an album full of mostly better songs. Why won’t he play any of them? And once again, nada from Magic (Or Working on a Dream, for that matter).
But we did get a terrific version of the oft-maligned “Human Touch,” which brought Patti center stage, where she and Bruce traded intense stares for several minutes while their voices melded beautifully. (Which reminds me - does Patti have friends? I only ask because no one stopped her from wearing that outfit with the leather pants.)
While there was a momentary letdown following the WIESS portion of the show, Springsteen pulled us right back up by the bootstraps and topped off the evening with a guest appearance by Elvis Costello (whom he almost took down, walking away with Elvis’ mic cord stuck on his guitar neck). He joined Bruce and crew for the E Street Band’s latest signature song,”Higher and Higher,” which I hope they continue performing, roughly, forever.
Unc: Why aren’t we going tomorrow? Then: Oh, sorry. That was like waving crack in a junkie’s face.
I didn’t get back to my fam’s house following the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s first of two anniversary shows until well after 3 a.m. I was recovering the next afternoon, trying to finish some work and getting ready to head out for round two when I heard the best rumor ever: Patti Smith would make a guest appearance at the show and Springsteen would return for the second night.
My uncle, my usual concert buddy when I’m in New York and environs, told me not to get my hopes up; it was just a rumor, it might not happen. By “it” he wasn’t just referring to the pair showing up, but to an anticipated performance of “Because the Night,” which they co-wrote. I’ve never heard the song performed. By anyone. Ever. (Well, OK, except Faux Bruce.)
“Too late, it already happened in my head just now,” I told Unc, a line he mocked in fits of laughter for the rest of the night.
We headed to the show from his place in Brooklyn with about 90 minutes to spare. It should take less than half that time to get there. But an accident on the BQE messed up the whole city, or at least the B and the Q. Traffic was snarled as far as the eye could see and we were still in Brooklyn just minutes before showtime. We ditched the car, jumped on the subway and arrived at Madison Square Garden near the end of Aretha Franklin’s set (I was hoping she’d wear the ginormous hat).
During Jeff Beck’s stand-in set for Clapton (perhaps more on his phenomenal set, among others, after I get reacquainted with real life), I found my seat next to a sweet, middle-aged foreign couple taping bits of the show. It may be paranoid to assume Smith could have played during Aretha’s set, but just ’cause I’m paranoid… “Who’s that?” the woman asked me in return.
Meanwhile, an incredibly drunk woman came and sat directly in front of her. It was the first row of our section up in God’s country. She started rocking out with Metallica, screaming and flailing about - blocking our view, ruining the sound and generally irking everyone around her. We all exchanged irritated looks. The woman next to me put her foot out in a faux attempt to kick the pain in the ass over the balcony. I half feared, half hoped the drunkard would fall overboard of her own volition. There were some close calls.
Metallica’s set ended and I could feel the U2 hysteria in the air. Truly, hysteria is the only word that covers it - which is an interesting thing to watch when you’re one of only half a dozen people on Earth who isn’t a fan. I was horrified at the prospect of hearing Bono speak about, well, anything, but if Smith and Springsteen were to show at all, it would be during his set. When Bono said the band would play a song they wish they had written, I knew the time had come - and out they came. I popped up from my seat without thinking. Suddenly I was the hysterical flailing chick. (Sorry, section neighbors!) The music started and there was some feedback from Smith’s mic (one of many technical problems at the two shows). She jumped back and then, oops, missed her cue.
Everyone seemed to be looking around, a little confused; I mean everyone on stage, not just the audience. Honestly? I didn’t care because I finally got to hear my song. It ended and after a couple of seconds of looks and whispers on stage, they launched into it for a second time. They didn’t get it exactly right on the second try either, but leave it to Springsteen and his guitar to distract everyone from double public fuck-ups. At first I was amused by the replay, that they just had to get it right, but then I realized it was for HBO’s sake. Again, who cares? I got to hear “Because the Night” twice in its entirety.
When it was over and I was still basking in the afterglow, the woman next to me tapped my arm. “Is she from 10,000 Maniacs?”
You’ve no doubt already read many accounts of last night’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s 25th anniversary show, so I won’t go into a play-by-play. Which is convenient, because I doubt I could remember that level of detail, and none of us has time for that. Instead, let me share what resonated most.
