Hubs and I are back from the Springsteen concert, but the fangirl in me has yet to stop squealing long enough to let me compose a coherent thought. Lowlights and highlights it is.

Lowlights:

• Hubs and I have the uncanny ability to attract loud people who talk about nothing. In line, we were behind the loud people bantering over the weather. In our seats, we were in front of the loud person who described every single section of the arena that he had sat in. And finally, just before the show started, we were in front of the couple discussing when their next sex night would be. Lovely.
• I-35 between Dallas and Waxahatchie. WTH, people? Can you not pave a road?

Highlights:

• Staying at the Hyatt Summerfield Suites for the win. Walked three blocks to the American Airlines center.
• The band. The only other time I’ve seen Springsteen was for the acoustic Devils & Dust tour, which, while amazing, had a very somber feel. This concert was more of a party. The energy was high and it was great to see Bruce and the band having so much fun.
• Hearing “Jungleland,” “Born to Run,” and “Dancing in the Dark” live.
• The man in full cowboy regalia that rocked out to every. single. song. He was having a great time and didn’t care who knew it.
• Jon Bon Jovi joining Springsteen on stage for Glory Days. There are no words. None. Just gleeful fangirlish screaming.

More when the squealing in my head subsides.

“We cut Greetings in three weeks. But Clive [Davis] handed it back and said there was nothing that could be played on the radio. I’m glad he did; I went home and wrote “Blinded by the Light” and “Spirit in the Night.” With the previously missing Clarence Clemons on the saxophone, these songs were recorded, and the record was finished.

“I never wrote in that style again. Once the record was released, I heard all the “new Dylan” comparisons, so I steered away from it. But the lyrics and spirit of Greetings came from a very unselfconscious place. Your early songs come out of a moment when you’re writing with no sure prospect of ever being heard. Up until then, it’s just you and your music. That only happens once.”

~~from Songs by Bruce Springsteen

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Originally uploaded by Absinthe Green

Ivan first traveled to Asbury Park in 1982, soon after the release of Nebraska, three years after supposedly meeting Bruce Springsteen on a service road in San Mateo, California. He had gone to the Jersey shore with his brother, driven cross-country from San Francisco, hoping to get a glimpse of the world beyond the West Coast, and, more important, the world of Bruce. At the time, I was fourteen years old and a big fan of Madonna, and the crowd I ran with though of Bruce as some overly patriotic guy with a redneck heart and a sweaty bandana. Bruce was a Jersey thing; being from the Gulf Coast, we didn’t get it.

~~ from “Down the Shore Everything’s Alright” by Michelle Richmond.

I try to keep my fangirlish tendencies to the minimum on the blog, but today when I typed “our drive to the Springsteen show” in my head, I was actually squealing, OMG! The Bruce Springsteen concert is only 6 days away. OMG OMG OMG. You see why I’d want to suppress this side of me.

I’ve been a fan of the Boss since I was eight and yes, it was that damn Courtney Cox video that did it. In the years since, I’ve become a more sophisticated Springsteen fan. I would not have gotten through high school without my Born to Run cassette and in the months surrounding the first anniversary of 9/11, The Rising was pretty much the only CD in my car stereo.

True to the fangirl within, over the years I’ve hunted down pretty much anything I can read related Springsteen. In honor of this weekend’s trip, I’ll be sharing some of my favorite takes from the literary side of Springsteen. Enjoy!

There was a time when courtesy and winning ways went out of style, when it was good to be bad, when you cultivated decadence like a taste. We were all dangerous characters then. We wore torn-up leather jackets, slouched around with toothpicks in our mouths, sniffed glue and ether and what somebody claimed was cocaine. When we wheeled our parent’ whining station wagons out onto the street we left a patch of rubber half a block long. We drank gin and grape juice. Tango, Thunderbird, and Bali Hai. We were nineteen. We were bad. We read Andre Gide and stuck elaborate poses to show that we didn’t give a shit about anything. At night, we went up to Greasy Lake.

~from “Greasy Lake” by T. Coraghessan Boyle.