Left of the Dial

eye of the beholder

So I'm in my office and I realize that as I'm looking at my computer screen I'm murmuring “oh, aren’t you pretty? You are so pretty. [sigh] No. But...you’re just so pretty, though…” 

And then I realize Max has come downstairs and passed by the door and it's possible she heard me whispering sweet nothings. And for a moment I worry before I decide that, yeah, she probably has a pretty good idea of what I'm looking at. 

Of course they're silly and unnecessary. But...but...when I was 9 years old, see...

cymbolic

So the Golden Weasel and I have, on several occasions, watched videos such as this:

Apparently, being in the room while something like this is happening is an astonishing experience, as one feels as much as hears the sound. It's sometimes called a sound bath or, more specifically, a gong bath. We have expressed how very much we'd like to experience something like this in person. 

So when this ad went up on Craigslist the other day, I showed it to her. "I found the perfect present for your next birthday," I said. 

She looked at my phone and gasped. "Yes!" she hissed. 

Naturally, the Brawn was nearby and, naturally, he was intrigued. "What is it?" 

I started to angle my phone so he could see. Before his eyes could even focus, she quickly added, about the hypothetical future gift which is never actually going to be acquired, "you're not allowed to touch it." 

Matamoros Banks

aBy the time of 2005's Devils & Dust, Bruce Springsteen was solidly back on (or at least near the) top. His seventh #1 album, a solo album sorta kinda fitting into a trilogy with Nebraska and The Ghost of Tom Joad almost, it was something of a grab bag of songs, with many of them going back a decade or more. Some of them were brilliant (the title track, "Reno," the "Rosalita" sequel "Long Time Comin'"), some were...not, even if well-intentioned ("Black Cowboys," "Silver Palomino") and some were simply enjoyable if surprisingly lightweight love songs ("Leah," "Maria's Bed," "All the Way Home," "All I'm Thinkin' About"). The album shared Tom Joad's exploration of the southwestern area of the United States, as well presaging his next LP's meditation on the Iraq War, while also continuing Springsteen's obsession with familial bonds and religion. Kind of a lot for a hodgepodge of old and new songs, all of which were newly recorded with producer Brendan O'Brien.  

"Matamoros Banks," the LP's closing song, is one of the album's strongest, and one of Springsteen's sweetest—albeit of a decidedly bittersweet nature—since his commercial revival. An admitted sequel of sorts to Tom Joad's "Across the Border"—itself a tribute to Ry Cooder's "Across the Borderline"—it bookends the opening title track with its ambiguity, religious questions and focus on death and love, but with a markedly more upbeat tone (if not tempo). Given that the song opens with the narrator's dead body being eaten by wild animals, this is no mean feat. 

Matamoros Banks

For two days the river keeps you down
Then you rise to the light without a sound

Opening with the flat assertion that the river holds you down is probably not meant as an in-joke, per se, but when dealing with a writer of Springsteen's nature and calibre, it's unlikely it wouldn't have occurred to him. But more than that, it's an upending of the more common view of a river in literature, which is as a giver of life, and bringer of civilization. Meanwhile, the second half of the sentence will come to assume more significance a little later on. 

Past the playgrounds and empty switching yards
The turtles eat the skin from your eyes so they lay open to the stars

These lines are a remarkable study in contrast, with the pleasant, youthful connotation of the playgrounds immediately juxtaposed against the derelict train yards. But the next sentence ups the ante considerably, as the corpse's eyelids are eaten by animals, allowing them to view the stars without obstruction. The first line is delightful and grim in one sentence, but the second half of the couplet combines brutality and effulgence. Such a horrible thing, and yet here it's portrayed as almost a boon. Sure, you were eaten by eaten by wild animals. granted. but in a glass half-full kind of way, they were, you know, kinda cute wild animals. and hey! now you can see the stars all the time—isn't that nice? look, I'm not going to come right out and say you're better off this way...but... And, amazingly, it's not presented with any sort of ironic tone.

Your clothes give way to the current and river stone
'Till every trace of who you ever were is gone
And the things of the earth they make their claim
That the things of heaven may do the same

Again with the contrasting imagines of water and stone, heaven and earth, leading to an interesting assertion, that clothes are evidence of who you were—an echo of the well-known phrase "the clothes make the man," a saying that goes back at least as far as Mark Twain—setting up and in some ways seemingly refuting the earth/heaven balancing of the next couplet, while that couplet at the same time echoes the belief that only by giving up one's earthly possessions can one enter the kingdom of heaven. 

That's the opening verse—a corpse, desecrated by animals, bobs to the surface of the water in which the singer died, and it leads to the chorus, simpler than the plainest hymn:

Goodbye, my darling, for your love I give God thanks
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks

Fascinating and instantly arresting as the opening verse is, the second verse ups the emotional ante by taking a step backwards in time, to when the narrator was just starting out on his journey. 

Over rivers of stone and ancient ocean beds
I walk on sandals of twine and tire tread
My pockets full of dust, my mouth filled with cool stone
The pale moon opens the earth to its bones

That Springsteen so liberally uses such elemental images—river, stone, ocean bed, dust, moon, bone—is not accidental. He is breaking things down to their most essential essences, performing an autopsy of sorts on not the man this verse but the man's journey, and even the planet itself over which he's making his trek. 

We immediately get a sense of who this man is and what he's doing. That he's attempting to cross over the Rio Grande is obvious, but his footwear—sandals either made of recycled tires, held together with twine, or at least repaired with those materials the best he can—leaves no doubt as to his station, nor any question as to whether or not he's got calves the size of cantaloupes, as some unhinged, hateful, reprehensible specimens would gleefully imagine. His pockets are full of dust and on his feet are the same garments worn by Jesus, and the odds that that's a coincidence are virtually nil. The narrator is, if not literally Christ, certainly one of followers, both metaphorically and literally, making a journey not unlike that described in the bible. 

The interconnectedness of the writing in this song is exquisite, as the final line of the verse ties in, once again, to the heavens/earth dichotomy first introduced in the opening verse, even as the first line continues the river imagery, albeit in this case long dried up. 

I long, my darling, for your kiss, for your sweet love I give God thanks
The touch of your loving fingertips
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks

Then we get the third verse, and we move forward in time again, albeit not quite as far as the first verse. 

Your sweet memory comes on the evenin' wind
I sleep and dream of holding you in my arms again
The lights of Brownsville, across the river shine
A shout rings out and into the silty red river I dive

The man is exhausted, thirsty, after making this long, arduous, dangerous journey...and yet he's able to keep moving thanks to the dreams of his beloved; so deeply in love is he that even the wind carries her memory to him. Across the river, he can view that long cherishd Springsteen staple, the promised land: and true to form, he can see it in the distance, but he cannot quite get there. In fact, he doesn't entirely plan on making it all the way there, at least not alone: he's urgerly her to meet him on the Matamoros banks, the southern side of the river—a river which is already red, even before it's further stained with his blood, as it's soon to be—so they can cross over together...or perhaps because he plans to return to her, and his home, for good. Or perhaps because he knows that he cannot make it to the promised land alone, that without her, it cannot possibly be the promised land. 

The religious symbolism is the song is nearly unmissable, even if you're not aware of just how often Springsteen has peppered his songs with biblical allusions. But it's chilling to get to the end of this lovely, gentle song and see how it was all set up in the opening couplet, as he rises to the light—both literal and metaphorical. 

The structure is fascinating in that Springsteen doesn't just tell the story in reverse. Instead, he jumps around in time. He starts at the end—or arguably a bit past the ending—then goes back to the beginning, and then jumps forward again, but not quite all the way to the end, instead filling in the middle bit. The only other song I can think of that jumps around in time like this Bob Dylan's "Tangled Up in Blue," although in that masterpiece the timeline is even more jumbled, so it can be difficult to tell just where you are in the story—or even in time—at any given point of the song. Here there's no such ambiguity. The man is dead at the beginning, and then we go back and see what led up to his death. 

