It has been several weeks since my last post. A result of the beginning of another semester. I am, however, working on a couple of "new" posts. In the meantime, I thought I would recycle this post from last December...
Below you will find a rambling review of The Hold Steady and a recent show that I was fortunate enough to attend. Thanks Brian.
A Sense of Place
In 1984, my family moved to North Carolina from northern New Jersey—and from that point on, Bruce Springsteen came to represent all my hometown longings.
There's something magical but misleading in that statement.
Bruce's New Jersey is the New Jersey of my memories. I've since been back to New Jersey, and my memory and longing don't match the place. When I was nine, I had no idea the Boss was singing protest in "Born in the U.S.A.," but by god, I could feel the passion in the rollicking guitar and, well, I felt the New Jersery-ness of it.
I used to think I would move back. I know better now.
Place is such an integral part of Springsteen's music and its appeal. Springsteen sings about my hometown-- be it Bridgewater, New Jersey or Greensboro, North Carolina. Hometown for Springsteen is not just a word. It is a state of being where hope and despair are inseparable.
Springsteen's music transcends the profane trappings of linear time and lodges itself in the sacred space (place) of the eternal. This is music magic. Good tunes gloss over the imperfections of life and bind memory to universal feelings and longings. They glue the disparate pieces of our lives together, creating--- to borrow an often borrowed phrase---a collective consciousness.
These, of course, are not new sentiments. Read any review of Springsteen's music and you will likely find words like "hometown" couched in critical rhetoric. Sift through Mark Richardson's Pitchfork review of the 30th anniversary edition of Born to Run and you'll find such proclamations as "picture the depressed state of the Jersey Shore in the early 70s, the dull sense of an era gone."
But while others have said similar things--- said better, said worse--- I say them now because the Springsteen of my youth is not the Springsteen of my thirties. And yet, the line of connection--- past to present, fuzzy memory to educated analysis--- is still solid, still vital.
This is because the longings I associate with Springsteen's "hometown" are also the longings of my path to middle age: I long for authenticity in the world around me. While I do think this lack of (and need for) authenticity is a symptom of the post-modern condition, I also think it's a symptom of my approaching middle age. The passion that came so easily--- often sloppily, unwittingly, uncontrollably--- when I was younger, now seems harder to come by. I instead find complacency a constant, reliable friend. I am passionate about my work, true, but this passion is different from the passion exhibited in impromptu ring-around-the-rosy dancing to Led Zeppelin atop a parking garage.
And yet, when I listen to classic Springsteen, I am warmed by the heat of hope in deep despair because as long as I can belt out at high volume "We got one last chance to make it real / To trade in these wings on some wheels" then I'll be okay. In the minutes of "Thunder Road," I can borrow from the fount of eternal passion so expertly mixed, recorded, and preserved on Born to Run.
This is my communion.
Earlier I mentioned Pitchfork, so I might as well use it to segue into The Hold Steady. Load up the Pitchfork review of Boys and Girls in America and do a search for "Springsteen." There it is next to Kerouac. I'm pretty sure that most reviews of Boys and Girls in America mention Springsteen and/or Kerouac.
I, apparently, am no different.
Wait, though. That's not necessarily true. Let me explain.
The obvious correlations come with the "rockin'" itself. The opening chords of "Stuck Between Stations" are anthemic. The joining piano is classic. The rest is history-- rock history.
And the mention of Kerouac is a must, since the very first line of the very first track of Boys and Girls in America mentions Sal Paradise. I'll come back to that.
The comparison to classic Springsteen doesn't take much more digging. In fact, the Classic Rock radio set might quickly launch into a rather neanderthalian dialogue peppered with "Dudes" and "Dawgs," missing, of course the deeper implications: Springsteen's own roots, own beat-like ponderings and travelogues are an older brother's guidance to Craig Finn's verse.
Of course, I might have missed this underbelly had I not seen The Hold Steady live. It wasn't until I was hiding in the warmth of the crowd that I thought, "Wait a minute. This isn't classic rock. This is classic, edgy, sprawling Springsteen. This is-- gasp-- postmodern Springsteen." Forgive me; I'd had a few beers…
But let's take a moment-- if you'll bear with me-- to present my argument, or at least explain my thought process. To do this, though, I'm going to resort to some lyrical comparisons.
