America

Hope you find it.

This Land Is Your Land

“My country, right or wrong; if right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set right.”


In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people
By the relief office I seen my people
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking 
Is this land made for you and me? 

Nobody living can ever stop me
As I go walking that freedom highway
Nobody living can ever make me turn back 
This land was made for you and me

Here Comes the Rain Again

It's raining this morning in San Diego, something which doesn't happen a whole lot. I don't believe in omens or portents...and yet given how dark this day is, it's hard not to lend it a certain amount of credence.

This is not the darkest time our great nation has ever seen.

Just the darkest in well over a century.

Things will get better. It's just going to suck until they do.

Don't Do It

Look at these jamokes. If you were drinking in your local dive, or maybe a guest at the wedding of a distant acquaintance, and these guys got up to play, what would you think? I mean, really. Just look at them.

Levon looks like the really good mechanic you're pleased to have finally found, even though you can't help but feel—accurately—that he's always looking down at you because you don't know as much about cars as he does. Rick looks like the guy who works the counter at the autoparts store. Richard looks like the guy who stocks the shelves at the autoparts store: there's something about his smile that freaks out the customers too much, even the most manly ones, so they don't let him work the register. Robbie looks like the guy who mixes paint at the hardware store and tries to chat up the housewives, most of whom see right through him, and don't so much enjoy the attention as feel a bit creeped out and like they need a shower. And then there's Garth—in the end, there's always Garth. He's the guy who works in the stacks at the local university library, the one you hope the librarian won't have to go to for help when you ask your question, even though they always do, 'cuz he always knows, and there's no reason you hope they won't, as he's never said or done anything weird to you or anyone you know: in fact, he never does anything weird, other than never doing anything but studying old, arcane tomes and feeding his fish. It's just that he always stares at your shoes as he mumbles the answer to even the most esoteric of queries.

And then they start playing.

Would you get it right away? Would Levon's jittery yet slinky beat immediately clue you in that you're in the presence of a master, of a man who got as much funk, as much soul in his DNA as guanine? I'm not sure you would. What about when Rick starts in with that bassline? I like to think so, but I'm still not sure; the goofy way he bops might distract you. Sure, you'd think, okay, this might not be totally embarrassing, but I don't think you'd quite realize yet what you're in for.

It's Richard's piano that prepares you. His chording is simple, sweet, tasteful...but quiet as it is, it's got that tang of the roadhouse about it—but a roadhouse down New Orleans way—that subtly shifts your thoughts and expectations and even though you haven't fully grokked it yet, you're already starting to think, well...huh. This might just

And then Robbie starts playing. And the slightly sad lounge lizard reveals himself to be the greatest guitarist you've ever actually seen in person, with just a few chords. They're not difficult chords; this isn't Jim Hall playing some bizarre inversed voicing. They're just your standard rock and roll chords...but they're rock and roll chords played with that distorted Strat tone that bypasses your aural canal and goes directly into your very being and makes it clear that the guy making those sounds knows rock and roll and he knows the guitar and suddenly the smugness seems entirely justified.

And then they start singing. And it hits you, first, that this sweaty funk workout is somehow Marvin Gaye's boppy classic. And, secondly, you realize, accurately, that if this isn't the best group vocals you've ever heard, well, you never heard better. Never. Not by the Beach Boys, not by the Beatles, not even by the Everlys. Never.

Robbie's guitar solo only confirms what you could tell by his opening chords, which is that this superior bastard is indeed superior—he's got the technical ability, but he's more than just flash: he's got the spirit. And behind him, supporting them all, is that intense research librarian who, it turns out, plays the church organ like Bach, if Bach had been raised as a tobacco farmer in Kentucky.

Turns out, and who knew? that looks can be deceptive. And that the rock, the funk, the soul, can take root in the most unlikely of places, whether a guy who looks like a smarmy bastard or a creepy stockboy. And that the proof is always in the sound. And god-a-mighty, what a sound.

the day after

The Star-Spangled Banner

After all these years, still surprising, still so cool.

This Land Is Your Land

Happy birthday, 'murica.

Hey Blue Eyes

Who we are, what we'll do and what we won't.