But what that is is both clear-cut and ambiguous. It's his dive into the river, as he attempts to escape. But as Springsteen himself put it, when introducing the song on the Devils & Dust tour: 

"a man makes the same journey and is fuelled by the same hopes and love for his partner and his family, his children, in search of something a little bit better." 

His death is brought about by hope and his love for his partner and family, his children, for the deep-seated need to give them a better life. How beautiful and terrible. 

It's all on a musical bed which is an incredibly simple harmonic structure—just the same I-IV-V chords Springsteen has used in dozens and dozens of his songs, including many of his very best, but with the lovely touch of subtle Mexican coloring in the actual guitar playing. 

I long, my darling, for your kiss, for your sweet love I give God thanks
A touch of your loving fingertips
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks

Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros
Meet me on the Matamoros banks

This album closer could not be further from The Rising's gospel closer. And yet at the same time it feels like its twin brother from a different mother, one who was born on just the other side of the border. The now empty vessel which had once been a man may no longer make a sound, but Springsteen is here to still give him voice. 

needs no fixing

So we're sitting around the dining and living room, listening to baroque brass music, as is our family's tradition on Sunday mornings, thanks to a book I read in college called Who's Afraid of Classical Music, by Michael Walsh, which stated definitively that the only time one would wish to hear a baroque trumpet concerto—from which it naturally followed that one would nearly always wish to hear baroque brass during Sunday mornings. So for years we've been listening to various baroque (and classical, an era on which I am otherwise am somewhat lukewarm) horn and trumpet concerti. 

But sometimes I'll switch it up slightly. So last week we listened to a brass arrangement of Johann Sebastian Bach's magnificent Art of the Fugue. And this week I first put on Jason Vieaux playing lute works by Bach, arranged for classical guitar.

Then, when I switched to trumpet pieces, also by Bach

I heard someone behind me actually say, "whoo hoo!"

I looked over and saw The Bean sitting on the couch, reading on her phone, and asked if she'd really just "whoo hoo'd" the trumpet.

She gave me a puzzled look and said, "well, yeah."

For Once in My Death

So I'm drinking my first morning cuppa, chatting with the Bean and the Golden Weasel, the morning playlist brightening up another rainy winter day here in the Pacific Northwest. 

"For Once in My Life," by the impossibly great Stevie Wonder comes on, and I realize that whenever someone asks me what my favorite song is—something that, I recently realized, doesn't happen nearly as often once you're out of school—this masterpiece never occurs to me, and yet when it's playing, it just may be my all-time fave. 

(I mean. Right?) 

A few minutes later, I mention this revelation to Top Management. She gets a look on her face. I mean, she's always got a look on her face, but this one...this one's different. 

"What?" I ask. "I've told you that before? I've told you that before, probably, haven't I?" 

She starts laughing. "Since 1989," she says slowly, "That's the song I've been planning to play at your memorial." 

Samson and Delightful

I walk into Top Management's studio just as she's singing, "Romeo and Juliet..." She stops when she sees me. 

I'm gobsmacked that she'd leave hanging like that. "Well?! What's the next line? Is it 'they never felt this way' or 'Samson and Delilah'?" 

She smiles and hugs me. "They never felt this way, I bet," she croons in my favorite voice in the world. 

I melt, overwhelmed by love. 

Then she sneers, "because they took the easy way out." 

And people think I'm the cynic. 

wiggle room

So it's Saturday night. Which for the past several years has meant the boys go to bed at more or less the regular time, the Golden Weasel sneaks into Top Management's studio for art night — which often means them trying out some new painting technique together...but has occasionally also meant they cuddle up and watch knitting videos or something equally horrific — and whichever of the oldest three are home and I watch...something. Sometimes it's a film (or the first half of one) and sometimes it's the installment of a television show: Arrow or E.R. or something like that. In years past it's been The West Wing or Firefly or The Wire. (No, not really The Wire.) One of our defaults is Law & Order, because it's vital for a young citizen to learn that in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate but equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders, and these are their stories. [dun dun]

We watch the opening and, as usual, discuss how cold and jaded Lenny's bot mot is, until the theme song starts playing.

As usual, The Rose begins to shimmy to Mike Post's theme. But, unusually, earlier in the day, she'd gotten a flu shot, so she's not laying down on the couch. She's sitting up. Which somehow inhibits her dancing style. 

"I can’t sit down so my wiggles are different," she says. 

I look at her.

"Wiggles are very dependent upon positioning," she explains. 

"If you were ten years younger, that would be a Thicklebit," I point out. 

But she's not ten years younger. 

So it goes here instead. 

as is meet and just

So the Brawn and I are eating breakfast. Or, rather, he is and I sip coffee, attempting to wake up. It's just the two of us, Top Management writing in her studio, the Boy already off to school, the others are still snoozy-woozing in their room (or hiding in California). The morning playlist—somewhere around 450 songs, randomized—is playing, as it usually is at this time of day. 

This comes on: 

As soon as it starts, the Brawn starts bopping his head as he continues to nom cereal, still reading a Warrior book. 

Then the third line comes around. 

I sincerely miss those heavy metal bands
I used to go see on the landing in the summer
She fell in love with the drummer
She fell in love with the drummer
She fell in love

 

Shiny, shiny pants and bleach-blond hair 
A double kick drum by the river in the summer
She fell in love with the drummer
Another and another
She fell in love

Out of the corner of my eye I see him stop bopping. He tilts his head slightly and looks at the speaker, but the lyric has already moved on. So he goes back to his book. But this time he doesn't headbang. He doesn't eat. He's simply still, something which is very rare for him. 

The next verse kicks in, and this time when the third line — the key line, obviously — comes around, he immediately looks towards the speaker, to make sure he heard right the first time 'round. 

He listens closely. Then he nods at the unassailable correctness of the line and the act it's describing. 

He goes back to reading, again nodding in perfect time to the beat, a bit more forcefully, understood. 

in a roundabout way

We're driving back from the Brawn's weekly speech therapy. The Yes classic "Roundabout" comes on, because of course it does. The Brawn had been keeping up a running commentary on what he was seeing out the window but he now falls silent momentarily. About 10 seconds after the band kicks in, he says passionately, "This is greatest song I have ever heard in my life."

There's another pause before he adds, "I really love that bassline." A very brief pause, before he runs through the different ways of pronouncing the name of the instrument—"Bass? Bass?"—first correctly, and then as though it were a fish. 

He goes quiet again, absorbing the majestic playing of that insanely talented group of instrumentalists, as well as the wonders of Jon Anderson's absurd lyrics, until it gets to the long middle section, around 3:25. 

"Come on!" he cries. "Did they write this just for me?!" 

Yes, kiddo. Yes, they did.  

Samson and Delightful

I walk into Top Management's studio just as she's singing, "Romeo and Juliet..." She stops when she sees me. 

I'm gobsmacked that she'd leave hanging like that. "Well?! What's the next line? Is it 'they never felt this way' or 'Samson and Delilah'?" 

She smiles and hugs me. "They never felt this way, I bet," she croons in my favorite voice in the world. 

I melt, overwhelmed by love. 

Then she sneers, "because they took the easy way out." 

And people think I'm the cynic. 

successful fathering or just the opposite?

Cleaning up the work area just now, I found these, from back on Valentine's Day:

Aw...sweet! 

And then one opens it...and finds:

Let's see if we can't get a better view there...

Ah. 

I had taken them that day to get their flu shots, you see. On Valentine's Day. As one does. 

Major props to me for cultivating children (or at least a child) with such an excellent sense of humor...but major demerits for raising children who actually think Bon Jovi capable of producing a decent song. 

never heard the word impossible

This is what Top Management sang as she got up this morning.  

