[This article first appeared in The Agenda #14, January 2006]
Point: Bruce Springsteen: The Emo Meatloaf
by Eric Smith
With the recent release of a Bruce Springsteen concert DVD shedding new light on his dim early ‘70s output and allowing hordes of rock scribes to wax ad infinitum on the staggering Boss-ness of the Boss, please allow me—a non-fan—to speak from my heart as a non-believer of the highest order while imparting some much-needed sense into the thick skulls of you poor, poor, sad fucks.
Recently, I was listening to the fat, overblown sack of shit that is Born To Run. While being the master of the obvious lyrical metaphor—okay, Bruce, we get it, the Road = Freedom—he is also the master of ham-fisted melodrama the likes of which only becomes truly deep after drinking literally all the beer there is in the world. “I want to die with you Wendy, on the streets tonight, in an everlasting kiss.” Dude, you can’t be for real. “And your eyes that shine like a midnight sun.” This is nonsense and a meteorological impossibility. “The sirens are screaming and the fires are howling, down in the valley tonight.” Okay, that one’s Meatloaf, but “Lying here in the dark, you’re like an angel on my chest,” is all Bruce.
My friends—who worship Springsteen—are great guys and all, but if I have to listen to “The River” in a bar with them while they cry like castrated puppies one more time, I will cut myself on a shattered High Life bottle just to feel something pleasant again. And while Ben has shown how truly dedicated a fan he is, I find it ironic that he has “Born to Run” tattooed on his forearm when it’s clear to me and everyone else that he’s staying right where he is.
Some more fun facts about Bruce Springsteen:
- He was way cooler when he was black, not so much now that he’s Jewish.
- He is second only to Dylan in wearing sleeveless denim jackets.
- His wife/guitar player Patti Scialfa is the worst rock-n-roll spouse since Linda McCartney, yet 100% more alive.
- I’m pretty sure I saw Clarence Clemons working at Broadway Liquors.
On a final note, Max Weinberg also played on Meatloaf's Bat Out Of Hell, which I love almost as much as I hate Bruce Springsteen.
Counterpoint: Your Soul is Rotting from the Inside Out
by John Taraborelli
As I read your so-called “point,” I could not help but think that somewhere deep within the inky black recesses of that barren waste pit you call your heart, the last flicker of humanity had just been extinguished. This unconscionable spewing of bile serves not to tarnish the glorious, shimmering gold that is The Boss's legacy, but only to expedite the sickening putrefaction of your desiccated soul—if indeed you have not already bartered it to Satan for some mere pittance. I only hope I am able to complete this retort before I choke to death on the white-hot ball of incandescent rage currently rising in my throat. Heed my words, and heed them well: only The Boss can save you now.
Your inability to connect with Springsteen's music is not surprising considering your similar inability to register anything even vaguely resembling a shred of human emotion. Perhaps up in Leroy, New York, from whence you were shat forth, no one has ever had to work for a living, but here in the real world, The Boss's themes of faith, regret and redemption resonate like an echo of despair in the hollowed-out shell that is your miserable existence.
I'm sure the heart-wrenching strains of “The River” are no comparison for the insipid jangling of whatever long-defunct, British post-punk band you are claiming as your all-time favorite this week; maybe if Springsteen was gay and from Manchester he would be more to your tastes. However, if “The River” is indeed so intolerable as to drive you to cut yourself on broken glass, might I suggest you aim for a main artery and allow the rest of us to enjoy the song in peace while you twitch and gurgle in a festering pool of your own ignominy.
I implore you to listen again to “Thunder Road.” The lyrics, “Show a little faith, there's magic in the night / You ain't a beauty but, hey, you're all right,” conjure more genuine feeling in two lines than you will be capable of in all the years of your banal, meaningless life. I have no shame in telling the good and decent readers of The Agenda that as I read those words over again, the paper upon which I write grows wet with my tears.
Oh, and with respect to Mr. Springsteen's wife: you leave her out of this; that woman is a saint.
Years from now, when I am old and gray, I will still listen to classics like “Badlands” as I sit in my rocking chair, surrounded by grandchildren, and knowing deep in my heart that “it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive.” You, on the other hand, will live out your final days desolate and forgotten, alone with your emptiness, listening to Echo and the Bunnymen. Perhaps in your darkest hour, when death raps at your door, you will finally find the heart to cry to the heavens, “Mister, I ain't a boy / No, I'm a man / And I believe in the promised land!” It will be too late then for even the boss to save you.
