My trip to the South Hills of Pittsburgh lasted the entire length of the album. From Rt. 22 East and the harmonica opening of “Thunder Road,” right down to the closing “Jungleland” howl on Mt. Lebanon Boulevard, I kept feeling like I had to pull over and talk about it to somebody, or at least scribble down my now-grown-up reactions to an album I first heard at age 15. But I was flying solo and had a date to keep. So I rode on, with eyes burning, hoping my best words and ideas would hang around in my brain till I could get home and put them all on paper.
There’s so much to say about the sound of the music on “Born to Run.” But writing about music is like dancing about architecture, someone once said. You just can’t do it justice. So, I’ll stick with the lyrics, because words are something I know a little about. In particular, I want to unravel my thoughts on the LP’s wistful opening song, named for the title of a movie Bruce had never actually seen at the time: the 1958 Robert Mitchum film “Thunder Road.”
Here are my favorite words from a song jammed full of lyrics painted in motor oil on a canvas of desperation. The boy from Freehold was giving the boy from Hibbing a run for his money with this one.
There were ghosts in the eyes
Of all the boys you sent away.
They haunt this dusty beach road
In the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets.
They scream your name at night in the street,
Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet.
Oh, Mary with the waving dress! Only the lonely know the heartaches she’s been through. She’s on the porch of her beachfront shack-fortress, part Boo Radley, part Greta Garbo. All of them myths. Out ahead is a killer in the sun….a road that brings the greaser boys in their muscle cars to worship at her altar, night after starless night. She can hear them out in the mist, screaming her name. But when she throws open the screen door and runs outside, they’re gone in the salty wind. Could it be they only exist in her mind? Doesn’t matter. They’re not what she wants, anyway. They can’t take her any farther than the end of that dark road. So she waits, in her thin shapeless cotton dress, throwing roses in the rain, ready for a savior to rise from the streets. What are the chances of ever finding him? Slim. It’s a town full of losers, after all. But unlike all her imaginary losers, one is real, and he gives her her best and final offer: come down from your front porch, climb into my front seat, untie your hair, and let these two lanes take us away to some kind of paradise, way past the tracks. Trade in your wings for my wheels. I may not be what you want, but maybe I’m just a little bit of what you need — at least until the screen door slams and locks you in your loneliness again.
Growing up – not a beauty, but bordering on alright – there were no boys roaring away from my front porch, rejected and lovelorn, their engines blazing with anger. (I didn’t even have a porch). There were no ghosts calling my name at night. The only savior that would rise from my streets would come in the form of a round piece of vinyl on a cheap Sears record player. Like Mary, I whiled away far too many hours, hiding ‘neath my covers and studying my pain, cursing my town full of losers, feeling restless and bored and imagining that life was better someplace else. Sure, I had loving parents, decent grades, a few loyal friends, and a rock-n-roll I.V. drip by my bed. But still I longed for the day I’d shed my graduation gown at the feet of the small-town snobs and the unenlightened. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it was gonna be an eternity before I traded in my training-wheels for wings.
But the day would finally come when I pulled out of town – not to win, whatever that means – just to get out. I never wanted to be top of the list, king of the hill, A-number-1. I never wanted the boys or the cars. No, I wanted to find meaning and artistic expression and fulfilling work and, ultimately, self-acceptance. And eventually, in the lonely cool before or after many a dawn, I started to get a little closer to casing that promised land. It took many years of throwing roses in the mud to realize that what I thought I wanted was there all along. I walked out the back door, climbed into the front seat, and found someone already sitting there: me….with my redemption purring gently beneath the hood.
[ADDITION on August 25, 2019:]
Ah, what a lovely way to wrap things up — spinning Bruce’s song into a personal tale that encourages teenage girls to follow their dreams, embrace their own power, and accept themselves as they are.
The reality is, I’m still climbing….sometimes crawling…. into that getaway car every day — chasing a dream, looking for redemption, praying for acceptance. Finding ME.