In case you were still wondering if I were really married to a Disney character who grew up in the real world 1970s. 

comedy is in the ear of the behearer

So it's breakfast. The Bean, The Golden Weasel and the Brawn are all nomming their favorite cereal, a kind that's usually too expensive to be able to buy for that many rapacious maws but which happens to have been on sale. The Weasel and the Brawn had been doing a puzzle, and one of the answers had been "eclair," so naturally, then, the Golden Weasel says something about how good one sounded. I, being the paternal figure present, make a joke about how I thought it sounded a little flat.

The Bean indicates she heard but will not deign to respond by the slightest flicker of an eyebrow as she continues resolutely staring at her phone. The Brawn puts his head in his hands and says, "no. Just...no." 

I say, "you know, when I'm trying to decide whether a musical joke is funny or not, I imagine telling it to Beethoven, and if he says, 'what?' then I know it is." 

The Brawn looks puzzled. The Bean seems to sigh ever so slightly. But the Golden Weasel, after her characteristic pause, starts to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Which makes me laugh. Which makes her laugh. Which makes me laugh. 90 seconds later, we're still giggling. The Brawn still looks confused and a bit annoyed. The Bean finishes eating and leaves. 

It's been a good Wednesday so far. 

nature v nurture

So the Golden Weasel and the Brawn are in the patio, where they've discovered an entire bin of old junk. (Needless to say, their mother, who has tossed all this stuff in the bin, is sequestered away, working diligently.) 

"Oh!" the Golden Weasel shouts, having obviously just unearthed some priceless treasure. 

She scampers up to the living room and shows me the rare gem: a Baby Einstein giveaway. It's like a birthday card of sorts—which, I guess, it is, having undoubtedly been given to each new mother whilst in the hospital—printed on really heavy cardstock. 

"And look!" the Weasel says happily, opening the card for what seems to be the first time ever. "The CD is still inside!" 

"Well," I say, "that would certainly explain all of you." 

She laughs, then yells, "hey!" 

like flam, like single stroke roll

I put this on to listen to as I finish up preparing the pulled pork for dinner.  

No exaggeration: five seconds in, The Brawn says, from the corner where he'd been playing unseen, "nice song!" 

"Ramsy in Blues"

[title because sometimes you just can't improve upon a direct quote]

The Brawn wants to talk. The Brawn pretty much always wants to talk, unless he's absorbed in a video game, and even then, depending upon the game, he's probably more than delighted to keep up a running commentary, whether someone's responding or not. 

But it's currently early and I've explained to him that while I love him dearly and would happily throw myself in front of a stampeding giraffe to save him if needed, that right now, it's imperative that I have my coffee before I'm ready to converse. 

He nods. Given how how he sometimes feels the need to concentrate on a game, he understands...in theory. He's a great kid, he wants to do the right thing, but sometimes when you're a kid—and sometimes even when you're not—your body and/or your brain just has ever so much trouble doing what at least one of them knows is the right thing. 

So he whispers, or more accurately, pseudo-whispers. "d. a. d." 

[The Brawn is big into spelling these days.]

I look up, somewhat grumpily. "Yes?" 

“Can you put on ‘Ramsy in Blues’?”

This is not what I had expected. I assumed a request for something sweet to eat, the kind of thing I pretty much never give him but his mother often does. “What?" 

“Can you put on ‘Ramsy in Blues’?”

I look at him for a while, as my brain tries to boot up and start running its translation program. 

“…'Rhapsody in Blue’?"

“Yeah."

I stare at him for a bit. 

"Or...or is that too loud?" he says softly, his big blue eyes wide open and full of just oodles and boodles of understanding. 

Oh, he's good.  

just so

our juvenile delinquency of the day

I just walked in to tell Top Management dinner was ready. She slowly turned to look at me and there was absolutely no one at home. 

It was incredibly disconcerting, until I realized she was listening to Hamilton. 

I feel like that preacher from back in the day, trying to stem the tide, all King Canute-like. "The beat, the beat, the beat!" 

 

(I love that the preacher accidentally admits that he loves that demon rock and roll. Give in, preacher man: resistance is futile.) 

soul-crushing revelations, decades delayed

It's early(ish). I'm stirring my coffee, barely human, much less cognizant. Top Management comes out, looking like she's seen a ghost. 

"I'm a friend who doesn't dance," she whispers. 

"Wha," I say. 

"I'm a friend who doesn't dance," she repeats. "I just realized." 

Something about the phrase tickles some part of my brain that's not currently scheduled to be awake for another hour but it's still refusing to kick into gear. 

She sees this and explains. "We can leave your friends behind? Because your friends don't dance, and if they don't dance, then they're no friends of mine."

She pauses and the tension mounts as the horrific understanding seeps in. "I'm no friend of theirs," she admits, heartbroken. 

peak peterson

So this song comes on the radio yesterday. 

"Who is this?" asks the boy, who always wants to know the name and artist of every song. 

"It's..." I pause. "Huh." 

I can't remember. 

I know every lyric. I know how to play it on the guitar. My college band played it, and being the drummer, I was the one to kick it off, and set the tempo way too damn fast. (Also, I forgot that we changed the setlist and was supposed to be starting an entirely different song. Whoops.) I've been listening to Natalie Imbruglia's new cover of it for days on end now. If I could draw, I could probably storyboard the video, even without having seen it in years. (Or at least that was the case before I wrote this post.) I was outraged when it was used in a fast food commercial. I loved it when it was used in Valley Girl. 

I know this song. 

But I cannot think of the name of the artist. 

The hit was so pervasive that it's not like this is some arcane bit of music trivia, like who was the first major rock artist to use Paiste cymbals or something. I can picture where the artist's catalog was located in the record store I worked at in high school. The band was the very definition of "one hit wonder." I'm working my way there...but no. I can't quite do it. 

I'm crushed. How can this be happening? And it's not a temporary glitch: the song's nearly over and I still can't came up with the artists' name. 

I can't believe this. This is the most

"Modern English!" I yell. 

I breathe a sigh of relief. And then I simply sigh. 

"This is it," I tell the Rose. "I have passed my peak. This is like peak oil, only it's me. We have hit peak Scott. This is the exact moment at which I have started my long inevitable decline. It's all downhill from here." 

The Rose pats my knee. "Remember, Daddy," she says. "Once you've crested the mountain and start going down the other side? Well, a mountain looks beautiful from the other side of the peak, too." 

I shall keep her. 

juxtaposition

The Golden Weasel, uncharacteristically, grows weary of drawing and drifts over to the couch. She picks up a book and begins reading—and, characteristically, it's aloud. Which is fine, delightful, even; I'm going to be very sad when I one day realize she doesn't do that anymore.

I'm only dimly aware of her voice chirping away in the background, as I'm working on Important Things, and as I'm characteristically much closer to the speakers currently pumping out music at an uncharacteristically reasonable volume. 

Max, uncharacteristically home from college but characteristically on her computer, IMs me from nine feet away. 

what're we listening to? bc i'm really enjoying the contrast we've got going here between the music and the story we're being read.

I pause and listen. 

This is what we're being read:

And this is what we're listening to: 

Talk about worlds colliding or, perhaps, two great tastes that taste great together. 

My City of Ruins

From 1973 on, Bruce Springsteen's career trajectory was more or less upward. Yes, his first album tanked after an over the top and ill-advised advertising campaign, and his second album did no better, despite showing significant artistic growth and garnering some excellent reviews. If his third LP hadn't been successful, it's entirely likely he would have been dropped by his label. Fortunately, he pulled a little something called Born to Run out of his hat and he never had to worry about sales again. (Which isn't to say he didn't—just that he didn't have to.) But even if he hadn't, it's likely he would have had a decent, if disappointing, career as a northeast legend, a sort of roots rock solo NRBQ. And although it's hard to predict how his writing might have progressed—or not—in such a scenario, it certainly seems likely he'd have managed to have at least a few songs covered by successful artists, further cementing his relative financial security. 