The show was divided into four sets, led by respective “curators” Crosby Stills and Nash; Paul Simon (and Art Garfunkel, sort of); Stevie Wonder; and Bruce Springsteen. Each of the four artists invited a variety of guests to play bits of their set.
There was a bevy of awe-inducing performances, but it wasn’t really a show until Springsteen and the E Street band hit the stage. I don’t say that because they’re my favorite band. It’s just fact. So many music legends played for hours before his set began. They recreated, mimicked, blended sounds of the past. They played in combinations I never imagined seeing, represented pieces of music history the roster didn’t reflect, added nuance and imbued the music with new inflection and experience - but they were performers more than entertainers. In the end so many of the performances seemed sterile and pre-fabricated. I didn’t feel, or at least think, of it that way as I watched and listened, and I know that’s a strange thing to say about a show I enjoyed so fully. But each performer would jump on stage, wow some people with songs that made them or the music famous, then go off to live their own lives.
And then there was Springsteen. With him, you got the impression that the stage is his life. He was the headliner and therefore, I imagine, allotted more time, but I can’t help thinking he played as long as he wanted to play. His set didn’t begin until most shows end: about 11:45 p.m., and he went on to play for an hour and 45 minutes. That’s longer than many artists’ standard show, but this was just Springsteen’s way of topping off a night full of dazzlers. He wasn’t reining in the theatrics for anyone, and he owned the stage like no one else. As usual, he looked like he was having the time of his life doing it.
Some other random thoughts from last night:
Rumor had it the show would last 4.5 hours. We knew Springsteen would be last and he didn’t end the show until 6 hours later, but that didn’t stop people from screaming “Bruuuuuuuce” at 7:30 p.m.
I’d never seen Crosby, Stills and Nash live and I was a little disappointed. They sounded great, their voices are as good as ever, but I didn’t have to pick my jaw up from the floor.
Jackson Browne only played one song with CSN but James Taylor played two? Hello, McFly??
Art Garfunkel turned out to be the cute one. Go figure. Crosby, Stills and Nash have not aged gracefully, and Jackson Browne looks like he’s taken a beating this year. Paul Simon’s sickly appearance actually shocked me. Garfunkel may not have dazzled anyone back in the day, but he’s remained intact while everyone else fell apart.
Simon and Garfunkel brought Madison Square Garden to its feet for the first time all night. They were actually the only act to play an encore, or at least a version of one. I got chills when they hit the “Sail on” verse of “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Actual goosebumps. Not even Springsteen played an encore; he just informed us at one point that he would continue playing. No arguments there.
There’s something bizarre but fun about thousands of people simultaneously screaming “You can call me Al.”
Could you imagine being at a show where Stevie Wonder is the weakest link? Neither could I until last night. It wasn’t that MSG couldn’t get his microphones working for a while, or that they actually never got the sound right for his set. It was just missing something and I could easily have done without the entire first half. He kept asking us if we were ready to “turn this mother out.” I used context clues, but I don’t actually know what that means. Then he played ”The Way You Make Me Feel,” and asked the audience to repeat mantras like “We love Michael Jackson,” and “Long live Michael Jackson,” and that’s when things got awkward. People stopped repeating, but he kept asking. It picked up when B.B. King and Jeff Beck joined him briefly, and though I know I’m supposed to be excited that Sting played, I could think of nothing but his beard.
My uncle went seat-surfing as usual, but the rest of us weren’t having it. A woman near the VIP section told him the seat next to her was taken but he could sit until her companion returned. Shortly thereafter, Professor Roy Bittan claimed his seat. Dustin Hoffman and Michael Douglas were sitting nearby as well.
Another rumor was that Billy Joel was going to open the show. There was a piano on the stage, but after Tom Hanks’ opening remarks and a video montage of Rock Hall of Fame inductions, Jerry Lee Lewis hit the stage. Normally that’s a euphemism, but I had some concerns. The man looked like he might fall off the piano bench at any moment and I was somehow sure that if he did, the piano would continue on without him. He played a single song and left.
Instead, Joel was one of Springsteen’s guests and played a good chunk of his set. What a weird, yet obvious combo. Did I mention weird? The ultimate in cool with the ultimate in uncool. I really don’t know how to describe it - you’ll have to watch the videos.
I was intrigued that Billy Joel brought his own sax player.
Springseen’s version of “Higher and Higher,” which I’d been hoping for, was one of the highlights of my life. He played it with all of his guests on stage, including Tom Morello, Darlene Love, John Fogerty, Sam Moore, Jackson Browne and allegedly Peter Wolf, though I never saw him.
