i had the Bruce dream again. No, not that one -- that seems to be a thing of the past. This new dream, which I've had four times in the last two weeks, goes like this: I'm at a Bruce concert, front row seats, almost unbearable anticipation. But when Bruce opens his mouth to sing, my son starts wailing that the music is too loud and -- scene shift -- we're outside the arena and I'm rattling locked doors.
I guess I should fill you in on a few salient points. I have attended many, many Bruce Springsteen concerts over the past 20 years, but only one since my son was born almost six years ago. Indeed, some of the happiest moments of my life were spent at Springsteen concerts. A long time ago, when I was a rock critic, I wrote (of a particularly wondrous E Street Band gig), "Springsteen's idea of what a rock concert should be is fairly simple -- it should be Christmas, something anticipated, slow coming, cherished and festive," and I can't think of a better description now. I once went to three Springsteen concerts in three nights and I know that's nothing compared to a lot of other Bruce-heads out there but, for me, it was heaven, and not bad considering I had to get up and go to work the next morning. I met the editor who gave me my career at a Springsteen concert. I met the rock critics I'd idolized for years at Springsteen concerts. I met Springsteen at a Springsteen concert. (What did I say? Something along the lines of, "Geah.") I spent several happy weekends driving down to the Jersey shore to watch E Street Band sound-alikes in little Asbury Park bars, in hopes that HE might show up to jam.
Am I leaving something out? Oh, yes. Of course. The crush. Well, I'm not used to mentioning that. Back then, rock criticism was a male-dominated field and many of those male writers (and readers) considered women rock critics to be something akin to groupies with typewriters. So we couldn't acknowledge the obvious, that rock 'n' roll is in large part about sexual attraction, for fear of Not Being Taken Seriously. Meanwhile, the boys jerked off their smitten odes to Debbie Harry and Pat Benatar and Kate Bush (and they still do it today, for Jewel and Tori Amos and that No Doubt chick) ad nauseam. But I digress.
A lot has happened to me and Bruce (separately) over the years. Now, with all that history between us, Bruce and I have a different sort of relationship. It's familiar and comfortable and not without its little irritations, like, Bruce, can you please stop that Woody Guthrie schtick for one minute and play some rock 'n' roll! But mostly when I think about Bruce nowadays, I think, well, here we have A Good Man. And I have seen him at his worst, mind you, his worst, like the 1979 No Nukes concert in Madison Square Garden, where he celebrated his 30th birthday with the public humiliation of his ex-girlfriend-the-famous-photographer. And I know you screamed "Idiot!" along with me when Bruce married the wrong girl, that 25-year-old model-slash-actress, when it was so obvious that Patti, his backup singer and sometime girlfriend, his peer in age, class, experience (a Jersey girl, yet!), adored him.
But this is how good A Good Man Bruce is. He realized his mistake. He went back to Patti, got into therapy and started writing the first really mature love songs of his career. Fidelity songs like "If I Should Fall Behind." Sex songs like "Secret Garden." Miracle of birth songs like "Living Proof." He and Patti had three babies, ba-da-bing, ba-da-bang, ba-da-boom, and on "Lucky Town" (the best marriage and family album since John and Yoko's "Double Fantasy"), he made monogamy and child-raising sound like an adventure as excellent as anything undertaken by his old boardwalk rats and grease monkeys.
Some critics sneered that Bruce had gone soft. Me, I had my own son by then and it felt so good listening to Bruce, my old pal, singing about this love so terrifying and complete. He knew. He understood. And because Bruce got rich, critics sneered when he continued to sing about displaced workers and illegal aliens -- as if being successful meant you had no credibility to care about the world your kids were growing up in. But Bruce keeps right on singing and caring and making quiet speeches about how America used to be the land of equality and justice and fairness and what happened? A good, good man.
Mostly, what I admire about Bruce these days is how prioritized his life seems. Family, number one. Making the music and the statement he wants to make, number two. Everything else, last. I look at Bruce and I see a grown-up -- dependable, responsible, settled. And I say, "Wow, I want to be like that when I grow up!" And then I remember: I am grown up.
Well, back to the dream. My very tolerant husband analyzes my bossus interruptus this way: Bruce represents my youth, which I'm thinking about more and more and trying in vain to recapture because I've just turned f-f-forty. Now, my husband is a sweetheart for trying to sort this out for me, but isn't that the silliest thing you've ever heard? Isn't it?