But that's in an alternate universe. In ours, fortunately, triumph led to triumph. Born to Run gave way to Darkness on the Edge of Town, which led to the hit single "Hungry Heart," which led to the amazing solo acoustic album Nebraska, which led to worldwide blockbuster Born in the U.S.A. with its seven top ten singles, which led to the best-selling live album in history which led to Tunnel of Love, the only album to ever challenge Blood on the Tracks for supremacy in the I'm-in-love-and-my-marriage-is-falling-apart department. (Despite those two masterpieces, this is not necessarily a department you're looking to tower over.) Everything the guy touched seemed to turn to gold. 

And then it went away. His marriage dissolved, and he broke up the E Street Band. His recorded two solo albums, the first time he'd used studio musicians. The results were Human Touch and Lucky Town, the first albums he'd released in nearly 20 years where the hosannas weren't nearly universal and verging on deafening. And with good reason: Lucky Town was, it can now be said objectively, a wonderful album, but Human Touch really is terrible. A few years later he released the quiet and solo but not acoustic The Ghost of Tom Joad, a very good album with some brilliant material, but one which, despite winning a Grammy, didn't cause any buzz with a public that had moved on. A boxset of largely unreleased cuts was good-to-great but, again, Springsteen—while never in danger of going homeless—seemed unable to make a larger audience care again; even the ones who listened to him daily on classic rock radio didn't want to hear anything newer than 1984, and preferably 1978. 

A decade-ending reunion tour with the E Street Band sold out everywhere instantly—and, what's more, was damn good. The final few shows at Madison Square Garden, in summer of 2000, were recorded for HBO and made news when "American Skin (41 Shots)," a powerful and incisive new song, was performed, addressing the killing of Amadou Diallo. A handful of cops walked out, egged on by reactionaries, while those who listened even cursorily a single time understood it—the writing was exquisite, but one had to be clinically brain-dead or actively try in order to misunderstand the song's point. 

Bruce Springsteen was once again in the headlines, and once again, it was at least in part because people were stupid. But either way, he was a major rock star again. 

And then came September 11th, 2001. The legend goes that a few days after the attack, a guy pulled up next to Springsteen, rolled down the window and said, "we need you." Soon after, Springsteen began working on The Rising, the first full album of new material recorded with the E Street Band since 1984. Although all the recordings were new, a few of the songs were written before the attacks, including the album's closing track, "My City of Ruins." 

Performed just 10 days later, accompanied by Patti Scialfa, Steven van Zandt and Clarence Clemons, to open the live telethon America: A Tribute to Heroes, "My City of Ruins" was actually written nearly a year earlier, for an Asbury Park Christmas show, and was meant to illustrate his love for his adopted city, which had fallen on hard times since its pre-Vietnam war-era heyday. Without more than minor tweaks to the lyrics, and essentially the same arrangement (albeit a bit less New Orleans in the horns), the song was seemingly reborn as something of a salve for a shellshocked nation. The omnipresent optimism of Springsteen's words served as perhaps the first homily delivered following the tragedy that spoke not of vengeance, payback or even pragmatic response, but rather of hope. Or so it seemed at the time of that first broadcast. 

As far as his closing tracks go, "My City of Ruins" is an amazing return to form for Springsteen, after the disappointment of 1995's Tom Joad's "My Best Was Never Good Enough" and win one/lose one doubleheader of 1992's Human Touch ("Pony Boy") and Lucky Town ("My Beautiful Reward"). The confidence and assurance of a master musician shines through every moment, all the more remarkable not just because it's his first time in nearly 20 years in the studio with the E Street Band but because, on this particular song, Springsteen tackles a genre he'd barely even brushed up against previously.

Rock, soul, pop, disco, reggae, funk, country, blues, folk, even jazz—virtually every major American genre had been at least broached by Springsteen at some point, and many were cornerstones of his style. But gospel was one genre with which he'd never reckoned. At least, not until the reunion tour. There, he not only converted "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" into a gospel-tinged endurance test stretching out for up to 20 minutes, he had a long, long segment in the middle where he did his best imitation of a preacher, even breaking out in the Reverend Al Green's "Take Me to the River." And beyond that, there was "Land of Hope and Dreams," the magnificent song with which he'd closed the shows. The gospel connection was obvious, not least because he'd interpolate the great Curtis Mayfield song "People Get Ready," but it was still gospel-influenced, not pure gospel.  

Not so "My City of Ruins." From stem to stern, it's gospel through and through—or as close as a white guy from New Jersey who's a famously lapsed Catholic can get. Which, one listen will make clear, is pretty damn close, far closer than one would ever have guessed Springsteen could get even just a few years earlier. 

My City of Ruins

The song opens with a tasteful Max Weinberg introduction—the first time any Springsteen album closer has opened with just drums. (Interestingly, The Rising has more songs [six of 'em] that open with drums than any other Springsteen album, except, oddly, Lucky Town—which is the only Springsteen album to feature one drummer that's not a member of the E Street Band—and The River, which is a double album.) 

Immediately, the drums are joined by bass, piano, wordless vocals and, not insignificantly, organ—what instrument is more closely associated with the church, going all the way back to Bach and earlier?—with a descending line that will become a recurring element of the song, dropping down, down down to the searching subdominant IV chord.

There is a blood red circle
On the cold dark ground
And the rain is falling down
The church door's thrown open
I can hear the organ's song
But the congregation's gone
My city of ruins
My city of ruins

If there were any doubt about the importance of gospel to this tune, the first verse dispels it handily, with its reference to church doors and congregations. After the first time Springsteen sings the title, there's some absolutely lovely guitar work—live it's played by the great Nils Lofgren, although I'd have bet that on record it was originally Little Steven—more than a little reminiscent of Pops Staples. 

Now the sweet bells of mercy
Drift through the evening trees
Young men on the corner
Like scattered leaves,
The boarded up windows,
The empty streets
While my brother's down on his knees
My city of ruins
My city of ruins

Again, the religious imagery is obvious, with the brother—whether literally related genetically or not—on his knees, presumably in prayer. But this is Springsteen, so it's just as likely—or even more so—that it's not reverence that has him genuflecting, but exhaustion or dejection, an inability to remain standing another moment. (Of course, there's also the possibility, given the desolation of the surroundings, that it's neither of those scenarios, but something considerably more sordid.) But notice where the singer is: he's talking about hearing the organ wafting out from inside the open church, but he's singing about what's going on outside—he can see the promised land, but whether he's welcome or not, he's not inside, hasn't entered; they appear rank strangers to each other.

The opening two verses are significantly more downbeat than is generally customary for gospel, lyrically; and musically, although the song's in a major key, it surely feels like it's in the minor. 

But then Springsteen pulls out the chorus, which manages to be both unexpected, given the preceding proceedings, and utterly right. 

Come on, rise up! Come on, rise up!
Come on, rise up! Come on, rise up!
Come on, rise up! Come on, rise up!

An organ solo from Phantom Dan Federici follows this exhortation, an incitement which comes across as of a decidedly earthly nature, encouraging his fellow sufferers to take matters into their own hands. (A word which will become a prominent player shortly.)

Now's there's tears on the pillow
Darlin' where we slept
And you took my heart when you left
Without your sweet kiss
My soul is lost, my friend
Tell me how do I begin again?
My city's in ruins
My city's in ruins

This third verse is perhaps the most interesting, in that it turns even more personal—whereas before the singer was chronicling the sad state of his surroundings, here he pulls the camera in much closer...much, much closer, all the way into the bedroom, where we find that his beloved is gone. Was her departure deliberate, premeditated? Or the result of a horrific act of violence? We don't know and it doesn't matter, not right now: all that matters is the devastation it's wreaked upon the narrator. 