Bruce’s working title for “Thunder Road” was “Wings for Wheels.” He originally wrote the “skeleton frames” lyric as “skeletons found by exhumed shallow graves.” Doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it? Good thing he lightened it up a bit. Now, sit back and take a journey down the two-lane with Mary and her dreamer-greaser boyfriend as they grab one last chance to make it real.
© Dana Spiardi, August 25, 2015
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I watched with deep-green envy as those lucky girls stroked their soft, pink rabbit-hair rings with delicate fingers that had never touched dishwater. Once, during a particularly mind numbing film strip on the formation of Western Pennsylvania’s rich coal beds, Miss E.C. performed a sacred ritual rarely witnessed by those of us outside the secret society of pom-pom-and-baton sisters: she removed the worn, water-damaged fur from her ring – exposing its naked copper-plated body for all to see – and lovingly rewrapped it to full-fluff perfection! The process was done with such care and precision. Why, it was almost like watching a gifted surgeon graft skin.
Alas, I was to spend my middle school days with naked fingers, dreaming of the day my crush objects would know I existed. Dreaming of the day I’d be able to proudly scrawl D.S. + J.V. = Forever on the cover of my David Bowie notebook, instead of on the inside pages. I longed for the day when I, like the dating girls, would need to conceal my sucker-bites with Maybelline makeup.
Well, by my sophomore year, I decided that Dusty Springfield was right: You won’t get him, thinkin’ and a-prayin’, wishin’ and a-hopin. So, I decided to just give up. I vowed to heed the advice of the feminists – Eleanor Roosevelt, Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan – and live my life as an independent lady. “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” the Australian writer/activist Irina Dunn once said. And, by golly, that would be my new slogan. But, no sooner had I decided to live a life of total self-reliance, then something very unusual happened: I met a boy who liked me. And my new I Am Woman lifestyle would be put on hold – at least for a few months.
In January of 1975, I went with some friends to a basketball game at a rival high school. As I sat in the bleachers, wearing my widest-leg jeans and my cherished white leather jacket with blue stitching, a tall, handsome boy with ebony eyes, sleek dark hair and perfect posture began to talk to me. Dave knew absolutely nothing about my low popularity rating, my average socio-economic background, my shaky scholastic standing, my klutziness in gym class, or my non-involvement in extra-curricular activities like drinking and getting high. All of the make-or-break factors that mattered so much in my high school didn’t mean diddly to Dave. He liked me just as I was.
Now, at the age of 15 – for the first time in my life – a boy was asking me for my phone number. And he put it to good use, calling me every night around 7 pm from the privacy of the phone booth on main street of his tiny one-traffic-light town. Each time the operator said, “please deposit another quarter,” I held my breath, wondering if Dave would be able to squeeze out another coin. And he always did. This was his cigarette money, mind you, but he managed to hold on to just enough chump change to make his nightly calls to me. Now, instead of quoting Dusty Springfield, I was quoting the Shangri-Las: When I say I’m in love, you best believe I’m in love, L.U.V.
My grandmother lived in the same town as my new beau, which made for one sweet deal. On Fridays after school I would board the blue and white bus (which I called The Magic Bus) for a 30 minute ride – across the steel-decked “singing” bridge that spanned the sulfur creek, past the identical gray shingled company houses of old coal towns with names like Josephine – arriving eventually in a quiet village named for a Greek poet. Dave and I would spend as much time together as we could, and at 9 pm he would escort me to my grandmother’s house.
We walked the wintry streets hand-in-hand, necked in the icy bleachers of the deserted “Home of the Wildcats” football field, and hung out in the big drugstore, where he showed me magazines with pictures of body builders he hoped to emulate. When I blanched at the vein-popping muscles of his heroes, he assured me that “they look just like normal guys when they’re wearing shirts.”
We had so much in common, Dave and I. When I told him I was taking French in school, he excitedly told me that he, too, was a French student. He said he was inspired to learn the language after seeing a nudie magazine titled Oui. Wow, brawn and brains!
