Recently, I celebrated a significant milestone—not my wedding anniversary, which is approaching 15 years, but the 30th anniversary of my very first concert. Can you recall your inaugural concert experience? The mix of exhilaration, anticipation, and pure joy? If your first concert took place in the ’80s, like mine, the ticket price would barely cover a T-shirt today. Iconic bands like U2, REM, Guns N’ Roses, and The Police graced stages, and even pop legends such as Madonna and Michael Jackson were part of the scene.
The band I experienced was already categorized as classic rock in the ’80s, and by teenage standards, they were considered “old.” Yet, I couldn’t have made a better choice for my initial foray into rock music.
“I just got tickets for the Springsteen concert.”
“What? I thought they were sold out?”
“They released a new batch. My dad took me, and I managed to grab four. Want one?”
“How much?”
“Twenty bucks.”
“Well, okay…”
A week later, I found myself in the upper tier of Philadelphia’s Veterans Stadium, occupying seats that would have been in right field had the Phillies been playing. Over three hours later, I emerged from that stadium a transformed individual. The legendary reputation of Bruce Springsteen’s electrifying performances was undeniably accurate. That August evening marked the beginning of my deep admiration for Springsteen and the E Street Band—an influence that has been woven into the fabric of my life during monumental and routine moments alike.
Before that concert, my understanding of Springsteen was limited to radio hits and the ubiquitous “Born in the USA,” which I would crank up only to have my mother request that I lower the volume.
The day after the concert, I embarked on an educational journey about Bruce—who he was, where his passion originated. My first stop was my brother’s 8-track tape of Born to Run. By fall 1985, as a sophomore, I was playing it incessantly. I would lie in bed wearing my oversized headphones, absorbing every chord and lyric. The conclusion of “Jungleland” left me dreaming of escape and victory.
I devoured books and articles about Bruce, tuning into interviews both past and present. I learned about his working-class beginnings, familial struggles, and eventual salvation through music. While I found myself captivated by these stories, it was through the music that I truly connected with him.
I collected Bruce’s albums and bootlegs, playing them until I could recite every lyric. In an era before Google and with minimal liner notes, this was no easy feat. If only I had invested that same effort into studying for the SATs, I might have significantly improved my scores. The songs spoke of dreams chased, a yearning for freedom, and empathy for those facing hardships.
That autumn, I proudly wore my concert T-shirt to school—a tradition at my high school, where attendees showcased their concert experiences. I believed that my newfound musical knowledge would elevate my social status. Like Bruce, I was introverted and reserved. Instead of picking up a guitar to navigate my shyness, I memorized lyrics. Engaging with Bruce’s music made me feel like part of the E Street Band—a collective that not only performed music but shared a deep camaraderie.
“We stood side by side, each one fightin’ for the other. We said until we died we’d always be blood brothers.”
Even though those lyrics brought immense joy, they didn’t necessarily enhance my popularity. A few months post-concert, I was working in a grocery store and spotted a girl I found attractive. I attempted to impress her with a line from “Sandy,” but it fell flat. She certainly wasn’t the last to be unimpressed.
In 2000, while riding with a friend, I heard “My City of Ruins” for the first time. Its emotional depth resonated with me, and I immediately wanted to hear it again. When Bruce performed it at the 9/11 benefit concert, it felt profoundly fitting, as I had witnessed the second tower fall while looking down Fifth Avenue. Could there be a more poignant connection between a song and a moment?
While my admiration for Springsteen never elevated my cool factor, it did ultimately help me connect with the woman who would become my wife. During a blind date, I discovered that she was also a Springsteen fan—having had a poster of him in her room growing up. As she spoke passionately about his music, I simply replied, “I like him too.” Fourteen months later, we were married, and the first song we danced to was Bruce’s “If I Should Fall Behind.”
Since then, we have attended several Springsteen concerts together, including one in 2003 when we were expecting our first child. Who knew that a thrilling experience from my teenage years would resonate throughout my life? Thank you, Bruce, and thank you, E Street Band.
In conclusion, the music of Bruce Springsteen has been a guiding force, shaping not just my musical tastes but also playing a significant role in my personal journey, relationships, and experiences.
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