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So last weekend, K and I had our
once-a-decade venture out to see Arena Rock, this time to see Bruce Springsteen
himself. The last time was to see the Who in Oakland, which we did purely
because a friend of ours had finally, after 20 years of being a pro session
musician in London, managed to get himself on a major US rock tour. We
were rewarded by seeing his nose, projected onto 100 foot TV screens,
as we entered the stadium, and later by hearing lurid tales of the Who
drinking herbal tea and then going back to the hotel with their long-time
old ladies - the days of drowing in groupies having long since past, much
to our friends' disappointment.
Why Bruce, Why Now?
Mostly for completeness I guess - I mean the last time I tried to go see
The Boss was 1975 - the Rainbow (or the Hammersmith Odeon) was sold out,
and I figured I'd get around to seeing him sometime. I'd have been suprised
if you told me it would take 28 years though.
I've always been ambivalent about La Bruce. I mean, what is "Born to Run"
about, anyway? The songs are all kind of low-rent fantasies about how
being a gas-station attendant is actually romantic and heroic, unless
you're The Chick, in which case you will be mournful and then get pregnant
and become a Burden ( "I got Mary pregnant, and that was all she wrote...").
So I've been known to croon along to The River with the best of them,
but it's been a guilty pleasure - a bit like Abba, really, or that one
song by Garth Brooks that I like ("The Dance" - makes me cry - check it
out!). And there's the problem of, err, musicality. I mean, the songs
are not really that musical when you get right down to it. Mostly the
same chords, same texture, same white-boy, clonk-the-drums-on-the-downbeat
kind of drive to them.
Anyway, so we went.
Parked the car a little north of South Park, noticed that as we got out,
a woman got out of the car next to us wearing jeans with embroidered bottoms.
She's about 50. I always tend to think of myself as about 22 years old
when I go to see music, so it's a shock to see people roughly my own age.
Not a good shock, necessarily, either.
Walked to South Park, passing the scene of a strange altercation from
two days before. I'd been sitting at the lights on my bike, minding my
own business, when a voice hollered "hey, ASSHOLE, move over". I didnt
think it could be me, I looked around, couldn't see anybody, so pulled
my Palm Pilot out of my pocket to locate the Minna Gallery, home of a
vintage surfboard exhibit. "hey ASSHOLE, move over or I'll KICK YOUR ASS".
This time definitely aimed at me from a guy hanging out of an SUV two
cars back. Suprised, I cheerfully hollered back, without thinking "Yes,
BABY! Come and let's see you DO IT". He immediately jumped out, at which
point the light changed and I cycled off.
Odd.
Anyway. The South Park Cafe was full. Average age 45+. Lots of noise.
We wandered across to a bistro on the other side of the park. Looked nice
- little tables outside, some sunshine.
Inside, cheerful mayhem. Behind the bar, a rapidly moving blur, which
occasionally stopped, revealing a short latino barman with a big moustache.
The owner wandered by - a nice older guy, looking like a Swiss watchmaker,
but happy, big tufty grey hair. "If you want, zer iz a table" he says
"but you must bear wiz uz - the kitchen is bizy". OK. We get a bottle
of wine from the blur behind the bar - it takes three seconds to arrive.
We suggest some glasses - they are banged down on the bar before we can
finish asking. The blur is has sensed the energy of the evening and is
riding it, no doubt.
We sit down. There is a long pause. We drink half a bottle of wine and
gradually progress our conversation from Roy's current diet, behaviour,
possible character flaws, to actual adult interaction. The food comes.
Ahhh, sausage on cous-cous. Cous-cous is never my favorite, and has been
severly tainted recently by a greeting-card we bought that depicts Boutros-Boutrous
Gali and Yo Yo Ma having dinner. It goes something like this:
Boutros-Boutros: I'll have the Mahi-Mahi
Yo-Yo: how's the cous-cous?
Waiter: so-so.
As we're eating, one of the women waiters comes out of the loo, gesticulating
tensely. Thirty seconds later, the blur goes by, looking serious, and
carrying a plunger. Things do not look good, and we enjoy ourselves by
doing Fawlty Towers riffs: "Is HAMPSTER" "No, Manuel, it's a RAT". etc.
Another two minutes passes, and the blur shoots out of the loo with a
big smile on his face. The owner drifts by & we congratulate him on fixing
the problem so fast - "the barman looked happy" we say. "Well" smiles
the owner, spreading his hands like some kind of living Galic cliche "you
see, he 'as accomplished somesing!".
Finally, we finish dinner and stroll to Pac Bell Park. Suddenly, we are
among The Fans. Drunken men howl "Bruuuuuce" at the top of their lungs.
Women wearing inadvisable Rock Outfits totter by. The lines for hotdogs
are staggeringly long. The people are massive, they require beer, hamburgers,
natchos, cheese...
We find our seats as Buce hits the stage and crashes into "Promised Land".
It's passionate. He means it. Whooo-hooo. I get a little of what I came
for - that wonderful, corny American gigantic we-dont-care-were-being-overwhelmed-by-emotion-thing.
But it doesnt last long. Bruce crashes into the next song. And the next
one. And the next one. They are all passionate. The band is tight. Bruce
is On Fire. But it's one long Rock Thump after another - you cant hear
the guitar solos, you can only hear the bass and drums...
Also, we can only see what's happened on the big TV screens, so the experience
is like watching TV with poor sound with 60,000 people you dont know,
and without the TiVO pause button.
After a long while, Bruce introduces the band. The drummer is having a
great gig - he wears glasses and looks like my elder brother might if
I had one and is beating the crap out of the kit. He actually looks like
he's enjoying playing Johnny Be Good in front of 15 people in a pub rather
than 60,000 rabid Bruce freaks. Ah, now we're over to The Big Man, Clarence
Clemmons! As I understand it, his purpose has always been to lend Bruce
the necessary mantle of being Down With the Brothers. He appears to now
have completely absorbed his purely symbolic role, since he plays only
one solo an hour, which always consists of the same six or seven notes
blasted through his "I could be King Curtis if I gave a shit" buzzsaw
tone. The all-white audience receives his introduction with tremendously
respectful howls. Clarence has spent the last 25+ years allowing them
to be a little bit, well, black, and they are greatful.
A little while later, I realise I'm thinking of having a cup of tea in
the kitchen. I used to resist this notion when we were out and about,
but I now know that it means I really would like a cup of tea in the kitchen.
I ask K what she thinks about leaving early and she says "dont ask me,
mate, I'm here on your behalf", which is usefully precise.
We leave, as Bruce crashes passionately into yet another song that sounds
exactly like all the other ones.
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