In 1975, Valentine’s Day fell a Friday, which was, of course, Magic Bus day. As I stepped off the ‘ol blue-and-white, Dave quickly approached and handed me a flat brown paper bag. “I think you’ll like this,” he said with a smile. I peered inside the bag and pulled out a record album by a group I had never heard of: Jo Jo Gunne. “My buddy turned me on to this group,” he said. “They’re really different – not like Kiss and Grand Funk Railroad.” What an endorsement! I studied the monochromatic front cover – four long-haired guys sitting cross-legged and contemplative (or stoned) under a stylized neon-tube looking logo.
Just why did Dave buy me a record album as a Valentine’s Day gift? I never discussed my rock-n-roll mania with him; somehow it just didn’t seem feminine. Little did he know that records were my favorite gifts. So, the fact that he had taken the time to choose this rather obscure record just for me meant more than receiving any chintzy, soon-to-tarnish ring or pendant. He wanted to turn me on to a new sound! Now that’s what I call romantic.
The name of the album was “Bite Down Hard,” released in 1973 by a band that chose its name from the title of a 1958 Chuck Berry song: “Joe Joe Gun.” (Rockers are always stealing from Chuck.) Serious music fans will appreciate the fact that the two founding members of Jo Jo Gunne — singer, guitarist, keyboardist Jay Ferguson, and bassist Mark Andes — were once part of an interesting late ’60s band called Spirit. They’re best known for releasing “The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus,” a well-regarded LP that blended rock, jazz and psychedelia. The album’s single, “Mr. Skin,” is an FM radio staple.
Unfortunately, my new Jo Jo Gunne LP was not held in such high esteem by critics. One reviewer said “‘Bite Down Hard'” doesn’t.” But what did it matter? Beauty is in the ear of the listener, and to my ears it was magnificent. From the hard rock opening song, “Reddy Freddy,” to the prog-rock closer, “Rhoda,” I loved them all. And I still play them all.
In the end, of course, the vinyl outlived the relationship. Four months later, on June 4th, Dave decided he could no longer abide by my wishes to remain chaste, and wandered off to seek such services elsewhere. My heart was broken. Now, instead of singing Dusty Springfield or Shangi-La songs, I was singing Peggy Lee’s classic Leiber-Stoller tune: Is that all there is, is that all there is? If that’s all there is to love, then let’s keep dancing.
My first taste of teenage love and heartbreak taught me a valuable lesson: having a boyfriend wasn’t all it was cracked up to be (is anything, really?) I’d have to find other ways to feel a sense of self-worth. When I entered my junior year of high school – free from romantic distractions – I applied myself like never before. I was even chosen as editor of high school newspaper! And, for the first time ever, I took pride in my work. This fish didn’t need a bicycle. Sure, my heart would be broken a few more times. But I’d learned the value of self-reliance. And, as Peggy Lee advised, I kept on dancing – even when I had no partner.
Dave, if you’re out there somewhere reading this, I want you to know that I always give thanks to you on Valentine’s Day: for giving me my first kiss, for the cool album that no one else owns, and most of all, FOR DUMPING ME!!
Here’s a song from “Bite Down Hard,” titled “Take Me Down Easy.” Pretty prophetic, huh?
© Dana Spiardi, Feb 14, 2012
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Those of you who know of my aversion to spongy, sensible shoes will be surprised to learn that I actually did wear tennis shoes to the courts. And I carried my aluminum Sears racquet, with its white fake-leather cover. But that was as far as I went with the real gear. The rest of my getup consisted of tiny Levis cutoffs or long Faded Glory jeans, bare-midriff tops, and a puka shell necklace. Five dollars worth of Maybelline, half a can of AquaNet, a splash or two of Jovan musk oil…and voila! The package was complete. Ann, one year my junior, followed my lead and glammed it up too. We carried our thin wallets, hairbrushes, tiny mirrors, and touch-up face paint in our cheap chunky purses. As we were leaving Ann’s house one day her older sister Debbie remarked, “You girls look awfully dolled up to be playing tennis.”
What did she mean by playing tennis? We sat around on the bench and never once stepped foot on the court. First, we were too embarrassed for anyone to see us run around like the klutzes we were. Second, our shorts were too tight and we risked underwear exposure had we dared bend over to pick up a ball. Third, we couldn’t afford to break a sweat and get Alice Cooper eyes from mascara runs.