Take a look at these well known lines from "Thunder Road":
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night
You ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright
Oh and that's alright with me.
Now look at these lines from "Southtown Girls" :
Southtown girls won't blow you away
but you know that they'll stay.
This might not be a terribly astute observation; however, the songs speak of similar things. Springsteen's opus Born to Run is bittersweet. It's a "last chance power drive," a call to action. It's what Joseph Campbell might have called an acceptance of the call, an affirmation of the need to begin the hero's journey.
But it's not an entirely optimistic call. After all, the "highway's jammed with broken heroes." And "you ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright" isn't exactly the stuff of a Hollywood romantic-comedy. This isn't Pretty Woman-- where the pretty hooker finds love and happiness with a successful business man. It's more like a bunch of South Jersey kids trying to make do-- finding love, an imperfect but crucial love. Such is the sentiment of "Southtown Girls."
But this is, again, a pretty easy-to-make comparison. Born to Run is a testament to working class heroes (losers), but it's a statement from a milder (older, wiser) Springsteen. Traveling back to Greetings From Asbury Park, you'll find a much edgier, much more poetic Springsteen.
Look at these lines from "It's Hard to be a saint in the City" :
"And them South Side sisters sure look pretty
The cripple on the corner cries out "Nickels for your pity"
And them downtown boys sure talk gritty
It's so hard to be a saint in the city"
The rhyming immediately stands out, but notice the alliteration. These lines are packed with life and rhythm. This is where the real comparison to Craig Finn comes in.
Take a look at these lines from "Party Pit" :
"I guess I met her at the party pit
she said those kids she's with were selling it
so we sailed off on some separate trips
she got pinned down at the party pit"
Same attention to rhyme scheme-- though Finn is a bit better at sticking to iambic pentameter-- and same love of alliteration.
One more lyrical comparison. Look at these lines from Springsteen's "Lost in the Flood":
"Eighth Avenue sailors in satin shirts whisper in the air
Some storefront incarnation of Maria, she's puttin' on me the stare
and Bronx's best apostle stands with his hand on his own hardware
Everything stops, you hear five, quick shots, the cops come up for air
And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they're shootin' up the street
And that cat from the Bronx starts lettin' loose
but he gets blown right off his feet
And some kid comes blastin' round the corner but a cop puts him right away
He lays on the street holding his leg screaming something in Spanish
Still breathing when I walked away
And somebody said "Hey man did you see that? His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud"
Then, digging back to the first full length Hold Steady album, look at these lyrics from "Your Little Hoodrat Friend" :
"i've been dusted in the dark up in penetration park. i've been plastered. i've been shaking hard and searching in a dirty storefront church. i've been plowed. but i ain't ever been with your little hoodrat friend. what makes you think i'm getting with your little hoodrat friend?"
The end result of these comparisons? The affinity goes beyond the music to the love of words, the recognition of their power when combined with equally passionate music. My initial misgivings for The Hold Steady quickly gave way after a closer listen: One might misread the speak-sing delivery of Finn, but the truth is in the words-- and the passion of their delivery. Finn is an excellent singer because he's an excellent writer. His power springs from the commingling of passion, intensity and lyricism. All of which were evident in his live performance.
I will take this talk of poetics even further-- beyond where rock critics might end: Both of these songwriter/poets have taken a page from the sprung rhythm genius of Gerard Manly Hopkins. What Hopkins did with the Italian sonnet is akin to what a young Springsteen did with music, with what Craig Finn is doing right now. I find more insight in this affiliation than I do of Kerouac or Ginsberg.
Those references bear some attention, too. But I think I will come back to that.
More On Longing and Authenticity
Over a burrito before the Hold Steady show, my good friend Brian Candler and I discussed the current state of our pop culture dystopia. Brian went to see Guns 'n Roses a few weeks ago. Interestingly enough, Brian and I stood on our seats-- in the same coliseum-- more than ten years earlier to rock out to G 'n R. This was pre-Use Your Illusion. This was before the decline of the Rose Empire.
