When I was in college, along about 1978 or '79, my friends, Jack and Lilli, were huge Bruce Springsteen fans. So much so that, even though I only liked a couple of his tunes, I decided to pick up Born to Run, which was already then considered a classic. I figured that if these two people, whom I loved and respected, were so crazy about him, I should at least give him a good listen. I played the disc a couple of times and put it away, still wondering what all the fuss was about.

A few weeks passed. It was the Christmas season, and I was spending the morning and afternoon of Christmas Eve shopping. It was a cold, rainy day spent navigating streets clogged with other last-minute Santas who, like me, had procrastinated themselves into a tizzy.

I popped Born to Run into the car stereo as I pulled out of my driveway that morning and didn't stop listening to it all day long. Something clicked; perhaps a little familiarity did the trick but I was now hooked by the passion and conviction behind this music. That evening, after making all my gift purchases, I went to three different record stores, seeking out the rest of Bruce's albums. I was now a certified fan.

My timing was lousy, though; much of Springsteen's legend is based on his incendiary live shows. In the early days of his career, Bruce made several concert appearances in Oklahoma but those days were over. He hasn't played the Sooner State since I bought my first album and getting a decent seat for a Springsteen show in the NYC city area requires major connections or perhaps a second mortgage, not easy to acquire when one rents. I had pretty much resigned myself to the notion that I would never see the Boss in concert.

I rolled into Cleveland this evening, checked into a suburban motel and bought a local paper so I could see what was doin' in town. Let's see, Quayle's stressing family values, the Mets lost again, Buffy the Vampire Slayer's showing, Springsteen's playing at the Coliseum -- SPRINGSTEEN'S PLAYING AT THE COLISEUM!!! I called, there were a few seats left and, in no time, I was in the Escort, headed south. It turned out to be a trek of some 30 miles to the arena and it was only five minutes until showtime. I hoped Bruce had the same tendency toward starting late that most rock acts do.

He did indeed. I was in my seat at 8:05, 35 minutes after the show was scheduled to start, and only missed one song. Bruce onstage was everything I'd ever heard he was. He made that huge arena feel like a corner tavern, with the regulars dancing in the aisles. The roar of the crowd at this show was louder than any I've ever attended and I've been to dozens.

He did many tunes from his two recent releases, along with plenty of old faves. Those two new discs, Human Touch and Lucky Town, got so-so reviews and it's been suggested by some critics that his days of mega-stardom are over (that's fine by me, I somehow prefer artists with small-but-loyal followings). I suspect that Bruce doesn't worry much about that. He answers his critics by hitting the road and rocking the house like no one else can. He may not be topping the charts like he did in the mid-'80s but he's still working his tail off. Name another entertainer who's reached the level of stardom and financial success that Bruce has reached yet still walks onstage and kicks ass for three hours and 45 minutes night in, night out, with the crowd screaming for still more. You know, Bruce is currently the same age Elvis was when he died, 45 years old. Elvis' last concert, in Indianapolis in August of 1977, lasted 45 minutes.

Continue on the American Odyssey.
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