Alas, not much came of our tennis trolloping. Once or twice a guy friend would offer us a ride home, but it was never the guy we hoped for. Weren’t we pretty enough, clever enough, or popular enough? Such thoughts would consume our high school years.
I spent those slow small-town summer days of my youth dreaming, wishing, and waiting. An old Rolling Stones song sums up the mood of the time, and warns of the grown-up fears that would greet us down the road.
I am waiting, I am waiting.
Oh yeah, oh yeah.
Waiting for someone to come out of somewhere…
Stand up coming years,
And escalation fears.
Oh, yes you will find out.
Well, like a withered stone
Fears will pierce your bones.
You’ll find out.
Still, I have such bittersweet memories of those simple days — sitting in cool ’70s style on a peeling white bench, with my back to a chain-link fence, wondering if maybe this would be the day that someone would come out of somewhere…to make me feel special…to make me feel worthy…to make me feel that I had something to offer the world. It would take many years, lots of wasted wishing, and dozens of bottles of Jovan musk oil before I realized that soul singer Tyrone Davis was right: what I was out there trying to find…I had it all the time. ME.
Here are the very young Rolling Stones, singing about my waiting days:
© Dana Spiardi, Sept 10, 2014
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When the Mary Tyler Moore Show debuted on CBS on September 19, 1970, I was 10, and at the height of my tuffy tomboy period. And while I liked the program’s heroine Ms. Richards well enough, at that age I wasn’t too interested in her career or her elegance or her fabulous wardrobe. I watched the show mainly for the laughs and the offbeat characters: Dimwitted Ted Baxter, curmudgeonly Mr. Grant, kooky Rhoda, and haughty Phyllis.
But as I came of age during the show’s long network run (through 1977), I grew to embrace Mary Richards as a role model. She had a cool apartment in an old Victorian house and an exciting job in the male-dominated news business (which was of great interest to me; I’d end up declaring a journalism major in college). For all her physical perfection, she evoked an air of vulnerability as she stammered her way through arguments with her grouchy boss over pay raises and equality. She never managed to throw one decent dinner party — something I’d relate to one day. She was so tidy and practical, organizing her closets when she felt like blowing her top. But what I loved best about Mary was that she never seemed to care that she didn’t have a boyfriend, a husband or kids. All too often, writers succumb to marrying off a character when they’ve run out of good storylines or are trying to attract a new audience. TV’s first single working woman, Ann Marie (Marlo Thomas) of That Girl, remained a free agent during most of the series’ five-season run, but ended up becoming engaged to goofy ol’ Donald Hollinger in 1971. No, the Mary Tyler Moore Show writers (one-third of whom were women, a rarity back then!) stuck to the feminist agenda. In fact, I suspect that the sitcom’s star, the talented MTM herself, wanted it that way.
I was a very late bloomer and never had a boyfriend in junior high or high school, except for a brief four-month period in 10th grade (and it’s important to note that he was a boy from a neighboring town, and was either unaware or unconcerned that I was considered D-List material at my own school. Read more.) So, the fact that a beautiful, intelligent, classy dame like Mary Richards never had a steady beau gave me hope. She had an interesting career. She had friends. She was liked. She was happy. All of THAT, without a man or kids. Wow. The theme song lyrics from the show’s first season said it all:
How will you make it on your own?
This world is awfully big,
Girl, this time you’re all alone.
But it’s time you started living.
It’s time you let someone else do some giving.
Love is all around, no need to waste it,
You can never tell, why don’t you take it.
You might just make it after all.
You might just make it after all.
Girls, you CAN make it. Don’t ever let society pressure you into thinking you need a guy to make your dreams come true. Parents, sit your young ladies down and introduce them to the life and times of MTM!
In loving memory of Mary Tyler Moore, December 29, 1936, to January 25, 2017.
