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?

There’s no denying that there is a derivative quality to Bern’s music. But it’s no accident — he’s obsessed with American icons, like Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty and yes, Dylan. And references to everyone from Marilyn Monroe to Monica Seles to Mother Teresa (who Bern guesses “must have gotten horny sometimes”) find their way into his music. Clearly, with all the buzz that has surrounded Bern’s recent tour, there’s a demand for his ’60s-style sincerity. As Eric Weisbard pointed out in a recent review of Bern in Spin, “Even Dylan won’t sing like ’60s Dylan anymore.”

Though Bern’s lyrics are sometimes painfully earnest, the subject matter is often downright hysterical — take “Talkin’ Alien Abduction Blues,” for example. Swirling and sarcastic, Bern’s lyrical style falls somewhere between a Douglas Coupland-inspired pop culture rant and an op-ed piece for the Nation. Like Ani DiFranco, Bern waves his folk flag high but refuses to be confined, allowing punk and blues influences into his songs. Bern also puts out some top-notch pop: “I’m Not the Guy,” the first single from the album, could be the catchiest tune of the year.

As thoughtful and down-to-earth as the music he writes, the soft-spoken fledgling folk hero spoke with Salon during a recent tour date in San Francisco.0

Your producer, Chuck Plotkin, has said that you come at things from an “outsider’s perspective.” Do you see yourself that way?

Yeah, I think so. I’ve always felt slightly on the outside of things. When I was growing up in Iowa, I was the only Jewish kid in the school. My parents were foreigners. I never felt anti-Semitism or anything, because there weren’t enough of us to constitute any kind of threat (laughs).

I don’t think I’m some kind of complete just-off-the-boat outsider. There’s actually a song that I’m going to play tonight for the first time that talks about this — I’m not sure yet if it’s called “Lithuania” or “Ghosts of Lithuania.” It talks about straddling two worlds: “One foot in the black and white/Two-dimensional ghosts of Lithuania.” That’s my relatives, who I’ve never met. [Bern's father escaped from the Nazis; many of his relatives perished in concentration camps.] “And one foot in sunny California/Where people are all friendly and drive their Mercedes to the mini-mall/And take lunch and network with you/Or drive by and kill you for no reason.” So it’s kind of like that. I think if everybody has some kind of struggle, I guess that’s mine.

What other outlets did you have growing up besides music?

Sports has been a big influence for me, in the same way I’d tune in to the Beatles and very Western musical forms. Maybe it’s for some kind of grasp on American identity and rootedness. For the sports icons, it’s very similar to singing — it’s entertainment in the guise of something else. Personally, I take a huge amount of inspiration and learning from watching people do something at a very, very high level. I aspire to that in whatever I do, and rarely in the world do we get to see people interacting at such a high level.

I was watching the Bulls’ game the other night, and there was so much there. It’s everything genius. It’s genius intersecting with these personalities — born leaders who are this close to going off, but who are keeping it together. Dennis Rodman is not an act — he is so fascinating, so dangerous and so effective, and so potentially destructive to himself and his teammates.

You’re finally going to take a break after two years on the road — where are you’re going to go?

I’m not telling (laughs). It’s a big deal for me to be taking a break. I’m like a soldier, just keep marching. Right now I’ve got no home. Just a P.O. box and an answering machine in a friend’s closet. It turns out that I see more people and I’m in touch with more people when I’m traveling. The problem is, I don’t get to spend much time with them. What’s that like? It’s just part of it — probably weird if you stop and think about it, but you don’t. Things like refrigerators and beds become incredible luxuries. When I can go out and come back to the same place, that’s incredible.

You have a song called “Talking with Woody, Bob, Bruce and Dan.” What would you say to those guys if you were all in a room together?

I don’t think I’d say very much. I’d be very quiet and hope they wouldn’t see me hiding behind the couch. That’s like asking a ballplayer would you rather sit down with Babe Ruth or Ty Cobb? What are you going to talk about?

So what are you trying to say with that song? It seems like in some of your songs, you are actually trying to pair yourself with singers who have come before you. But when I called your manager to set up this interview, she begged me not to talk about

the Bob Dylan thing, to compare you to Dylan — she said you were sick of that line.

Since I gave my manager those instructions, I decided I don’t care if people ask me about it. Of course it’s a compliment, it’s great. But it’s stupid to play the guitar and write songs after [Dylan] and not learn anything. It’s only on that song, really, that I talk about him. I was just trying to have fun.

There’s this old legend about Bob Dylan visiting Woody Guthrie when he was really sick in the hospital, dying. Woody let him hang around, and from a historical perspective, Woody kind of anoints him and then Bob goes and carries the folk torch. So the song is basically this silly song about me breaking into Bruce’s house and climbing in his bed, and trying to convince him that he’s actually really in the hospital and he should anoint me, but he throws me out. And I go down the street looking for Prince or somebody.

There’s no denying that there is a derivative quality to Bern’s music. But it’s no accident — he’s obsessed with American icons, like Bruce
Springsteen, Tom Petty and yes, Dylan. And references to everyone from Marilyn Monroe to Monica Seles to Mother Teresa (who Bern guesses “must have gotten horny sometimes”) find their way into his music. Clearly, with all the buzz that has surrounded Bern’s recent tour, there’s a demand for his ’60s-style sincerity. As Eric Weisbard pointed out in a recent review of Bern in Spin, “Even Dylan won’t sing like ’60s Dylan anymore.”

