Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Brucey Bonus (300th Post - Thank you all for reading, I don't deserve you)
I'm listening to Bruce, my hero in my late teens.
I didn't get to see Bruce until The River tour. He was tiny on that stage, up the other end of Wembley Arena. It might as well have been Fozzy Bear & The Sesame Street Band for all I could see and hear.
This was before Bruce pumped up his body and his sound. Before the air-punching Born in the USA. Before the American right saw a chance to muscle in on Bruce's new anthemic rock.
The Bruce songs of my youth are all about the working man. The blue collar worker who works damned hard at a shitty job and can only break free at night or at the weekend.
My life has never lived up to Bruce's songs. I'm definitely white collar and my weekends have never consisted of burning up/sweating it out on the streets or wild partying. I've always taken it as easy as Val Doonican or Perry Como.
In Bruce's song Independence Day, he's leaving his dad, breaking free from the family, making his own way in the world, away from the older man he resembled a little too much.
In my case, it wasn't me but my dad who upped sticks, took permanent leave from the family. I was left with his old responsibilities. I have never lived a Springsteen song. And I'm so grateful because if I had I'd now be divorced with five kids, a knackered old chevy and several broken dreams.
And bollocks to that for a game of soldiers.