© Dana Spiardi, January 26, 2017
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Well, this past weekend, I got that chance, when I not only met, but KISSED, Lawrence Samuel Storch during his appearance at a Monster Bash convention near Pittsburgh PA.There he was, at age 94, a bit frail, but tidy and quietly attentive, signing autographs and posing for pictures with adoring fans. First off, I told him I loved him, and thanked him for his eight decades of service to the entertainment industry. Then, I went straight for the gags, rephrasing the classic F-Troop line, “Now, why does everybody say I’m so dumb?” He smiled and began to sign the photo I purchased from his tabletop display. “Make sure you sign it ‘with love,’” I said. He answered, “Okay, but shall I sign it ‘Larry’ or ‘Larry Storch’?” I told him to include his last name, in the off chance some philistine would see the picture on my wall and ask about his identity.
Then, I regaled him with my story of how I used to sit with my girlfriends, Kathy B. and Mary M., in a small lunchroom at our workplace in the 1980s, sharing F-Troop gags and singing the theme song. (Mary’s husband Majeed once bemoaned, “She makes me watch that show every night on Nickelodeon!” Hey, what better way for an intellectual from Saudi Arabia to absorb American high-culture?) Well, Mary’s F-Troop dreamboat may have been klutzy Captain Wilton Parmenter (played with pratfall-panache by the talented Ken Berry), but Kathy and I were staunch Storchers from day one. And we weren’t the only ones! As I was waiting in line to meet Larry, I overheard a woman gushing to him about the huge crush she had on him as a kid.
What can I say? Some of us just have highly-refined taste in men. We don’t dig the ones with the usual matinee idol looks (although, check out some early publicly stills of Larry; he was a hottie!) There was just something about that little guy. As Agarn, he was downright adorable in his yellow kerchief, red undershirt, suspenders, and oversized hat (he was the only one in the show who donned a white one; how nonconformist, I thought!) But his appeal had more to do with the lovable, relatable nature of his character: all bark and no bite, always late to grasp a joke or insult (“who says I’m dumb?”), a relentless hypochondriac, berating the cowardly troops of Fort Courage one minute and falling apart at the seams the next, burying his head in the chest of scheming Sergeant O’Rourke (the mighty Forrest Tucker) and tearfully wailing, “Oh, Sarge!” (For the record, I used to think Mr. Tucker looked a bit like my dad).
The tomboy in me longed to be Captain Parmenter’s sharpshooting, trading-post paramour Wrangler Jane (the late Melody Patterson, a 16-year-old cutie who lied about her age to get the part), strutting the wooden sidewalks with frontier fearlessness, in boots, fringed jacket, tight buckskin britches, and lasso gloves. But I figured I’d always be more akin to the hapless Agarn.
Eventually, I’d grow into a cynic, read “Catch 22,” and realize that stories about bumbling military misfits might be closer to real life than I’d like to imagine. As an adult I’d roll my eyes at the racist portrayal of F-Troop’s Hekawi Indian characters (who, nonetheless, were wiser than the soldier-dogs). But back when I was a child of six, the metaphors of a misfiring canon, a tone-deaf bugler, and a blind man in the watchtower were nothing more than gags.
Today, I wish I could view my misfit life, with all its misfirings, tone-deaf thoughts, and confusion along the watchtower, as a silly satire like F-Troop. Well, maybe it’s possible, if I can just march-step outside my cluttered Fort Fear of a mind and find some humor in my self-absorbed situations.
I see my encounter with Larry Storch as a type of wake-up call, as I trudge through a difficult phase of my life…my own personal war’s-end Reconstruction Period. He’s 94 years young, still spreading joy and inspiring playfulness. Today, I choose to embrace my inner-Agarn soul, with all its flaws, goofiness, and sweetness. I’m proud to be a humble little corporal, making the daily rounds through my own personal Fort Courage.
© Dana Spiardi, June 26, 2017
Okay, folks, let Agarn teach you to dance, in one easy lesson! Also featured in this clip are Hollywood legend Edward Everett Horton as medicine man Roaring Chicken, Italian-American character actor Frank de Kova as Chief Wild Eagle, and Forrest Tucker as Sarge.
And, because I know you’re just dying to sing along, here’s the F-Troop theme song from the show’s opening credits!
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