Though Bern’s lyrics are sometimes painfully earnest, the subject matter is often downright hysterical — take “Talkin’ Alien Abduction Blues,” for example. Swirling and sarcastic, Bern’s lyrical style falls somewhere between a Douglas Coupland-inspired pop culture rant and an op-ed piece for the Nation. Like Ani DiFranco, Bern waves his folk flag high but refuses to be confined, allowing punk and blues influences into his songs. Bern also puts out some top-notch pop: “I’m Not the Guy,” the first single from the
album, could be the catchiest tune of the year. As thoughtful and down-to-earth as the music he writes, the soft-spoken fledgling folk hero spoke with Salon during a recent tour date in San Francisco.

Your producer, Chuck Plotkin, has said that you come at things from an “outsider’s perspective.” Do you see yourself that way?

Yeah, I think so. I’ve always felt slightly on the outside of things. When I was growing up in Iowa, I was the only Jewish kid in the school. My
parents were foreigners. I never felt anti-Semitism or anything, because there weren’t enough of us to constitute any kind of threat (laughs). I don’t think I’m some kind of complete just-off-the-boat outsider. There’s actually a song that I’m going to play tonight for the first time that talks about this — I’m not sure yet if it’s called “Lithuania” or “Ghosts of Lithuania.” It talks about straddling two worlds: “One foot in the black and white/Two-dimensional ghosts of Lithuania.” That’s my relatives, who I’ve never met. [Bern's father escaped from the Nazis; many of his relatives perished in concentration camps.] “And one foot in
sunny California/Where people are all friendly and drive their Mercedes to the mini-mall/And take lunch and network with you/Or drive by and kill you for no reason.” So it’s kind of like that. I think if everybody has some kind of struggle, I guess that’s mine.

What other outlets did you have growing up besides music?

Sports has been a big influence for me, in the same way I’d tune in to the Beatles and very Western musical forms. Maybe it’s for some kind of grasp on American identity and rootedness. For the sports icons, it’s very similar to singing — it’s entertainment in the guise of something else.
Personally, I take a huge amount of inspiration and learning from watching people do something at a very, very high level. I aspire to that in
whatever I do, and rarely in the world do we get to see people interacting at such a high level. I was watching the Bulls’ game the other night, and there was so much there. It’s everything genius. It’s genius intersecting with these personalities — born leaders who are this close to going off, but who are keeping it together. Dennis Rodman is not an act — he is so fascinating, so dangerous and so effective, and so potentially destructive to himself and his teammates.

You’re finally going to take a break after two years on the road — where are you’re going to go?

I’m not telling (laughs). It’s a big deal for me to be taking a break. I’m like a soldier, just keep marching. Right now I’ve got no home. Just a P.O. box and an answering machine in a friend’s closet. It turns out that I see more people and I’m in touch with more people when I’m traveling. The problem is, I don’t get to spend much time with them. What’s that like? It’s just part of it — probably weird if you stop and think about it, but you don’t. Things like refrigerators and beds become incredible luxuries. When I can go out and come back to the same place, that’s incredible.

You have a song called “Talking with Woody, Bob, Bruce and Dan.” What would you say to those guys if you were all in a room together?

I don’t think I’d say very much. I’d be very quiet and hope they wouldn’t see me hiding behind the couch. That’s like asking a ballplayer would you rather sit down with Babe Ruth or Ty Cobb? What are you going to talk about?

So what are you trying to say with that song? It seems like in some of your songs, you are actually trying to pair yourself with singers who have come before you. But when I called your manager to set up this interview, she begged me not to talk about the Bob Dylan thing, to compare you to Dylan — she said you were sick of that line.

Since I gave my manager those instructions, I decided I don’t care if people ask me about it. Of course it’s a compliment, it’s great. But it’s
stupid to play the guitar and write songs after [Dylan] and not learn anything. It’s only on that song, really, that I talk about him. I was just trying to have fun. There’s this old legend about Bob Dylan visiting Woody Guthrie when he was really sick in the hospital, dying. Woody let him hang around, and from a historical perspective, Woody kind of anoints him and then Bob goes and carries the folk torch. So the song is basically this silly song about me breaking into Bruce’s house and climbing in his bed, and trying to convince him that he’s actually really in the hospital and he should anoint me, but he throws me out. And I go down the street looking for Prince or somebody.

Oh my. Throughout, events chime by with a wearisome, Forrest Gumpian meaningfulness; Walter’s priest gets transferred “to this Vietnam place. . . A city called Saigon.” His fiancee Alice says, uncannily, “I don’t think Madison Avenue ought to be deciding presidential elections. . . If it keeps up, we’ll end up with an actor. . . in the White House.” The reader is supposed to feel a frisson, but the references are so forcibly entre-nous, they annoy more than hit home.

We get a Cuban Missile Crisis set piece, even a nod to the McCarthy era (Walters’ Dad flirted with blacklisting). To be fair, there’s a lunchroom sit-in scene that’s not half bad — Bausch writes well about the awkwardness of a white boy faced with black concerns. And some of his time capsule attempts, when he sticks to the details, work nicely. The air still smells of coal, Andy Williams plays on the hi-fi, “and there was the little mechanical sound of the player arm automatically lifting and returning to its cradle.”

Certainly, Bausch gave Walter promising attributes for a novel’s hero; he’s a Kennedy wannabe Catholic kid, he tortures himself about mortal sins, he farcically gets engaged to two girls, and he attends a second-rate school of broadcasting (hence the Walter Winchell-ish title). Comic possibilities all, but the boy’s so bland, he makes Zelig look positively deep. “It’s like I’m all air inside,” says Walter. Then why, Mr. Bausch, write a book about him?