'Wrecking Ball'

In 1985 I sat in the uppermost tier of Giants Stadium for the first night of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band’s triumphant homecoming, after the stratospherically successful release of ‘Born in the USA’.

I was 14 years old and my uncle thought it was important that I should see the Boss live for the first time. He was right. My culture and my country had been explained to me by Springsteen’s music through endlessly epic tunes coming out of my bedroom clock radio or the FM radio of the 1970s.

A good part of my childhood was spent shuttling between the Baltimore/Washington DC area and the suburbs of New York City. Bruce fit the bill as the poet of my particular era. On frequent trips up the New Jersey turnpike, I would stare out of the backseat window of my mother’s used car (sometimes even wiping my fingers on a Texaco road map) and dream about the lives of the folks who lived in the modest suburban houses twinkling with Christmas lights, as we headed up to my Grandma’s house for the holidays.

I knew two things right away from albums like the ‘The River’ and ‘Darkness on the Edge of Town’: folks in his world, and mine by extension, worked hard at shift jobs that robbed their vitality - and sometimes, all too often, life just wasn’t fair.

Circumstances could be hard to escape from - if you wished to do so you would be well advised to tap into some sort of power greater than yourself. For me, from a young age, that was music.

Hope and dreams were intertwined with family, deep conviction, faith in your community and purpose. If there is such a thing as American values, mine were shaped and buttressed by the elegant workingman’s poetry of Springsteen.

I was born the year his first album came out, each successive masterpiece appearing to me almost as chapters, explaining my country and my life to me. It was a band built for hard times, as Bruce likes to say, especially after 9/11; ‘The Rising’ felt like the eulogy and flicker of hope my city, and by extension, my country, needed to begin to heal.

But before all that, I was a fourteen year-old kid sitting in the sticky heat of a late August Meadowlands evening.

The rumble and thunder of the opening dozen songs had subsided and Bruce stepped into a lone spotlight in the center of the stage. He strummed his guitar softly and began to speak in that scratchy, sotto voce that feels like home if you hail from the mid-Atlantic states.

He told the story of his almost being drafted into the Vietnam war and his father’s wishes that the army would ‘make a man out of him,’ one line leading into the next - it became so intimate and personal that I got slightly uncomfortable. That feeling of having just met someone who reveals something almost inappropriate to a relative stranger. I got goosebumps as each word poured out of his mouth, my mind repeating the mantra, ‘dude, I don’t know you that well to be hearing all of this right now…’.

Then I looked around as his story built to a crescendo, with his father’s surprising joy and relief at his son being rejected for service in Vietnam.

A fate that surely would have robbed us all of his talents. The crowd roared at the resolution and emotional impact of his telling it, puncturing the New Jersey night.

I looked around stunned, there were SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND other people there and he had made me feel like he was talking only to me. It was magic and I had never felt anything like it - what kind of spell was this and how could I be a part of it? How does someone share something so personal, with themes so universal, that we all get swept up in the transcendence of the moment? It was a power I had not witnessed before, and a clue.

Whatever it was that allowed a man to communicate in such a way was not only a gift, it was a blessing to his audience, a benediction. He was taking us to church.

He launched into ‘The River‘ and my life would never be the same. I spent the rest of my teen years devouring every line of ‘Nebraska’ and ‘Born to Run,’ played air guitar in front of my bedroom mirror and dreamed of the open road, waiting for my own Mary to come waltzing out of that screen door. I even wrote, ‘It’s a town full of losers, I’m pulling out of here to win,’ as a parting sentiment in my high school year book.

I now live about twenty minutes from my old high school because I learned another lesson from Bruce - home matters, roots matter - you can run but you cannot hide.

A person should stand for something in this life - if you want to make a difference in the world, the best place to start is your own backyard.

As a beleaguered state police sergeant once sang in ‘Highway Patrolman’, one of the endless archetypal characters Bruce has created, ‘man turns his back on his family, well he just ain’t no good,’ as he allows his own brother to evade justice by crossing from Michigan across the Canadian border. An internal conflict between the bonds of blood and the call of duty; of the troubles that sometimes find us no matter our best intentions.