Springsteen mentions the lost lover's sweet kiss, a motif he touched upon repeatedly throughout the rest of the album. But even more interesting is the way he seems to conflate the animate and inanimate here. When he cries "my city's in ruins" this time, it feels less like he's bemoaning the downfall of his town, and more as though he himself has somehow become it, or it him, as though their fates are so inextricably entwined, they have become each other. Springsteen has often personified objects—highways that are alive, calliopes that sneeze and wheeze, dictaphones that possess nervous systems. He's even dabbled in chremamorphism, as in the dreamlike final verse of "My Beautiful Reward." But this here is something new for him—something perhaps new for rock and roll. 

And then he's into the final verse, a simple repetitive recitation, and the kind of call-and-response for which gospel is famous.  

Now with these hands,
With these hands,
With these hands,
I pray Lord
With these hands,
With these hands,
I pray for the strength, Lord
With these hands,
With these hands,
I pray for the faith, Lord
We pray for your love, Lord
We pray for the lost, Lord
We pray for this world, Lord
We pray for the strength, Lord
We pray for the strength, Lord

The repeated chant "with these hands" leads to the obvious followup "I pray for the strength, Lord." But because, before that, it follows the words "my city of ruins," the line "with these hands" first leads one to think of rebuilding, of the very real hard work of manual labor, of hands clearing away the wreckage and beginning again with literal tools and physical materials and very human sweat.

And note who prays: not just "I," but "we." And they pray, and they pray, and they pray. And then they—and not just he—once again exhorts the listeners to rise up, and if it's now clearly the kind of triumphant call for the congregation to stand, it's not only that. There's also the sense of encouraging the listeners to pick up tools and get to work in this life, as the backing vocalists become first Springsteen's equal in the mix and then nearly overwhelm him. 

Come on
Come on
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up
Come on, rise up

And then, exhausted, they sing the descending line yet again, and sink into silence, leaving only the piano to doggedly repeat the line by itself, falling, falling, falling into a state of semi- but seemingly not full musical resolution, the fate left hanging, until only silence is left. 

My Best Was Never Good Enough

Bruce Springsteen's 1995 album The Ghost of Tom Joad was an odd creature. Largely acoustic during an era of loud rock music—much as Nebraska was an (almost) entirely acoustic collection released during the heyday of British synth-pop—it was his only album of new material released in the 90s, after the disappointments of the twin LPs Human Touch and Lucky Town at the beginning of the decade. 

It was a good album—considerably better than Human Touch, although that's not exactly saying much—but (despite winning a Grammy for Best Contemporary Folk Album) connected with the general public even less than the Human Touch and Lucky Town albums had, and no surprise: it can't have helped the album's commercial prospects that the economy in 1995 was far more robust than it had been back in 1982.

 But staying in the musical realm, The Ghost of Tom Joad was, like Nebraska, quiet and downbeat. Unlike Nebraska, however, its somber lyrics weren't at least occasionally leavened by more uptempto tracks such as "Johnny 99" or the more lighthearted "Open All Night." Perhaps even more to the point, Nebraska, for all its dark tone, didn't skimp on the tunes. They weren't the singalong good time melodies of "Hungry Heart" or "Dancing in the Dark," but they were hummable and catchy. The music for many of the songs on The Ghost of Tom Joad felt somehow even more skeletal than the simple single fingerpicked guitar on Nebraska. Some of the best songs—"Highway 29" or "Straight Time," for instance—took repeated listenings to sink in, a common enough occurrence for a Springsteen song...but that was usually lyrically; here, even the music took effort to dive into. But on several of the songs—especially the penultimate track, the lyrically excellent but musically interminable "Galveston Bay," the only 17 hour, 29 minute and three second long song in Springsteen's entire career—Springsteen seems to have actually forgotten the need for melody at all. 

That's not the case with the album's final track. "My Best Was Never Good Enough" may be the single catchiest tune on the entire LP. And unlike some of the more challenging songs, such as "Sinaloa Cowboys" or "The Line," the lyrics grab the listener's attention from the beginning. That's because they're composed almost entirely of cliches. 

It's deliberate, of course—a writer of Springsteen's attention to detail doesn't open with a line like "every cloud has a silver lining, every dog has his day" without being fully aware of what he's doing—and enjoyable, as the song piles stock phrase on stock phrase to achieve a Tower of Babylon of pat, empty platitudes. Combined with the catchy melody, it's an agreeable respite from the almost overwhelmingly grim timbre of the rest of the album.

The problem is...it doesn't work. Or, rather, it does, to some extent, but not well enough. The whole is no more than the sum of the parts. There's no revelation, and even what was supposed to be some sort of final twist at the end ends up being...nothing. It's not even sound and fury. It's just sound, albeit a mildly pleasant one. It tries for both humor and depth and doesn't quite achieve either.  

Had "My Best Was Never Good Enough" been released as a b-side, it would have been utterly delightful. Or Springsteen could have saved it for the subsequent tour, which saw him playing several similar songs live, in a justified attempt to pierce the darkness of the (outstanding) shows; alongside songs such as "Sell It and They Will Come," "It's the Little Things that Count" or the filthy "Pilgrim in the House of Love," "My Best Was Never Good Enough" would have been a highlight. But it's simply not up to the task of closing a Bruce Springsteen album: ironical, really, given the title. It was good...but not good enough. Not nearly good enough. Because it wasn't his best—it was no "New York City Serenade" or "Jungleland," no "Reason to Believe" or "My Hometown," certainly no "Wreck on the Highway" or "My Beautiful Reward." What it was was simply the weakest original song Springsteen had yet closed an album with. Which is a shame. The Ghost of Tom Joad deserved better.

My Best Was Never Good Enough 

Every cloud has a silver lining, every dog has his day
She said, "Now don't say nothin' if you don't have something nice to say."
The tough, now they get going, when the going gets tough
But for you my best was never good enough

"Now don't try for a home run, baby, if you can get the job done with a hit"
Remember, "A quitter never wins and a winner never quits"
"The sun don't shine on a sleepin' dog's ass"
And all the rest of that stuff
But for you my best was never good enough

"If God gives you nothin' but lemons, then you make some lemonade"
"The early bird catches the fuckin' worm
Rome wasn't built in a day"

"Now life's like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get"
"Stupid is as stupid does and all the rest of that shit"

Come on pretty baby, call my bluff
'Cause for you my best was never good enough

My Beautiful Reward

By the time spring 1992 rolled around, Bruce Springsteen hadn't been the biggest name in rock and roll for five or six years. Nevermind, Ten, Achtung Baby, Blood Sugar Sex Magik and Metallica's black album had all been released, as well as Use Your Illusion I and II (not to mention Appetite for Destruction from the previous decade). Still and all, Springsteen was more than a big enough name that there was considerable interest and anticipation in his first new album in five years, never mind his first two non-E Street Band albums, released the same day. 

There was therefore considerable disappointment when, it was only grudgingly admitted, the albums weren't really Boss-worthy. After eight studios albums that were not only more or less home runs (giving the debut more than a little benefit of the doubt) but which also showed remarkable growth from album to album, Human Touch and Lucky Town were incredible letdowns. Turned out Bruce Springsteen was not only human after all but very, very human indeed. 

A lot of people gravitated towards Lucky Town from the first. Some otherwise extremely astute observers thought they detected at least a whiff of latent racism behind that, given that Human Touch was a soul record, and Lucky Town was more or less straightforward rock and roll of the kind Springsteen had been able to write and play in his sleep for years. And given the makeup of most of Springsteen's audience, it's sadly far from an unreasonable theory. 

It was only with that magical 20/20 hindsight that Lucky Town's reputation has revived considerably. Part of that is that its sound (read: mainstream albeit at least slightly stripped down rock and roll) is more accessible to most of Springsteen's hardcore fans. Some of it might be that it's virtually all Springsteen, the boss playing all the instruments himself, joined only by a drummer and a very few other additional instrumentalists on a small number of songs, as compared to Human Touch with its cast of thousands.