I wanted to go with him this time, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought it might provide some symmetry of experience, but I also didn't want to spend the evening comparing and shaking my head in shame. I turned down the offer.
So there we were. Two married men with jobs and responsibilities, eating burritos and drinking beers, wondering a) if we were ever going to have an authentic rock experience again, and b) if we should even expect to find such a thing again.
Lord knows we wanted it and were looking for it. Two guys with wives, jobs and responsibilities don't stand on a hard cement floor for several hours-- to watch a band-- simply because there's nothing better to do.
What were we looking for? Authenticity.
You see, this last year was full of good music. But even though I will admit to being entertained by good tunes this year, I must also admit that the year's offerings didn't present any of the authenticity that I mentioned above in conjunction with Born to Run. To steal a line from Singles, "Where is the 'Misty Mountain Hop' of our generation?"[1]
The bottom line is that the ironic stance of indie rock-- one necessary to its existence-- doesn't leave much room for sincerity. Early in its germination, the irony was refreshing. When postmodernism was new (to the indie rock kids, that is), an ironic position showcased the rejection of authenticity. Much as punk rock shed the trappings of commercial rock, indie rock shed the sentiment that music could save us. After all, salvation was just another corporation gimmick.
But such jaded stances can only last so long. They can only comfort the young who can warm themselves on their own passions. When those indie rock kids became thirtysomethings, they began to long for that lost passion of high school angst.
I'm too old to find comfort in irony.
To borrow, again, a few movie lines from Beautiful Girls:
Willie C. : I just want something beautiful.
Moe: We all want something beautiful.
All of this was, more or less, the direction of our burrito ponderings.
And it was with these thoughts that Brian and I entered the Cat's Cradle in Carrboro to see The Hold Steady.
We found exactly what we were looking for.
The Show
Of course, we didn't find what we were looking for immediately. In fact, we had to suffer through some pretty awful opening acts. Not a problem, mind you, since it allowed us to drink a few more beers. And, interestingly enough, one of those opening acts proved a nice parody (dumb show) of the thoughts in my head. The front man of a pitiful cross between The Ramones and The Hives (the fury and posturing without the ties or skill) looked to be some teenager's father living out a mid-life crisis. The kid on drums might have been the neighbor's awkward and large son.
Here was my passion-- misplaced and misappropriated for all to see.
This is where I'm headed if I'm not careful.
I will admit to lurking on ebay and Musician's Friend, salivating over guitars that I so desperately wanted as a teenager but couldn't afford. I can afford them now. But what good is a Music Man Stingray bass guitar to a thirtysomething who wasn't that good to begin with-- and certainly doesn't have the time to join a band and play gigs!
Luckily a strange group from Brooklyn took the stage and played angry prog and Brian and I drank another beer.
When The Hold Steady finally took the stage, I was ready for something. Something beautiful. I got it.
Again, I must admit that I was not as familiar with Boys and Girls in America as I have now become, so I simply stood and watched, taking everything in without mouthing the words or singing along. I told Brian after the first couple of songs that I was already thinking about what I would write in my review. I've been writing this review since then… Much of my initial impressions are gone, but what follows is what I've been able to piece back together.
As I watched Craig Finn run through his lyrics, I kept thinking, "He is a cross between a young Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, and Woody Allen." There's the rock and roll, the deep, unique voice, and the neurotic posture.
As I watched and listened, all the elements and references started to come together. The posturing and voice, the rockin’ backdrop, and the nervous, glasses wearing, neurotic—sometimes funny, sometimes deeply affecting—front man. Finn's voice reminded me of Elvis Costello. The mannerisms and lyrical ponderings reminded me of Woody Allen—Annie Hall Woody Allen, that is. Finn would often step up to the microphone and sing his lyrics, then pull back and gesture with his hands-- still singing to himself.
It was clear that Finn is not just a great writer, but a great performer. His street-poet persona, his drug and alcohol-laced narrative, his sick lost and lonely characters came alive on stage. And again, I am reminded of how early Springsteen songs contain some of the most depressing scenarios I've ever encountered, but that the songs themselves seem to elevate the despair into a space of truth and hope.
