My Drive Down Thunder Road

Fellow tramps,

With the LuckyTown digest growing more and more these days, it seems that every other posting is from someone saying "I just got here..." It's a great thing that we've a cyberplace where Bruce tramps from all over the globe collect for our usual jolt of Bruce juice. It's always a pleasure to find other tramps, because as we all know, the appreciation we share for Bruce's music draws from the magic it has given our lives. When sparks fly over E Street...

I grew up in a house of rock'n'roll, where the growth of my appreciation for music was heavily shaped by my father. My dad is at heart a rocker, having thrown some ragin' parties in his time. Although he doesn't play any instruments, my old man (as he refers to himself) listens with the ear of a musician, and understands rock'n'roll as an art form. He is equally at home listening to Duke Ellington (ranked above the Pope in our Catholic household) and Elvis Presley; Ray Charles' In Concert album is considered a sacred tome. During my first ten years, my dad was the rock'n'roll critic for the San Diego Union, and as such amassed a colossal collection of rock albums. Managing the monolith of vinyl went like this: the "good stuff" was in the house, stored in a 6x3 array of LP-sized cubes. The rest went into bookshelves in the garage. The sole criteria in this selection was Dad's opinion. What wound up in the house included Beethoven, Patsy Cline, Ray Charles, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Beatles, Who, Led Zeppelin, Muddy Waters, Willy Nelson, Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry... and that's just what comes to mind. Also in the house was one Bruce Springsteen.

As we grew older, my brother and I delved into this treasure trove, finding what we found and playing what we liked. Because of proximity, we were much more likely to find and play something stored in the house. Myself, I became hooked on the Beatles, and after hearing my friends play Duran Duran or Depeche Mode I would go home and purge myself with Abbey Road. Throughout my childhood, I was aware of Springsteen; in our house, you knew about pretty much everybody, and probably heard them as well. For years, my dad wore a black sweatshirt from The River tour (a promo item from Columbia Records, as I recall). During the Born In The USA period, I knew about Springsteen, sure. I watched the videos on MTV and danced to the songs at the dances. I read about the marathon concerts, saw the Born In The USA t-shirts the day after the show. In my sophomore year in high school, my friend Ian was given the new Live-1975/85 set for Christmas.

We didn't listen to it much, but it was cool to have around. None of my friends were Bruce fans, but even my friend Sam knew enough to tell Ian to turn it down when his girlfriend was sleeping, that "I don't care how low the volume is, War is not a soothing song!" I liked it, though. There was something about the fury in the man's voice, both enraged in "War" and haunting in "I'm On Fire." And it looked like he was having a helluva lot of fun in the "Glory Days" video. I remember asking my dad who the hell was that red-headed chick playing with the E Street Band?

Fast forward to 1989, I'm a senior in high school. I was sick for a few days, and my English teacher told me to write "something creative" to make up the missed work. To this day I don't know why, but I got out the BTR album and played it over and over while writing a short story. My teacher said the story was the best thing I'd written all year, and I agreed with her. I started listening to Bruce a little more intently, and taped my dad's copy of the As Requested Around The World promo disc. For my birthday the following summer, my girlfriend bought me the Live-1975/85 set. I wanted to hear more.

I played it a few times that summer, but the magic spark didn't come until that fall, when I was playing the first side of tape #1 on my Walkman while sitting on my bed in the dorm. It was during "Growin' Up", and for the first time I actively listened to Bruce's rap in the middle of the song. I heard Bruce tell about fighting with his father and trying not to be what his folks wanted him to be, because he felt someTHING burning deep inside and I felt like it was my moment of redemption, just like Bruce, when he said "well tonight you'se are both just gonna have to settle for rock'n'roll!"

And then I understood. I understood about the notion burning deep inside, that it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive. I knew that I'd seen the darkness of Candy's hall in a little house in Santee, and why there was sadness hidden in that pretty face. I knew why a female friend (who liked to stand with her hands on her hips and that smile on her lips because she knew that it killed me) had grown tired of her virginity. About the magic in the night and how vital it is when you're working in the factory. I'd known cheaters who used windows, the poor in the chimney and the hangers in the closets, and I knew why I had to use the door. I couldn't flash a guitar like a switchblade, but I knew why I liked to look into the eye of the sun... because Mama that's where the fun is.

When my girlfriend and I broke up, I understood something else. I understood about "Bobby Jean" and "No Surrender".

I started buying the albums, first on tape, then on CD. I read Dave Marsh's books. I wore out the tapes in that original Live-1975/85 set, and bought it on CD. I dissected lyrics in my head, got an email account and found out about this neat thing called the Backstreets Digest. I watched the HBO Amnesty International Tour special, loving every minute of Clarence and Sting on their knees, begging Bruce to continue "Twist & Shout." I couldn't believe my ears when I awoke one morning to hear KLOS telling me that Bruce had fired the E Street Band.

In '92 I was at Tower Records at 12:00am on a very cold night. I came home with two new CDs, and didn't go to bed until four. That September I finally saw the Boss live, at the LA Sports Arena. I believed in the religion of rock'n'roll, and now I was in its Mecca. I talked to a guy wearing a Born To Run t-shirt. The lights went down and the place was filled with the roar of 20,000 screaming idiots; I'm sure I was screaming the loudest.

I'd tell you all what it was like, but you already know. It's not a concert, it's an experience. I screamed and sang and danced like a maniac. I understood the locomotive motion of "Light of Day", and I laughed when Bruce did his start-stop-start-stop routine in the middle. He stood there with his arms crossed, not moving a muscle, not even blinking while our voices and enthusiasm generated enough energy to light a small city. The applause dwindled a bit, and then rebounded in unison as we all realized what he was doing. We screamed and cheered for one minute... two... three... four... eventually the applause died again, and Bruce looked at us with mock contempt, shaking his head from side to side and motioned with his fingertips for more applause. If you want to play you've got to pay. We cheered and cheered until he nodded his approval, and then kick-slammed the song back into motion. Don't ask me what I was doing, I don't know.

Now I eagerly await the new Greatest Hits album, a following album of new material and pleasepleaseplease a tour.

My name is Andrew Laurence. I'm 23 years old and a Bruce fan.
I am a prisoner of rock'n'roll. I understand.