But most of it is that the songs are simply better—indeed, significantly better. The weakest track on Lucky Town is at least the equal of and possibly superior to even the best song on Human Touch. Still, by dint of its association with Human Touch, Lucky Town is generally considered one of Springsteen's weakest albums. Which, hey, for any artist, even one of his stature, some record's gotta be the least great, so that's fair. 

What isn't fair—not that anyone needs to shed any tears for the critically-acclaimed world-famous millionaire family man in seemingly spectacular health—is that a lot of truly first-rate songs get consequently overlooked. "Local Hero" is not only one of his funniest songs, it's an incisive but not self-pitying look at the transience of fame. "Book of Dreams" and "If I Should Fall Behind" are gorgeous love songs, "Leap of Faith" the powerful (and semi-profane) flipside of the entire "Tunnel of Love" album and "Living Proof" one of the best takes on the joy (and terror) of parenthood, deftly balanced by the sheer terror and anguish of losing a loved one in "Souls of the Departed." For any other major artist, this album would be a career highlight; for Bruce Springsteen it's a low point. 

And then there's its closing track, "My Beautiful Reward." 

My Beautiful Reward

The opening is simply lovely, just a pair of acoustic guitars being picked in time to a gentle hi-hat accompaniment. Soon the full drum kit will be joined by bass and a subtle organ part played by the late Ian McLagan, but for this brief moment, it's still pastoral and intimate. 

Then the vocals enter, Springsteen showing off the newly prominent southern twang he'd adopted for this album and which he'd use almost (but not quite) exclusively for the next two decades plus.  

Well I sought gold and diamond rings
My own drug to ease the pain that living brings
Walked from the mountain to the valley floor
Searching for my beautiful reward
Searching for my beautiful reward

On the rest of the album, especially but far from exclusively on "Local Hero," Springsteen had already taken aim at his image as the all-American rock god, pure and unsullied in his rock and roll ethics. No drug busts, no selling out to commercials, no tour sponsorships, no crazy huge mansions on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous or blood transfusion or attempts to buy the Elephant Man's bones: Springsteen was far too pure for that. All he needed was rock and roll to sustain him. And yet here he—or his protagonist—is openly stating that's simply not true, that rock and roll was not enough for him, that he indeed sought in material possessions for something to numb his own personal unhappiness. 

From a house on a hill a sacred light shines
I walk through these rooms but none of them are mine
Down empty hallways I went from door to door
Searching for my beautiful reward
Searching for my beautiful reward

Once again, as with the first verse, only more so—second verse not quite same as the first—Springsteen's lyrics become, well, a tad more lyrical than had been the standard in his career, certainly since he toned down the Dylanesque wall of words before or with his third album. But here his lyrics, always several notches above most very good songwriters, whether overly verbose in his early years or extraordinarily incisive from Born to Run on, become more overtly poetical than is customary for his writing, with its continuing use of metaphor, an almost unknown facet of writing for him. Symbolism Springsteen used, often and deftly, from the very beginning, but metaphor wasn't one of his common tools. 

Also out of the ordinary for him is the additional dip into a minor chord on the word "rooms"—such chord substitutions aren't a regular feature of his writing—lending a certain extra bit of darkness to this verse, a darkness present neither in the first verse nor rest of the song. 

Well your hair shone in the sun
I was so high I was the lucky one
Then I came crashing down like a drunk on a barroom floor
Searching for my beautiful reward
Searching for my beautiful reward

The bridge highlights the unusual writing in the verses, as it features a little bit of simile, but no metaphor—much closer to Springsteen's normal style. 

Tonight I can feel the cold wind at my back
I'm flyin' high over gray fields my feathers long and black
Down along the river's silent edge I soar
Searching for my beautiful reward
Searching for my beautiful reward

This final verse is interesting, in that this most famously realistic writer of blue collar rock and roll, who'd already in the first two verses explored metaphor, suddenly veers off into dreamlike imagery or even a foray into chremamorphism. And the river reference, as most of the instrumentation drops back out, is surely no accident, not for a writer of his careful, considered nature. 

The song ends, as do so many of Springsteen's studio recordings, with a fadeout, underscoring the fact that he still seems to be searching for his elusive prize. And if it hasn't yet been located—and the repeated chord progression for this section would seem to make plain it hasn't, as the stability of the tonic chord is buried between the unresolved dominant and subdominant chords—the tone isn't one of dejection or resignation but rather a placid serenity. He's still searching, and he's enjoying the quest. 

audio visual

The 8-year-old is at the kitchen table, practicing drawing lessons from one of the roughly seventeen thousand how-to books Top Management has acquired over the years. She begins humming a song she and I had sung—or, more accurately, "sung"—together a few nights earlier: Bob Dylan's "Stuck Inside of Mobile (with the Memphis Blues Again)," a song that, for reasons even I don't entirely understand, is one of the songs I play most frequently on the guitar and which she and her 13-year-old sister therefore have a certain fondness for. 

I decide to play the original and call it up on the iTunes. The Golden Weasel listens for a few verses and then says, "he doesn't sing it like we do," which is very true. She then wonders, "why does he talk it instead of singing it?"

I explain about style and technique and touch upon the differences between sprechstimme and sprechgesang and the history of each. 

The next song comes on, another we'd sung—"sung"—together the other night. She listens to the first few verses and then, judging by the affectionate smile on her face, thinking she's bestowing upon her parents her highest compliment, she says, "this is yours and mommy's song." 

The song? 

"It Ain't Me, Babe."  

 

Go 'way from my window
Leave at your own chosen speed
I'm not the one you want, babe
I'm not the one you need
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who's never weak but always strong
To protect you an' defend you
Whether you are right or wrong
Someone to open each and every door
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me babe It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.

Go lightly from the ledge, babe
Go lightly on the ground
I'm not the one you want, babe
I will only let your down
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who will promise never to part
Someone to close his eyes for you
Someone to close his heart
Someone who will die for you an' more
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.

Seems her talents for drawing doesn't extend to lyrical analysis. Or maybe she just doesn't know the word ain't.

contented...

...in the mighty wiki, if not the official dictionary, is a shot of me with all four of my daughters, watching Randy Newman on Austin City Limits. The Bean was there from the first—if there's some sort of music thing on the tube, she's there. The others drifted in when they heard him singing Toy Story's "You've Got a Friend in Me," but (perhaps aided by homemade chocolate chip cookies) stayed for the duration. The middle two marveled at his piano prowess. They all agreed "We Love L.A." should be our friend Krissy's ringtone. The Golden Weasel picked up a new nickname, courtesy her older sisters: Short People. And all four hung on every note and syllable of the finale.  

Not the worst hour of my life.  

Dear Heart

Why try to tell the love of my life what she means to me when I can have Isaac Hayes do it ever so much better?  

What he said. 

Übërsphïnctër

I am the entire first page of hits for Übërsphïnctër.

I just thought that needed to be noted. Especially on this, such a fine, fine Christmas Eve. 

Happy Festivus, one and all. 

a logical solution

Still trying to recover from a wonderful but exhausting Thanksgiving week, I pop Fantasia on for the first time in many years, so many that the 12-year-old is the youngest to remember it.

Top Management keeps muttering "Leopold! Leopold!" in wonder and awe.

The 7-year gasps when the Sugar Plum Fairies appear and doesn't seem to realize she's singing along with the entire Nutcracker Suite. 

The 4-year-old could not possibly care less about Bach's Toccata and Fugue in d minor, but gets sucked in by the sadly racist "Chinese Dance." Which means he's totally ready for The Sorcerer's Apprentice. 

I keep an eye on him because it's late enough that I fear nightmares—as in, I tremble in fear at the idea of him having one in the middle of the night; he gets up to use the bathroom at least a few times a week, and that's more than enough of a interruption to my meagre sleep as is. 