All of these bad things in life (drugs, alcohol, bad relationships, bad choices, etc.) add up to one eternal truth: Despite all the bullshit-- No. Because of all the bullshit, life is worth living.
Though much of what I've said can be attributed to Craig Finn, please don't think this was a one man show. The band was tight. The performance was spot on.
The most affecting thing about the show was that the band members were clearly enjoying themselves. They were honestly jazzed by their own music, and they were clearly energized by the crowd.
Here was the very thing that I needed. Authenticity.
The Moral of the Story
Yeah, so if you've made it this far you might be wondering why it took me so long. However, if you know me, then you're not surprised at all that it took me seven pages to get all this down. The truth is, I wanted to talk about Springsteen and The Hold Steady in this way because I think they are cut from the same cloth.
What The Hold Steady has done for me in the past couple months is allow me to rock out in a way that I haven't been able to do in a good long while. And that's the brunt of it. I grew up with Springsteen. I grew up with The Police. And Ozzy Osbourne. Pink Floyd and Kiss. Yeah, I got caught up in the hair bands, but it was easy and good to get caught up! I am not ashamed. I was concert goer at age seven. And loud music is a big part of who I am. I haven't had much time for it in the last few years, so when it comes along, I cling to it like the last vestiges of my sanity.
Boys and Girls in America speaks to me. It brings me back to my youth with its rock stylings, but it speaks to my thirtysomething mentality.
Here's my last observation about the show and the moral of the story:
At some point in the show, a smelly little poser wormed his way in front and right of me. He was too close for my taste. And when I say smelly, I mean cologne smelly. This little punk spent much time engineering his look for the evening. He was sporting a shiny green track coat with white stripes on the sleeves. It could have been Adidas, but I'm not sure. His hairdo was expertly sealed in product. It was one of those 'dos that is meant to look like bed-head but isn't. Oh, and it was a beautiful, streaked blonde… He even had the right kind of indie rock kid glasses!
Well, homeboy was rockin' out-- cheap beer in hand-- to "Party Pit," which happens to be one of my favorite tracks from Boys and Girls in America. After the song, homey turns to his buddy and says something like, "Isn't that a great title for a song, man? 'Gonna walk around and drink some more'! Dude!"[2]
I shook my head and thought of giving the little punk a nice wrist-propelled smack on the back of the head. Or, maybe I should have grabbed him around the neck and given him a nice noogie!
So, here are a few lines from "Party Pit":
"I went away to school that fall
she stuck around with all those stickpin dolls
sped through the scene until the engine stalled
at some suburban shopping mall
sailed away on such separate trips
she got pinned down at the party pit.
I came back to start a band, of course.
saw her walking thru the crystal court.
she made a scene by the revolving doors
she's gonna walk around and drink some more.
so we walked across that grain belt bridge.
into bright new minneapolis
she said i think that all those things I did
were just momentum from the party pit."
This isn't, of course, a "drinking song."
The refrain of "Gonna walk around and drink some more," isn't a call to party. In fact, there's a learned distance that comes through in this song. The speaker in this song is not a college punk drinking at a party (in his green Adidas); rather, he is a post-college working musician who comes back home to see that some of those people he used to hang out with never left. They got stuck in the scene. That refrain, "Gonna walk around and drink some more" is a call for reflection on lost hopes and dreams. The "Party Pit" doesn't hearken to some "best years of my life" high school mentality.
It's a pit, after all.
Look at a collection of the words from above: "stuck," "pinned down," "stalled," "revolving," "pit." The dominant impression created by these words is one of sadness, even despair. The characters of this song are only left to "walk around and drink some more."
This is the desperation of middle age. And this is the overall bent of Boys and Girls in America. This album isn't a collection of anthems for teenagers; rather, it's the backward glance at youth spent searching for something real, true, and beautiful. It's an album of reflections on the missteps of growing up. The album is replete with drug and alcohol references, but what I saw at the Cat's Cradle was a grand metaphor expertly structured and performed.
Boys and Girls in America is nothing less than a postmodern epic.
