Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band played in Tom Brady’s stadium last night and twice this week, I declined tickets. Yesterday, as Kyle and I were soaked coming out of a movie matinee like we were standing under a Commando 450, I was transported back exactly five years to the day, to the monsoon-like conditions prequeling my first Bruce show.
It’s funny how time can crumble some passions like Sphinx in the sand, but leave others fresh and forever. Five years ago, last night was the first of a trifecta of 2003 Springsteen shows for me, including Gillette, Fenway Park and Shea Stadium, the final show of the tour. I’m not sure why it was so important to me five years ago, but not now. Cringing, I wrote to a ticket suitor this week, “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to go. I listened again last night, and I’m not into the new record (or the recent set-lists) and I don’t feel like going through the whole trek to Foxborough when I’m not into it.”
What’s changed? “The whole trek to Foxborough” is a rest stop compared to the NYC drive, yet I enthusiastically did that for the Shea show. That was a time when Bruce Springsteen’s music connected me to something and his guitar was an analgesic. These days, as I continued passing on tickets, “‘Rosie’ doesn’t really do it for me. I’m not much into the happy, sing along songs like ‘Mary’s Place.’ I want the guitar driven songs and they are few on this tour.”
“You strike me as such a happy, sing along kind of guy…” Yep, that’s me… and I’m looking forward to an angst-fueled Wilco show on August 12th.
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