Broooooooce (part one)

"Now laying here in the dark, you're like an angel on my chest, just another tramp of hearts crying tears of faithlessness."

Bruce Springsteen has so many lyrics loaded with symbolism and a romantic, poetic sensibility, but that one sentence from his masterpiece "Backstreets" has always been my favorite.  It encapsulates all the reasons I have adored Bruce since my high school years all those decades ago, and if anything, adore him ever more with each passing year.  It's easy for me to envision the scene he describes.  I've had those tramps of hearts who cried tears of faithlessness to me, just as I have been that tramp myself.  Bruce shows us all for what we are, angels and tramps, demons and angels, well-intentioned but fundamentally flawed humans.  He's not your average singer-songwriter singing about beautiful girls and guys who break your heart, he sings about all of us, he is all of us, an average guy trying to do the best with what he's been given.  "So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore; show a little faith, there's magic in the night, you ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright, oh, and that's alright with me," as he put it so eloquently in yet another masterpiece, "Thunder Road."

At the moment when I was born, on February 15th, 1961, in Zagreb, Croatia, there was a complete eclipse of the sun.  My mother, although not exactly a great believer in zodiacs and such, thought that was a significant enough sign that she decided to consult an astrologer, who told her that this meant that I would be very lucky throughout my life, and in the thing that was most important to me, I would be extraordinarily lucky.  Now with the hindsight of 55 years, I am convinced that this one most important thing has been my saga with Springsteen.

I discovered Bruce's music at the tender age of 16 or 17.  I was a pretty young thing at Beverly Hills High School, and yet there was always an old soul inside of me, one who always viewed the glass as half empty.  When everyone else was sighing over the Bee Gees or Abba, as soon as I heard Bruce's breakthrough album, "Born to Run," and, a year or so later, "Darkness on the Edge of Town," I was spellbound.  The spell has never been broken to this day, and now I very smugly congratulate myself with how well I chose my musical hero, because when almost all the other stars of the day have faded  or disappeared entirely, Bruce still keeps putting out meaningful music which never fails to speak to me and lift me up.  And don't even get me started on Bruce's live shows.  Just this year, at the age of 68, he broke his own record and performed over 4 hours non-stop.  I was fortunate to see him 3 times this past year, and as always, his truly unbelievable energy and enthusiasm, love for the music and his audience, his exhilarating stage show, left me soaked to the skin with perspiration and euphoria.  I can safely say that his concerts have been the closest things to religious experiences I've ever experienced, and I am fervently thankful that they continue to this day to be the same level of perfection that they were when I was first fortunate to see him, in October of 1980.

Although I loved Bruce's music during high school, I never got lucky enough to see him live during that time.  Either I was away during summer vacation, when he had his legendary concert at the Roxy nightclub, or tickets sold out before I had a chance to buy them.  I remember one time a friend of mine, Steve Auerbach, drove to San Francisco to see Bruce perform at a small club.  I was pea-green with envy, and couldn't wait for him to get back.  When I asked, "how was it???"  He answered simply, "it was the best night of my life."  A couple of years later, I'd learn for myself that he wasn't exaggerating.

I was a sophomore in college at UC Berkeley in 1980 when finally the opportunity presented itself to see my idol live.  He was performing two nights at the Oakland Coliseum, and my boyfriend got us tickets for the second night.  I excitedly counted the days.  A week or two before the show, one of my housemates, Sean, told me he had tickets for the first night, and would I go with him.  I felt sorry for Sean because he was extremely socially inept, and always too shy to ask a girl on a date.  I told him this would be the perfect opportunity for him to get himself a date, since Bruce was the hottest ticket in town.  He said, "ok, but if I can't get anyone to go with me, will you go with me?"  I told him I would, though I was certain he wouldn't have any problem getting himself a cute chick to accompany him.  I'm sure he didn't even bother trying, because the afternoon of the concert, he presented himself in the doorway of my room, asking if I was ready to go.  Oh, Sean!  He will now forever have the distinction of having been my companion the first time I laid eyes on the greatest hero of my life, in the flesh.

To say that Bruce electrified the arena, would be like saying that Thomas Edison brought about a minor change in illumination.  This man was a live wire of kinetic energy that was completely unstoppable, a walking, running, talking, singing, whirling incarnation of megawatt passion for music that was telegraphed in every word he sang, every charming tale he told the audience, every drop of sweat that poured out of him as he gave everything he had, which was about as much as I think it's possible for anyone to have, to us, his audience.  Years before, a rock critic who later became his manager, Jon Landau, saw Bruce perform at a club in Boston.  In his review, he wrote, "I have seen rock n' roll future, and its name is Bruce Springsteen."  Those words, and the words of Steve Auerbach, rang in my ears together with Bruce's music that unforgettable night in Oakland.  As he sang the songs I'd loved for years, and new ones I'd just come to discover on his newest album, "The River," I felt a sense of magic I'd never felt before.  I was riveted, mesmerized, glued to the spot.  The songs I already loved so much came to life in a way I'd never have been able to imagine, they seeped into my soul and psyche, they became a part of my very DNA the way this genius of music, of life, interpreted them.  After nearly 4 hours of the most exhilarating performance I'd ever seen, I was not nearly ready to leave the arena, and the only way Sean was able to drag me out, is because I had the knowledge I'd be back again the next night.

But that was just the beginning.  Bruce was playing 3 shows the following weekend in LA, at the Sports Arena.  I immediately booked a flight, drafted a couple of friends, and trekked to the Sports Arena all 3 of those nights, looking for people selling tickets, since the shows were all sold out.  Back in the day of 1980, it was easy to get tickets for very reasonable prices, and we succeeded all of the nights.  By the end of my 5th Bruce concert in the space of 10 days or so, I was a full-fledged apostle, ready to follow my messiah to the ends of the earth...or at least all over California, New York, Connecticut,  or London, all places where I was fortunate enough in future decades to be able to attend these events, which were miracles to me.  There would be times over the years which were unthinkably difficult for me, times when I felt myself free falling into deep depression, when I'd stay in bed all day, for days, unable to find a reason to get out of bed.  I'd wonder then if perhaps I was clinically depressed, if I should perhaps take some medication.  But then I'd read that the sure sign of depression was that nothing brought you joy, and when I'd put that test to myself, I always failed, because there was always one thing that, no matter how awful everything else in my life was, never failed to bring me joy: the music of Bruce and, most especially, his concerts.