March 3, 2020
Drive All Night
I first saw Bruce Springsteen at the Montreal Forum in January 1981. The show was on a Friday night and we had stayed at our friend Harold’s grandmother’s downtown apartment because it was walking distance to the Forum. Harold and my friend Bernie were and still are Orthodox Jews, which means that on Friday night they can’t drive all night but are able, depending on who you ask, to listen to Drive All Night.
We arrived clutching tickets procured by our friend Humphrey who, in legendary fashion, was well on his way to having attended over 100 shows.
I was not a concert neophyte. On the contrary, I had seen big names like Zeppelin, The Stones, Dylan, Santana, Elton John, and Van Morrison. And I had heard patter and song introductions before. But nothing like the stories Bruce told before Point Blank, Independence Day, and The River. I would later hear the same intros and same stories, both in concerts and bootleg records but, on that night, he was telling them just to us. Just to me.
Humphrey had his I-told-you-so shit-eating grin when we met him at intermission. Mind-boggling the latter-day Springsteen took fewer, that is to say no, breaks.
The second set decided to take us by the balls. A five-song barrage of relentless rock and roll. Cadillac Ranch, Sherry Darling, Hungry Heart, Fire, and You Can Look But You Better Not Touch. All with a guitar gyrating choreography culminating with the entire band shaking in the front row. It was epic. With Rosalita, Jungleland, and the haunting Drive All Night still to come. Plus Born to Run and the Mitch Ryder Detroit Medley to close the show.
It was revelation. As close to a religious experience, Clarence’s sax sitting in for a shofar, as I have ever experienced.
We walked back to the apartment, a light snow beginning to blanket the city, in a collective daze.
It was the best show I had ever seen. Others would follow. Each with their own magic moments. Trapped in Syracuse, Santa Claus is Coming to Town in Buffalo, an acoustic For You at the CNE. More than a dozen in all. But as I aged and greyed I wasn't so sure I could fist-pump through Badlands any more. I wasn’t ancient, younger than the boss, but maybe I was now more likely to be Born to Nap. The shows were amazing but none captured the wonderment of the first.
My niece Samantha likes to remind me that much of the success I have had in life is because of her. She is kind of right. Sammy is now 28. When she was 2, her parents discovered their first-born was allergic to nuts. I, as the doting uncle, went to buy her a book about it, discovered one didn't exist, and so wrote and published one for her. No Nuts For Me. I sometimes like to say it is the seminal book about nut allergies. Actually, I say that a lot. It launched my career and subsequent business. So she is not wrong. I dedicated the book to her but her attitude is, ‘Okay, that was very nice, but what have you done for me lately.’
So, here you go, Sammy.
Samantha was doing a Masters of Psychology at Columbia and I had yet to visit her in New York. She had come home for Passover and we decided I would fly back to New York with her and hang out. Go to a Broadway show, have a late night grilled cheese at the Seinfeld coffee shop which was near the Columbia campus. And go to the Barclay Centre in Brooklyn and catch Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
Springsteen was still on the road with his River anniversary tour. I had caught it in Fort Lauderdale. The first half was an in-order song-by-song rendition of the double album followed by 12 to 16 greatest hits. The Boss did not disappoint, his energy level still unrivalled, and it had been a great show. He would now be performing it in Brooklyn.
Sammy had never seen Springsteen, but I and her father, my brother, are huge fans, so some of the music would have been the soundtrack of her life. She, like her sisters, knew the hits like Born to Run and Hungry Heart but she was, in preparation, supposed to have listened to The River a few times.
I wanted to take an Uber but she looked at me like I was on drugs and instead expertly navigated us there via subway. Our seats were good. Much better than those I had had at BBT in Fort Lauderdale. The buzz and anticipation was palpable. I know it happens at other concerts but I am not sure it is the same. Sammy ordinarily doesn’t like when her uncle talks to other people but this time she was ready to make an exception. Our section was full of fans. Real fans. 23rd show, 88th show, 19th show this tour including six in Europe. I kept my 12-show total quiet.
She turned to me and said, “This is fucked.”
I said, “I know.”
I have written before about how the internet has taken away some of the joy from the concert experience. Hearing, straining to hear, the first bar, the first few bars, of a favourite song and then the elation which follows. These days setlist.fm will show you the setlist of almost every concert from almost any artist. Most, it is sad to say, don’t vary too much, if at all, from city to city. Springsteen, with his huge inventory of songs, many unrecorded, always mixes it up and delivers surprises. But this tour was set up in a certain way. The first 18 songs would always be the same. And always played in the same order.
Almost everyone in the stadium knew that.
But not Sammy.
Every song came as a surprise.
Every song came as a revelation.
I had played her Drive All Night. She knew it was my favourite. I knew the order. Knew it was coming. But she didn’t. The opening piano notes pierced the Brooklyn night. “Uncle Ronnie, Drive All Night,” she whispered excitedly.
I smiled. “That’s right. Drive All Night. Drive All fucking Night.” And she was hearing it for the first time. And so was I. Through her, vicariously, I was hearing it again for the first time. Like I was hearing it with Bernie and Harry.
The River portion ended and the rest of the concert went by in a blur. We were treated, unfortunately because of his untimely death, with a rare cover of Prince’s Purple Rain.
“Wait what? Is that Purple Rain? Whose song is that?”
And then Trapped. I lied about not being able to pump my fists. Try to sit on your hands during Trapped. It is imfuckingpossible. Both of us punching the sky with the rest of the 20,000.
Then a young girl with a sign saying she knew all the words went on stage and sang Blinded by the Light. It was pretty cool.
And then it was Born to Run. 20,000 strong, including Sammy and I, on our feet belting out the words as if our lives depended on it. Born to Nap my ass… And then we were in a cab heading home.
“What just happened?” asked Sammy.
I just smiled. If you looked closely, you might think it was Humphrey’s shit-eating grin.
“Seriously dude. What the fuck just happened? Does that happen every time?”
I said no. “Sometimes only once. If you are really lucky, sometimes twice. And, if you are really, really lucky, if the stars in the New York sky line up just right, it can happen one more time.”
The end.