I DON’T BELIEVE IN JESUS—but I
believe in
Bruce Springsteen.
All my life I’ve heard people preach the gospel of both notable
figures—their eternal relevance, their compassion, their dashing
good looks in a pair of torn Levi’s and a leather jacket (okay, maybe
that was just Springsteen)—but neither resonated with me. That
was until a handful of years back I found myself at rock bottom,
swallowed whole by an eternal void and emptiness that longed to be
filled. But there was a book, a single book that understood my pain,
the
vacant feeling festering inside, and it gave me the answers
that I so longed for. That book was the liner notes inside Bruce
Springsteen’s Nebraska, and upon first listen, the clouds
parted, a miracle occurred, and I was baptized in the holy water of the
Jersey Shore.
I was saved.
Much like the Son of God, splayed on a cross, Springsteen is a rock
deity of iconic stature. His words, his message, and his actions have
blurred over time as his devoted followers continue to glorify certain
achievements endlessly (see Born to Run), while unnecessarily
justifying others (“Hey, Human Touch wasn’t so bad”), and
standing up for an era when The Boss was donning a bolo tie (Tunnel
of Love). Religion is all about context and zeal, and it’s hard to
not twist the very words of “Thunder Road” until they represent
escapades of your reckless youth, right down to the rippling dress of
Mary as her screen door slams. And the zeal, well, that comes easy when
your messiah is a showman from the Jersey Shore who draws you in with a
carnival barker’s yell, and holds you close like a lover beneath the
dim lights of the pier.
And like the carpenter from Bethlehem, Springsteen is a miracle
worker—still somehow able to top the charts even as an elderly
rocker, even in an era where people have ceased purchasing
music—who shies away from claiming his existence is perfect. His
catalog is littered with poor decisions (Lucky Town),
questionable directions (sporting a look we will refer to as “Papa
Grunge” in the early ’90s), and losing a hit song to the satanic
clutches of Manfred Mann’s Earth Band (“Blinded by the Light”), but
still, the man has prevailed. He has maintained his relevance because
his followers are devoted.
There have been Deadheads, Parrotheads, and the screaming girls who
faint when they see Paul McCartney on Ed Sullivan—but
nothing compares to the followers of The Boss. They lack a clever title
because unlike certain demographics with unifying taste in music, fans
of Springsteen are just people. Mill workers, students, stock
brokers… it doesn’t matter. He spoke to the downtrodden bar rockers
in Asbury Park in the ’70s, the pop radio boomers seeking an anthem in
the ’80s, and in the ’90s he… well, okay, he didn’t speak to many in
the ’90s, but the man’s message continues to resonate once more with
the kids today.
He’s the icon that fuels everyone from the Hold Steady to Bright
Eyes to Arcade Fire, an essential element of music in the past,
present, and future. Fans have clutched Springsteen close to their
hearts since the early Stone Pony days, through the lineup shifts and
turmoil, because in him, they see themselves. Even at the height of his
popularity, when Born in the USA felt like it could topple
Thriller as the ultimate statement of ’80s pop perfection, he
was just like us, and we all knew that we could be just like him. The
man’s ragged gospel reached the people and spoke to them—the
young and old, the rich and poor, the rural and urban—in a way
that no one else could.
Like any good messiah, whether on a cross or on a stage, Springsteen
is surrounded by his disciples. The man is only as good as his
surrounding cast, and the E Street Band has ascended from the realm of
nameless backing bands lurking behind a known singer (Quick: Name two
members of Tom Petty’s Heartbreakers? That’s what I thought.), as a
group with nearly as much recognition as the man they support. There’s
Little Steven Van Sandt, Max Weinberg (the man responsible for Conan
O’Brien’s rimshots), Springsteen’s wife Patti Scialfa (no, he didn’t
marry Courteney Cox after pulling her from the crowd in the video for
“Dancing in the Dark.” They just danced. In the dark.), and the
loveable Clarence “Big Man” Clemons. A rock enigma for numerous
reasons, Clemons is an exception to the rule that an obnoxious,
long-winded sax solo does not belong in rock ‘n’ roll—it does,
but only for him. Also, it needs to be noted that the E Street Band has
a few other nameless members, but some disciples are best left unnamed.
I mean, really, when you look at “The Last Supper,” can you name
everyone there?
Springsteen is our very own American Jesus. He’s outspoken, supports
the downtrodden worker, and can—although this has yet to be
proven by modern science, or fact—cure lepers with a delicate
stroke of his guitar-playing hand. Springsteen represents all that is
romantic about this country (fast cars, hometowns with tiny American
flags in their lawns, freedom), and none of what is not (greed, war,
the Bush administration). He does this without ever pandering via
soulless Chevy truck commercials (hey Mellencamp, I’m looking in your
general direction), or changing his message as he’s aged.
In fact, modern-day Boss is more subversive than The Wild, The
Innocent Springsteen of the early ’70s. He went from being vaguely
political to hitting the campaign trail, and from supportive of
progressive causes to active in them. With the exception of Neil Young
(AKA Canadian Jesus), Springsteen has aged as gracefully as any artist
or prophet could hope. When he dies, there’ll be no resurrection. No
three-day weekend spent eating Easter marshmallow peeps and waiting for
him to return, for his legacy lies in songs that will never get old.
Music that will never tire.
Boss bless us all.
Bruce Springsteen performs at the Rose Garden on Friday, March
28.