And sure enough, his grip on the lego stack he's holding keeps getting tighter and tighter the worse things become for ol' Mickey, and his eyebrows are drawn down lower and lower. Finally, at exactly 9:01 of the embedded clip, the boy can't take it anymore, and he yells at the screen in anguish and anger at the mouse's obliviousness: 

"Take off the hat!"  

Which never even occurred to me. But of course probably would have worked. And then he (maybe) wouldn't have gotten busted. 

I'm impressed and disturbed by his insight and deviousness.

Pony Boy

Human Touch's closing song, "Pony Boy," is perhaps the oddest Bruce Springsteen had yet released—and considering some of its peers, that's stiff competition—and, in retrospect, the way he approached closing songs seems to have changed with this track and this album.

The Springsteen recording is his arrangement of the 1909 song, "My Pony Boy," written (according to the handy wikipedia and the trusty YouTube) by Bobby Heath and Charley O'Donnell and was introduced in the 1909 musical "Miss Innocence." The same year Ada Jones and the Peerless Quartet had a hit with their recording of it. 

Here's an excerpt of that recording.  

My Pony Boy (1909)

(Huge thanks to Zefren Anderson for uploading this to YouTube.) 

For Human Touch, Springsteen tweaked the lyrics and, in doing so, altered the structure, cutting off the introduction, which accounted for nearly 25% of its total time. And simply by dint of his style, Springsteen moved it out of the realm of (Broadway) cowboy music and into a more purely folk neighborhood. (Obviously, there's more than a little crossover between folk and cowboy songs.) He also added a few extra verses.  

Pony Boy 

Pony boy pony boy
Won't you be my pony boy
Giddy-up giddy-up giddy-up whoa
My pony boy

Ride with me ride with me
Won't you take a ride with me
Underneath the starry sky
My pony boy

O'er the hills and through the trees
We'll go ridin' you and me
Giddy-up giddy-up giddy-away
My pony boy

Down into the valley deep
'Neath the eaves we will sleep
Sky of dreams up above
My pony boy

It's intersting how much the last two verses—the new ones—echo/foreshadow the final track on Human Touch's companion LP, Lucky Town, with its dreamy nighttime imagery. It's also a bit humorous how he can't help but make his new verses much more sophisticated lyrically. 

"Pony Boy" is unusual in several ways. It's the first cover on a Springsteen studio album. Sonically, it's worlds away from most of the rest of the Human Touch album, with not a hint of the soul music that makes up the majority of the LP, and absolutely none of the overproduction, as the track mainly consists of a quietly picked acoustic guitar; the ghostly keyboards that enter towards the end of the recording show up later on 1995's The Ghost of Tom Joad album and, especially, the ensuing tour. 

Even without knowing that Springsteen and Patti Scialfa had recently had children, it's nearly impossible to miss that this is a bedtime song sung by a parent (or, more accurately, given Scialfa's lovely harmonies, parents plural). So, thematically, you can more or less see how it sorta kinda fits in with the rest of the Human Touch album, especially given the LP's title. Except that it's the only song like it on the album—the rest deal strictly with the trials and tribulations of adult relationships. (More or less. Some of it's just bizarre macho posing. We'll ignore those for now. And by "now," I mean "hopefully forever.")

But it's not a good fit. The transition from the execrable "Real Man" to "Pony Boy" may be the most awkward in Springsteen's oeuvre. "Pony Boy" works less as a summing up of Human Touch and much more clearly and successfully as a signpost towards the subsequent album, Lucky Town, released the same day. (Not that it really would have been a good fit there, either.) It's easily the sweetest moment on his worst album, and a lovely recording, but still his least successful closing track yet. By a country mile. 

But at least it's better than "Real Man." So there's that. 

"lyrical dissonance"

So Max had to bring a short piece of music, roughly thirty seconds or so, into her first college computer class—some sort of music programming course—and explain why she liked it. It could be just a small excerpt from a longer piece; the entire thing didn't have to be 30 seconds long. Most kids brought in a current pop hit, or a bit of a video game theme, or a snippet of classical from a movie soundtrack.

She brought this.

(That should have started at about 3:06, and her clip ended around 3:42.)

This is what she said about the piece:

"The lyrical dissonance of this clip adds a layer to the song not present in either the words or instrumentals alone; while the lyrics are despondent, hopeless -- 'broken heroes,' 'no place left to hide,' -- the music sounds just the opposite -- not just hopeful, but triumphant.

"Together, they could indicate that things may seem now like it can never get better from here, but that in fact there is still hope, that the narrator and Wendy will someday 'get to that place where [they] really want to go' and 'walk in the sun,' no matter how bleak the future seems now."

If I may just take a moment to say? That's my girl. 

trousers rolled

The good lady wife is out of town this weekend, at the first ever reunion for her original college, which was sold to the Japanese after her sophomore year. (Oh, 1980s...you were wacky and no mistake.)

Took advantage of the absence to allow the girls to play Rock Band, she not being as fond of music at ear-splitting levels as some of us.

After searching the entire house, we were only able to come up with one drumstick, a shocking event, given that I spent the first half of my life attempting to never be more than a few feet from a drumstick at any moment.

Still, the facts were the facts: there were no other sticks to be found. So I grabbed the youngest and headed to Guitar Center to buy a pair of sticks, the first time I'd done so on this coast—I think the previous time I'd bought sticks was back in 2001, in preparation for my short-lived tenure with Gloria Deluxe, as we hit the road for a half-dozen rapturously received live dates in support of their then-newest LP, Hooker.

I slowly move past the plethora of guitars, each and every one of which seemed to be gazing at me with the saddest of eyes, just begging to be adopted. But I'm steely in my resolve, and we go back into the drums section. A kid asks if he can help, and I explain that I'm just there to buy some sticks, some 5As and, given that they're just for a wii game, the cheapest will do.

He grabs the cheapest and plunks 'em down on the counter. They've got a cardboard band around them, holding them together. I look up at the wall of sticks and notice that they're all already paired, wrapped in either plastic or cardboard.

"Do sticks always come in pairs now?" I ask the salesguy.

He looks confused. "Well...yeah."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Have my entire life."

I look at him, effortlessly flaunting his 20 or so years on this planet. And I think back to the ritual of buying new sticks, how you'd ask for, whatever, Vic Firth 5Bs, perhaps, with the nylon tips. And they'd plunk a few dozen sticks down on the counter and you'd slowly roll each one back and forth a few times, to try to find a pair without even a hint of warp. Then you'd tap them against each other, to find the pair that were closest in tone. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you'd find three or four that were just perfect, and you'd feel like you'd found, if not the Holy Grail, at least a damn fine cup buried in the sand. 

And this kid has no idea of how it used to be, and thinks I'm senile. And I don't just feel old, I feel ancient and decrepit.  

 

Valentine's Day

Context is everything. 

I've found that to be a pretty good rule of thumb, in general, but when it comes to Bruce Springsteen's music, especially so. Springsteen himself seemed to recognize this, as illustrated in a story told by Dave Marsh in his book Glory Days. When Ronald Reagan and others first began misinterpreting the songs on Born in the USA, especially (but not exclusively) the title track, Bruce was bemused but not terribly concerned; surely in the context of his entire oeuvre, the meaning was unmistakable. Only once it was pointed out that Born in the USA had sold more than all his other albums combined had did he realize how many of his fans had no knowledge of his previous work and how easily, therefore, they could misconstrue his artistic intent. 

Which brings us to "Valentine's Day," the gorgeous closer to Tunnel of Love, perhaps his most overlooked masterpiece. Of all the times rock and roll has broached the subject of love—which is to say, pretty much as long as rock and roll has existed—only Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks is superior to Tunnel when it comes to entire album-length meditations on the topic. With only a few exceptions, the songs all deal with the difficulties of sustaining an adult relationship. It's only on the final track that the narrator seems to finally realize what he's got and accept that the only path to happiness for him is through the love of his (presumably) wife.

It opens with the singer, as in so many Springsteen songs, driving. True to form, he's driving a big ol' car on the highway at night.  