After a short pause, and already three good, but disparate bands into the night, Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” blared through the House of Blues‘ sound system. That was The Gaslight Anthem’s cue, and the four-piece that’s been tabbed everything from punk to blues, British pop-rock to Americana, took the stage.
Frontman Brian Fallon and the boys immediately launched into “High Lonesome,” off of The ‘59 Sound, an album that, somewhat true to its name, wreaks of nostalgia.The room brimmed with fans who screamed every lyric. Fists pumped through the air and folks leaned forward from the second- and third-floor railings, like prisoners egging on a fight. I wondered whether they’d drown out Fallon’s voice for the remainder.
Listening to The Gaslight Anthem felt like riding roller skates - like my body was trying to catch up to my feet, which flew independently ahead of me. The sensation of motion in its music is that powerful; I’m not just listening, I’m going somewhere.
Perhaps to New Jersey? The band’s songs are rife with references to its home turf and the state’s most famous product: Bruce Springsteen. It was thanks to the never-ending Springsteen comparisons that I gave The ‘59 Sound, the band’s second album, a listen when it came out last year - and dismissed it out of hand.
Despite the punk beats and gruff vocals, it sounded too perfect: incredibly poppy, impossibly crisp and altogether cliche. References to an array of my favorite rockers including Springsteen, Petty, Seger, Waits, Dylan, Counting Crows, etc., showed good taste, but would never transform The Gaslight Anthem into those heroes. Even worse, a rabid Springsteen fan, I found the ample sprinkling of Bruce’s lyrics, and what felt like a cheap imitation of his themes and imagery, insulting. To Springsteen or me? I wasn’t sure.
All that judgment and more came from the 10-minute shot I gave ‘em. Thankfully - for reasons I can’t remember - I gave the band another chance this summer, with completely different results. Apropos of that sense of motion, I played it incessantly on one of my frequent drives to New York. Then in the car on the way to work each day. And on the way home. I’d fall asleep to the sound of “The Backseat.” I couldn’t stop listening, and always in its entirety; turns out there wasn’t an unworthy song on the damn thing, although the lyric “I still love Tom Petty songs and driving old men crazy,” continues to irk me for reasons unknown. I haven’t obsessed over a new album - as opposed to an album new to me - in some time, save The National’sThe Boxerin 2007.
With each listen, I searched for details I missed on previous plays. You could make a drinking game out of finding references to other musicians, songs, books, films in the lyrics, although you’d probably pass out long before the album finished. I wondered, as I did when I recently read Rob Sheffield’s “Love is a Mixtape,” not if, but how many, references flew over my head. It’s as if Fallon took the best lines and characters and riffs from anything he’s ever read or seen or heard and reassembled them into a new whole. And it takes genuine talent and ingenuity to figure out how the pieces fit together, right?
The rest of the crowd already knew that. The House of Blues was filled with exactly what you’d expect: legions of young men with inked arms and pierced faces, the occasional bleached Mohawk, a couple of Rosalita and Born to Run T-shirts. But also a healthy serving of what you wouldn’t expect: college kids in argyle sweaters, women in hose and heels, moms accompanying their teens, gray-haired couples.
A charming and surprisingly humble Fallon interacted with them, with us, consistently flashing a contagious smile, thanking the audience and staff for its support and telling the occasional story. Like how the band, a bunch of Jersey “rats,” met Dicky Barrett of The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. He asked us to sing Barrett’s parts in “The Patient Ferris Wheel.”
He seemed to be in the moment, and the band played with even greater energy than it does on that all-too-perfect album. Even better, the guys do it without any showy solos. It was great to watch them play, not just hear them, giving me the opportunity to appreciate greater nuance in the guitar work that some pesky hearing loss makes otherwise difficult.
The audience was whipped into a crowd-surfing frenzy thanks to the frenetic playing and Fallon’s voice, paired with his spin on age-old tales of escape, loss and growing up. We demanded an encore. It ended in a jam that moved seamlessly from covers like “Stand By Me” into “The House of the Rising Sun,” among others.
Turns out Dani Shapiro and I feel similarly about the bromide everything happens for a reason. I’m a big fan of serendipity, of coincidence, of irony, of connecting the dots until it all comes full circle. But those five little words make my skin crawl.