In 2000, I got my first chance to work for Bruce directly - this time for another triumphant homecoming at Madison Square Garden, bringing a finale to the amazing reunion tour.

The mighty and reunited E Street band was coming to kick some ass for the hometown crowd over ten nights at the Garden. Jonathan Demme was to film it and I was part of the local backstage crew that would help set up dressing rooms and make sure band and guests had what they needed. It was the thrill of a lifetime and a bit of a rock-n-roll bootcamp that kicked off my touring career. I had been hired from the Tony Awards along with a couple of colleagues, as my area of expertise dovetailed with their needs - basically celebrity talent wrangling, as the guest list was epic.

On the first night controversy set in, as the head of the New York City PBA and Rupert Murdoch’s NY Post decided they did not like the new song Bruce had recently debuted, ‘American Skin’ (41 shots), chronicling the killing of an unarmed African immigrant who was shot nineteen times by four plain-clothed cops on his front stoop in one of the most excessive uses of lethal force imaginable.

It was a horrific situation that stemmed from the discriminatory policing policies of Mayor Giuliani and his police chief, Bill Bratton. (Part of their ‘We Own The Night’ policing tactics that were later disbanded - though the officers in the Diallo shooting ultimately walked free).

The cops loudly protested around the arena and some even rushed to the front of the stage to give Bruce the finger while he played. The backstage area was on lockdown due to threats received. It was a mess but Springsteen didn’t back down - his song was not even one of protest but of understanding.

The police hadn’t even heard the song itself before they decided to protest it, though one of its verses takes care to illustrate the pressures and fears of the cops themselves. It was art at its best because it was infused with empathy, and a desire to understand and explain a tragic and deadly situation that called for immediate change at the policy level. He illuminated the humanity of all involved and the awful loss with eloquence.

A few nights in, Amadou Diallo’s parents were invited to attend the show and meet Bruce backstage. I was honored to be the one who facilitated the logistics. It was all done in secret, to not exploit further a delicate and fraught situation. It was handled with class and compassion - and the concert that particular night seemed infused with a righteous urgency.

If I am being honest, every show Bruce plays sort of feels like it’s his last night on earth. A conjuring more than a concert - and I applied myself to try and figure out the trick. Dozens of shows over decades and there is only one conclusion I have come up with to explain the magic: he cares every time and is 1000% present no matter what - there’s no shortcuts, no phoning it in - it’s all heart and soul.

And very, very hard work. One of the revelations on that run was that Bruce and the E Street Band soundcheck for almost as long as the show itself, EVERY time. Even for the final shows at the end of a two year run. Unheard of in the music business but standard practice for Springsteen.

After that tour ended, the next year brought our city and the world beyond the horrors of 9/11 and its aftermath.

Bruce was the first artist to sign on for the initial telethon, shot at NBC Studios at 30 Rock in New York City and simulcast across the country. He opened the show with a haunting rendition of ‘My City of Ruins'.

I was back at the Garden for the Grammys in early 2003, sitting backstage for rehearsals as Bruce sound checked ‘The Rising’; it held the same powerful feeling of redemption in the face of unbelievable sorrow as it did the previous summer when he kicked off the tour in the same venue.

I was there for the opening of that tour and felt the visceral charge and spark of hope move through the crowd. We were a city still very much in shock for years to come but Bruce offered up healing, and a bit of hard-won absolution through the cleansing powers of rock-n-roll.

Much of it aimed directly at the first responders he forever immortalized in that solemn and blistering music.

The single greatest line written on that album is a masterful example of making human and personal the utterly unimaginable. Describing the journey of a young NYFD member as he climbed into eternity, on a bright and sunny Tuesday in September, where evil seamed to tear a whole in the fabric of humanity itself. As the unthinkable was unfolding before our very eyes, ‘Lost track of how far I’ve gone, how high I’ve climbed/ On my back a sixty pound stone/ on my shoulder, a half mile line’.

