Born in the USA

The wife comes down as I’m into the third cup of coffee, going on line five of Wordle.
She points to her phone, and my stomach jerks.
I can make out the slanted T of the evil empire: Ticketmaster.
ENJOY.
Fuck.
ENVOY.
Saved, I toss away my pad before I can be mocked with the little Phew!.

“Hey, did you see Springsteen’s in town? Some nosebleeds are left for tonight. The Forum.”
“Springsteen?” says I. “Besides Jesse’s Girl, what else do we know?”
“Har,” says the wife. “What about the bucket list?”

Ah, the bucket list.
We invoke the list whenever an aging rocker blows through town, the possible last chance of seeing an artist in their twilight years.
Morbid as it seems, I kick myself for never seeing Elvis play the Long Beach Arena when I was a jaded 16 year old.
This close to going to the final Tom Petty show at the Bowl.
In recent years we’ve witnessed Bob Dylan mumble a few verses from the shadows, Rod Stewart gamely croak through Maggie May (tuned down a full step).
And the Stones? I took them off the death pool a couple tours ago.

Bruce Springsteen, The Boss?
He seems in great shape, the photos I see. Four hour shows, voice still holding up…..but still. Seventy-Seven?

I go onto the goddamned Spelling Bee puzzle now and shrug.
“Dunno, I’m pretty busy today. Still have the Daily Jumble and Shuffalo to get through, ya know. He’ll be back next year. “

It’s not just being lazy, though there is that.
The thought of getting off the couch and braving the 405 traffic.
A big concert….all those people.
And the parking? Don’t get me started.

But I realize there is more behind my old man grumpiness.
It seems, like a lot of people, I am suffering a general malaise.
A lack of ambition, of motivation.
Of hope?

Oh I dunno, could it be a certain Dear Leader who currently resides at the White House in Florida?
The one who starts wars as easily as you or I order Door Dash?
The guy who kicked off Easter morning with f bombs and vile threats, anything to misdirect us from his moral crimes?

And on this morning as I try to keep myself occupied with word puzzles and lukewarm coffee, he has started a doomsday clock towards 8 pm to end a civilization.
How can I consider going to a concert, when genocide will have commenced (was that Eastern or Pacific time for the kickoff? I get so confused) third song into the set.

But still. What else do we do?
Let the terrorist win?

Oh, I’ve seen Springsteen before, though I wouldn’t really call myself a fan.
Back on the triumphant Born in the USA mega tour, what? 1985?
Kimm and I were gifted two floor seats at the Coliseum, but left thirty minutes into the set when we discovered no more beer was to be sold.
Drunken punk brats, I remember shouting, enough with the Glockenspiel, sheesh! as we left the stadium and headed for the Firefly.

The drive up the 405 is surprisingly light, and we’re tucked in to the lot off Kareem Court well before the 7:30 showtime. I scan the parking lot for the beer bongs and El Camino beds turned dance floors but there is none. The crowd makes their way quietly to the security, oddly sober for a concert crowd.
Has it been that long since my last major concert, and this orderly march toward the militaristic checkpoints the new normal? Or have we all just shattered by the horrors threatened on this day?

The lights go down at 7:40, no opening act.
The hall comes to life now, the unending yells or Bruuuce sounding like a long boo, but of course this is the bovine mating call of the faithful.

Bruce Springsteen comes out alone on the darkened stage, haloed by a white spotlight.
And in the stead of kicking things off with a cleansing rocker or a meditative acoustic number, he addresses the crowd directly, a preacher assuring the flock:
He acknowleges the madness going on outside these walls, prays for the young men and women who may soon be sacrificed to a madman’s vengeful whim.

And then, the stage lights bright and he rips into a rocking version of The Temptation’s War!

With a Dee Dee Ramonesish bark of 1-2-3-4! he rips one banger after another.
Born in the USA now, the song that sounded like a misunderstood flex back in the Reagan yuppie years, now more a guilty confessional.
Death in my Hometown then, sounding like a Dropkicks style Irish reel.

And then, with the opening tumbling chords that are imprinted within my bones, he unleashes an urgent cover of The Clash’s Clampdown!
And now it is my turn to stand up among the Springsteen fanatics and shout along to every lyric.
He gets to the line of evil presidente and I am done.

Whither my Joes, Sirs Shithead and Strummer?
As we cancel our punk festivals, as we snarl at each other over social media sites run by billionaires, as Jello lies in recuperation, is it only Bruce that can turn our rage into music now?

Mid show Bruce comes out alone again, and takes a seat on the apron, as if plopping own on the curb in front of a bar.
A striking moment, he talks in exhausted hushed tones.
He simply states what is happening now.
The truest news, heartbreaking and horrifying when listed in simple language.

Using Setlist FM as my spirit guide, we stand to leave when the encore of Born to Run comes to an end.
There will be a half dozen more songs played of course, but c’mon. The guy has played two and half hours already.
I’m not a fanatic, am I?

As we file out with the other guilty seventh inning traffic dodgers, I am somehow energized after this exhausting day.
A new found appreciation of big rock shows, of the power of music in the darkest of times.

Sofi stadium looms across the way, otherworldly as a ported space ship, and I am reminded that at the moment people float around on the far side of the moon.
Oh, to join them now, and be as far as possible from this madness.
But no, I have just been reminded that there is work to be done here on Earth.

And I know now I have the new leadoff word for tomorrow’s word puzzle, and it’s not ZEBRA. (It’s never fucking ZEBRA).
It’s a good one, with two vowels, the consonant diagraph of th.
Faith.