Bruuuuuuce! An Awakening
Monday. The first day of the work week for most. Children are back at school. A snap back to reality. Met by many upon the first eye flutter of the day with disappointment, perhaps an edge of anger, or maybe resignation. This Monday though was altogether different. This was the day after a Bruce Springsteen concert.
It was not met with anger or resignation, exhaustion yes, but nothing as tedious as resignation. I had seen more. I had surpassed Mondays.
Watching Bruce in concert – I hope it’s okay to call Bruce by his first name, akin to calling the sun a rock – was not like watching a concert at all. Sure there was a stage and ticket prices are bracing, but it was The Experience of Bruce. It was a frenzy, a transcendence, an awakening. It was dancing, it was laughter, it was crying with 20,000 or so of your closest, raucous friends for the duration. Now that’s an evening. And on a Sunday too!
The “I laughed, I cried, I was reborn” cliche most certainly was evident here.
As I entered the arena, once again I was surprised to see other people here. Yes, not living under a rock, I know he has a few fans, but I am here to see him and how is he going to see my adoration and good will with all these others people in the way, waving their signs, their hands, and whatever other body part they feel so moved to shake? I am here, right behind the stage, transfixed by the mere thought that we are in the same enormous building. Bruce is in Canada! Me too! Same air. Does it smell more poetic? Sure, I am attending the experience with my equally devoted sisters and good friend, so they can stay, but all the others? I’m going to need a minute.
Wait, let me check them out. They seem ok. There are more white haired people than I remembered last time. Wait. I am more white haired than the last time. Oh. I am more tired than last time too. That’s unsettling. However, the importance of the white hair and the tired quickly fade and I am left breathless as I wait for the one and only Bruce and the E street Band.
As I wait in my tiny Scotiabank seat sitting unnaturally close to the stranger beside me, I begin to ponder the first of many ponderings this night. Do these people love him as I do? Have they been gutted by his ability to acknowledge the human spirit in all its beauty and foibles and then been caressed and comforted by his ability to lift you up out of that same depth? Well, I suppose by the urgent pleas for song requests and unquestioning obedience to his return commands, I suppose they do. Let’s see your hands! Here they are! Get loud! Of course! Quiet now! You can hear a pin drop. Are you tired! NO! What do you need, our fearless leader? We are yours to command. Blind followers? Not on your life. You can’t appreciate songs like “Long Walk Home” and “I’ll see you in my dreams”and be blind followers. Do you know what that man can do with a harmonica? He can bring a crowd to their feet with one arched eyebrow.
The thing with this kind of fan devotion is based on reciprocity. No, I suppose he wouldn’t buy one of my t-shirts if I had any to sell for a dollar let alone $65, and okay fine he doesn’t know my name, but this relationship goes well past that. Our relationship I realize begrudgingly isn’t exceptional. He has that connection with each of us. This is extraordinary. Try getting a much smaller roomful of people together to discuss life, death, marriage, children, love, loss, anger, the economy and tell me how many times people are insulted, find someone overbearing, or interrupt. It’s a nightmare most times. Here, Bruce has each one of us wrapped around his talented guitar playing fingers and we love it. At the concert, we were sitting behind a man in a top bun, beside two brothers who have seen him “not much” they said, 20 times, in front of people I would say at least in their 70s, and one row down a teen and a young man about 20. If you looked around the arena, all you see is movement. Good dancers, bad dancers, fists pumping, swaying, an occasionally ill timed gyration, toe tapping, head bobbing. Makes no difference. You can practically see the acceptance in this expression. And you can hear their love. Screaming, clapping, bursts of exclamations, feet dancing. Upon the start of “I will see you in my dreams” a woman behind us during a rare silence just said, “wow”. I think this might have been at this point all she could utter. Rendered obvious. He is a performer who knows what we want and seems delighted we beg for more. His joy is devoured by the audience and that seems only to fuel him for the next gift of song.
Looking around the arena, a vision of the Roman coliseum comes to mind. Less gore and the thrill of death I admit happily, but it is reminiscent in its intrigue. So many people focused on one event and the frenzy continues. Outside of live concerts, we have the ability to see so much unlike those in the colosseum in its heyday. Technology has allowed us great conveniences, but this real life experience can’t be streamed. “Road Diary”, the latest documentary of this tour, can be watched the next day when jonesing for the next hit of Bruce and it’s a fascinating reflection but not the real deal.
When the lights come on at a bar, or so I remember, reality kicks in. Beer goggles clear just a little and the dark cloudy room reveals the slightly dishevelled and the glassy-eyed for what they are. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here is the general message. When the lights come on for Bruce, he’s now warmed up and we are on the edge primed for our next journey. What adventure awaits? Home? Why? We aren’t done here yet. I’m here now with all these people and that one man. Our leader. I suppose given the odds I am a stone’s throw away from someone whose political leaning contrasts sharply with mine, but waiting expectantly in this giant venue for this time you would never know there wasn’t just one shared mindset – the commonality. We have all known love, loss, sadness, mortality. We are for those moments, one. And Bruce knows. As real as the tiny seat and, I imagine, the feel for him of his guitar – swoon – the connection is almost tangible. You could attribute the glow to the lighting, but if connection had a colour it surely would be visible as this gentle glow.
He is now pointing to sections of the audience. I nudge my sister’s arm in case she might miss his pointing. He’s pointing! He says show me you aren’t tired. Pointing again. As cued each section goes wild. Tired? Possessed more like it. Show me your hands! How high, sir? We are all in.
Finally, he ends the night. We are spent. But we only leave out of respect. If he participated in a Bruce-a-thon that evolved to him twiddling his thumbs, how long would that crowd have stayed enraptured? We might still be there.
For those hours we knew each other. The man beside me, the white haired among us, the young dancing away. I got you. The man beside me asked my favourite Bruce song. His is “Trapped” by the way due to the drums. Mine is “The River” and given how depressing mine is we agreed I shared too much of my psyche right then in those tiny seats. But then by attending and appreciating, I guess we all did. Can’t really enjoy Bruce superficially. It’s bone deep.
There is a silence amongst my sisters and I directly after the concert. Finding the train we board mere shells of the women we arrived. Drained. Spent. From giddy to exhausted. If you can imagine a rollercoaster big enough to fit us all, Bruce is in the front car with the band. They have a few cars given the band is so big. I’d say he is the designer and operator of the ride, but he’s right there with us. Then the fans are taken up and down and up and higher yet and plummeted. Not one of us is nauseous despite the emotional movement. Some sob in delight and sadness, some scream for both reasons as well. Never has there been a more exciting ride.
What did we like? What were we less familiar with? Did he play the same set in Montreal? We hear the same questions chorused throughout the train. The bond has not yet broken.
It’s taken me four days to articulate the experience. I owe this to the witnessing of a musical miracle. I am sure Bruce would have been very successful at all kinds of vocations, albeit his charisma may have been distracting, but we are witnessing a man and his calling. This man has honed his craft over decades. Simply and beautifully he said “it’s too late to stop now”. That’s the way it is with relationships. They leave a mark and a memory and they become a part of you.
I am glad to bear witness to his calling. Is it religious? Certainly spiritual. Is the entire event staged? Absolutely and we are delighted to buy into it. This man has done all this – the music, the band, the crowd. It’s his design. The evening opens up old wounds of reflection, love and hope – an intimate psychotherapy session for
20, 000. It’s a big couch. That’s the Monday hangover. Instead of swearing never again will I dance too hard on a Sunday night, I stumble around the house trying to soothe my musically induced hangover by buying a Springsteen t-shirt. Hair of the dog and all that.