I'm driving a big lazy car rushin' up the highway in the dark
I got one hand steady on the wheel and one hand's tremblin' over my heart

But unlike the narrator of "Racing in the Street," for instance, or certainly "Stolen Car" or "State Trooper," he's not looking for comfort or saftey in solitude or the open road—this time the road itself is bringing absolutely no peace.

It's pounding baby like it's gonna bust right on through
And it ain't gonna stop till I'm alone again with you

And then, for what was then tremendously rare, Springsteen wrote of fatherhood in unambiguously positive terms: 

A friend of mine became a father last night
When we spoke in his voice I could hear the light
Of the skies and the rivers the timberwolf in the pines
And that great jukebox out on Route 39
They say he travels fastest who travels alone
But tonight I miss my girl mister tonight I miss my home

The bridge is interesting. The narrators ask several (unusally flowery) questions: 

Is it the sound of the leaves
left blown by the wayside
That's got me out here on this spooky old highway tonight
Is it the cry of the river
With the moonlight shining through

But the answer doesn't seem to quite follow logically: 

That ain't what scares me baby
What scares me is losing you

So...he's out on the highway not on business but, apparently, because he's scared of losing her? Meaning, what, that he wasn't due to return home yet? 

We'll get back to that. 

Let's skip, instead, to the final verse:

They say if you die in your dreams you really die in your bed
But honey last night I dreamed my eyes rolled straight back in my head
And God's light came shinin' on through
I woke up in the darkness scared and breathin' and born anew
It wasn't the cold river bottom I felt rushing over me
It wasn't the bitterness of a dream that didn't come true
It wasn't the wind in the grey fields I felt rushing through my arms
No no baby it was you
So hold me close honey say you're forever mine
And tell me you'll be my lonely valentine 

And this is where context becomes vital. Because what finally hit home for the narrator, the huge epiphany he had, was never found when he was actually with her—it all came to him in a dream, when he was miles and miles away from her. So now he's on his way back home to be with her...but he's not there yet. And given that the things that have affected him the most are talking to a friend on the phone and a dream of his girl, it's highly unlikely that these overwhelming feelings of love will last long once they're actually together. The idea of love, his belief in the importance of love, is more powerful than love itself, or at least, than the love he and this woman have for each.

There are several clues that lead to that conclusion. The first is the context of the album: song after song explores just how hard it is to make a relationship work—and even the very few that seem, at first glance, to have things going okay actually reveal, upon examination, serious hidden and potentially fatal flaws in them. ("All That Heaven Will Allow," for instance: again, the narrator is trying to get to the girl but is unable to.)

But the other is right there in the final words. He sweetly asks her to be his valentine. But not his tender valentine or his loving valentine or his gorgeous valentine or his blushing valentine. He asks her to be his lonely valentine. But...what kind of valentine is lonely? Unfortunately, not a truly happy one. 

And yet the keyboard line as the music fades out—one of the extraordinarily rare non-4/4 songs in the Springsteen catalog—is ever so lovely and gentle and soothing that you're tempted to believe things'll work out for them, that they'll live happily ever after. But even there's a hint: he could just as easily have gone with an ascending melody. Instead, it's falling. Beautifully, but inexorably. 

Valentine's Day

My Hometown

Bruce Springsteen has spoken before about how much attention he paid to the sequencing of his albums, the need for strong statements of purpose on "the four corners"—that is, the first and last song on each side of vinyl. While album openers tend to get the most consideration, Springsteen clearly put every bit as much time into thinking about how to close his records. For his six albums he covered an enormous amount of territory, from rock, soul and jazz to prog, country and folk. They include some of his most popular songs ("Jungleland" and "Darkness on the Edge of Town") as well as rarely-played fan favorites ("New York City Serenade") and critical darlings ("Reason to Believe"). With the closing song off 1984's blockbuster Born in the USA, he added pop with a song that went to #6 on the charts and which, as a result of its mass popularity, may be the most overlooked masterpiece of his first seven album closers.

"My Hometown" has several of the classic Springsteen calling cards: cars, fathers and sons, class consciousness, economic uncertainty and the importance and difficulty of hard work. But the most pervasive sense is one of quiet loss. Opening with a pair of scenes from the narrator's childhood—buying a newspaper for his father, and sitting in his father's lap, steering the car as they drive around—it's perhaps the most positive depiction of fatherhood yet in a Springsteen song, free of the angst and tension in "Adam Raised a Cain" or "Indepence Day." 

Of course, that's a relative term, and even here things are far from rosy: the song closes with an identical scene, as the narrator is now the father, driving around town with his own son, allowing him to steer. But it's in the context of conversations the narrator's had  with his boss and with his wife, acknowleding that jobs are scarce and getting scarcer as their town slowly dies, and that their best hope for a decent life likely lies elsewhere, meaning he's going to need to abandon the only home he's ever known.

Sandwiched between those two famililal tableaus are another pair of scenes, one the aforementioned work scene, with the boss warning his workers that their jobs are about to be eliminated, and the other a memory of racial tension back in high school. Interestingly, the scene of racial violence is the only time the title is literally sung, as all other times the narrator actually sings "your hometown." While it's clearly because the other times it's someone talking to the narrator—or the narrator speaking to his own son—the effect is to turn what could otherwise have been a strictly personal meditation into something far more universal.

The mirrored scenes that open and close the song are an effective technique, comparing and contrasting the narrator at eight years old with himself at thirty-five. But the most effective bit is the way he sings "your hometown" one and only one time in the last verse, rather than repeating it multiple times as he had previously throughout the song, allowing the song to gently fade out, the music lovely and gentle but, disturbingly—if like parenthood and life itself—ultimately unresolved.  

My Hometown

Darkness on the Edge of Town II

Darkness on the Edge of Town was the first Bruce Springsteen album I heard when it was new—or, at least, newish; I think it was the summer of 1980 when I heard it for the first time. And for 32 years I've thought the narrator of the title track was related to the narrator of other Springsteen songs such as "Racing in the Streets" and "Adam Raised a Cain" and so many others: guys born into a tough situation struggling against the odds, having a pretty good idea of the score and their chances but not going down without a fight. 

And then the other night a few phrases leapt out at me for the first time and I wondered if I'd had it wrong all these years. And I suddenly realized that it's possible that the narrator is, in fact, a victim of his own vices and weaknesses. Looked at it in a different light, the narrator sounds like he's not so much a guy struggling to beat the odds. No. He's actually a compulsive gambler, and the reason he's lost everything is through his own bad choices brought on by his addiction.

They're still racing out at the Trestles
But that blood it never burned in her veins
Now I hear she's got a house up in Fairview
And a style she's trying to maintain
Well if she wants to see me
You can tell her that I'm easily found
Tell her there's a spot out 'neath Abram's Bridge
And tell her there's a darkness on the edge of town

Everybody's got a secret Sonny
Something that they just can't face
Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it
They carry it with them every step that they take
Till some day they just cut it loose
Cut it loose or let it drag 'em down
Where no one asks any questions
Or looks too long in your face
In the darkness on the edge of town

Some folks are born into a good life
Other folks get it anyway anyhow
I lost my money and I lost my wife
Them things don't seem to matter much to me now
Tonight I'll be on that hill 'cause I can't stop
I'll be on that hill with everything I got
Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost
I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost
For wanting things that can only be found
In the darkness on the edge of town 

Darkness on the Edge of Town 

That's why you can find him in places like Abram's Bridge and on that hill with everything he's got. The blood may have never burned in her veins for the racing, but the implication, therefore, is that it did and it still does for him. He lost his money and his wife and yet he still cannot stop. The compulsion, the addiction is simply too strong. Even with nothing left, he's still chasing that one big win and will forever, no matter what happens, no matter how many times he wins or loses in the meantime. That secret that he just can't face? The secret is this: it's all his own damn fault.