the
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
the
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
There’s no city in America that defined labor quite like beautiful, hardscrabble Pittsburgh. Our workers produced the big, hard, heavy, clanging things that made the world go 'round: iron, steel, aluminum, glass, massive rotors, giant generators. Nobody worked as hard as Pittsburghers. And nobody wrote and sang about the working class lives and loves of Pittsburghers quite like the fabulous…
All the king's men. That's a royal court that could include every seasoned rocker whose creative spark was first lit by the sight and sound of Elvis Presley. They started out wanting to be him, and spent their lives dying to meet him. Most artists had to wait till they were big league players before even contemplating a face-to-face with Elvis. And even then it wasn't easy to enter his well-guarded world. But one late night in 1976, a young musician on the cusp of superstardom had the chutzpah to drop by Elvis's Graceland mansion, and pay The King a personal visit.
August 25, 2015: I took a road trip with "Born to Run" yesterday. It's the 40th anniversary of Bruce's groundbreaking album, and there's no better way to experience it than by blasting it in your car, with the windows open and the wind blowing back your hair. Cars and tunnels and backstreets and highways are just as central to the…
"Turn the station to Letterman. That guy you like, the one who wears the do-rag, is on the show." That's my mom calling to tell me that Steven Van Zandt is sitting in the guest seat talking to Dave. Good ol' mom...always keeping me abreast of rock star sightings. She may not have remembered the name of that head-wrapped wonder, but she knows I've been infatuated with him for years - as far back as April 12, 1976, when I saw him at my first-ever rock concert. "Who's the sharpie?" I wondered, as I watched this nattily-dressed guy play guitar on stage with his boss Bruce Springsteen at the Cambria County War Memorial Arena in Johnstown, PA. I hadn't seen his picture on any of Bruce's albums. I didn't even know his name. But I knew at that moment that we were going to be soul mates.
When the cops finally busted Madam Marie, the young ne'er-do-well knew it was time to leave the seaside carnival life forever. Riding Tilt-a-Whirls and chasing factory girls underneath the boardwalk…cruising the circuit with switchblade lovers and open-shirt casino boys…it was all kid's stuff. Someday he'd look back on those barefoot slacker days and sex-seeking nights, and rage against the dying of the pier lights that once cast a protective cover, like a soft beach blanket, over his body and hers. But now, as the fireworks hailed over his Little Eden on that 4th of July, he determined it was time to move on. And, taking a page from that ancient tome, "Seduction Tactics 101," he made his plea to sweet "Sandy Girl:" Love me tonight, for I may never see you again. Ah, how I miss the beach life lullabies and city-sidewalk serenades that Bruce abandoned long ago! Songs like "4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)" are among the most visual and desperately romantic works in his catalog. And this one, in particular, is as beautiful and wistful as they come.