Bruce didn’t shy away from speaking out against the post-9/11 wars launched by the George W. Bush administration and the grudge with the NYPD continued, not that Springsteen held onto it but the sure NYPD did.

I watched as officers were instructed by a police commander to stand down from their posts after a show at Shea Stadium where Bruce criticized U.S. involvement in Iraq from the stage, creating logistical havoc for band and crew as a form of petty political payback. Bruce never wavered and in the end he was right.

He still goes out of way to not only hire but show up for first responders and police officers. He is NOT the adversary they have been told he is. Bruce is a patriot in the true sense.

Something I have also witnessed through the years in much more uplifting times; from Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductions to mesmerizing solo performances at benefit concerts for the many causes he supports. I was there watching from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial when he sang ‘This Land is Your Land’ with Pete Seeger to usher in the inauguration of President Obama. I witnessed the triumph and jubilation on his face backstage afterwards.

It is satisfying to watch a country come into its own and finally do the right thing - that particular day was payoff on an American promise. We had finally inched closer to becoming the ‘Land of Hope and Dreams’ the righteous still desire.

A few weeks later I was down in Tampa with band and crew for a celebratory performance at the Super Bowl Halftime Show. If you saw Bruce slide on a rain-soaked stage into a camera man, I was also on the receiving end.

A joyous moment of well-earned abandon, punctuating a much deserved victory lap of sorts, after a long period of darkness and upheaval.

Of course we were not out of the woods yet - the album ‘Wrecking Ball’ documents the fallout from the financial crash of ‘08 as well as any art created in that era. It’s hard to contextualize hardship as a result of economic policy and the effects of unbridled greed on a middle class population - and make it both visceral and personal.

Bruce succeeds at this like no other; had he only written ‘The Ghost of Tom Joad’ and nothing else in his career, he would be worthy of the mantle of a modern day Steinbeck.

The last time I saw him in person, I was assigned to Bruce and his lovely family as a talent wrangler at the Tony Awards, per his management’s request. As much as of an accolade as I could receive in this industry. I never say much when I am around Bruce and I think that is also appreciated. I have a job to do and so does he; backstage is a place of business and hard, focused work despite all the excitement.

He was there to perform a song from his Broadway show, solo at the piano. As we moved from his dressing room through the crossover beneath the stage at Radio City Music Hall, we ran into my friend Joey D who is a stage manager and was my coworker on that long-ago Reunion Tour at the Garden.

He and I would pack up the giant stairmaster that Clarence Clemmons would use on the road to warm up for the show before the band took to stage. The ‘Big Man’ was truly a giant, Joey and I are not, and we would struggle and laugh while packing this mammoth piece of equipment into its road case every night.

It’s weird the things you remember from a life in rock-n-roll, we still talk about the top-notch catering Bruce generously provided to his band and crew and their guests on the Madison Square Garden run, even renting dozens of video games for the many band members’ kids backstage. They treated everyone like family and it felt good.

Above all Bruce’s music is about connection, roots, the rewards of honest hard work, and the release and joy one can find in community when we come together in shared purpose. He also provides a much needed voice for those on the margins of this life, those for whom the American dream never worked out and perhaps never will, and the shared responsibility we all have in their fate.

That is always to be applauded and is vitally necessary in the world in which we now live. He was singing about the plight of the migrant workers many years ago, perhaps seeing around the corner sooner than most what was lurking on the horizon.

As Bruce and I stepped into the elevator, Joey appeared holding a leash with a large goat attached to the end of it. An actual goat. Joey said, ‘I’ll wait for the next one…” and laughed as Bruce turned to me and made a ‘shucks’ sign, snapping his fingers.

The G.O.A.T. would have been more than happy to ride up to stage with a goat, a fellow performer in this crazy business.

As we waited in the wings, Robert DeNiro walked out to introduce Springsteen and decided to preface his scripted remarks with a simple ad lib that seems a fitting way to end this piece:

‘Fuck Donald Trump’.

*If you enjoy reading ‘Noel’s Notes’ please consider becoming a paid subscriber, thank you for reading. -NC