They’re holdin’ a committee, of treason and lies
Doublespeak and sedition, then somebody dies
From the hill the smell of lilacs, the repeat of guns
She closes the window, draws the blinds
Her first touch sucks the air from my lungs
Hey blue eyes, what’cha doin’ tonight?
Hey blue eyes yea it’s all right

She says in this house we’ve abandoned history
In this house there are no laws
Just the false taste of paradise, and then the fall
In this house the guilty go unpunished, blood and silence prevail
Here the dead remain nameless, the nameless remain jailed
Hey blue eyes, what’cha doin’ tonight?
Hey blue eyes yea it’s all right

In this house there’s just the dust of bones
The basement’s filled with lye
In this house our son’s and daughters, are spilled like wine
So come close my pretty darlin’ and let me feel your disease
Tonight I’ll have you naked, and crawlin’ at the end of my leash
Hey blue eyes, what’cha doin’ tonight?
Hey blue eyes hey it’s all right

She says, in this house it’s so easy
To set a world on fire, all you need is a name, the money
And a soul full of reckless desire
Now upstairs the landlord is dining with all of his very close friends
Don’t worry they’ll have their bags packed and be long gone
Before the real fucking begins
Hey blue eyes, what’cha doin’ tonight?
Hey blue eyes hey it’s all right
Hey blue eyes, what’cha doin’ tonight?
Hey blue eyes yea it’s all right

The 50 States Song

I love this song. (Even if Cali gets a tiny bit shortchanged.)

It's a part of the act
The fifty states
Pack up your bags
It's never too late

From Alabama to Arkansas
Follow Alaska, say what you saw
Swim in the ocean, Maryland, Maine
Then Massachusetts, what a great place
Go to New Hampshire, Missouri too
It's not Virgina but it will do

Take a drive to Ohio
We went running through the oil
And my favourite avenue
I tried it all my favourite choose

There's Mississippi, Kentucky blue
Rhode Island rage
And a Tennessee too
See Oklahoma or Michigan
There's a Nevada, see Washington win
Or Arizona, Colorado
Connecticut Yankee, love Ohio
Louisiana, Delaware who
Go Minnesota, we're thinking of you

When we came to Washington
We went running through the rain
In my favourite city park
In my favourite time of day

Oh California, Wyoming too
Go to Wisconsin, New Jersey loves you
Fly in to Georgia, Idaho Bay
Or Indiana, they all seem the same
Flordia voting, Montana chew
Visit Nebrasksa, there's nothing to do
North Carolina, Oregon arms
Illinois people, Illinois farms

If I lived in Rhode Island
Or if I lived in Michigan
Or if I lived to be a man
Will you comfort me again?

There's West Virgina, gold in Vermont
Visit Hawaii or New Mexico
Iowa, Texas, take it all in
The Mormans in Utah, the money in gin
There's Pennsylvania, driving at night
South Carolina, what a delight
Dakotas and Kansas
Piggy and pork
Jump on a train, head back to New York

It's a part of the act
The fifty states
Pack up your bags, it's never too late

God bless America
Land that I love
God bless America
Land that I love

America the Beautiful

Happy birthday, baby.

America

"Confirm thy soul in self control. Thy liberty in law."

American Land

Happy birthday, baby.

The McNicholas, the Posalski's, the Smiths, Zerillis, too
The Blacks, the Irish, Italians, the Germans and the Jews
Come across the water a thousand miles from home
With nothin in their bellies but the fire down below

They died building the railroads worked to bones and skin
They died in the fields and factories names scattered in the wind
They died to get here a hundred years ago they're still dyin now
The hands that built the country we're always trying to keep down

Land of Hope and Dreams

DT and I have very little in common. One of the very few things we do share is this: we are both befuddled by the fact that a lot of our fellow Bruce Springsteen fans don’t really care for his newer stuff. In fact, some of the most devoted of his hardcore followers have seen him hundreds of times, from back in New Jersey dives before he even had a record deal. They’ll still angle to see him a dozen times per tour and buy each and every release. But they don’t really like his new stuff. And in some cases, when I say "new stuff" I’m talking about anything from the last twenty-five years.

I can sorta kinda almost relate, in least in theory. I’ve been thinking for a long time about the way we listen to music and how I believe it changes as we get older, and I suspect much of that ties into this. But I can’t truly relate, because the best of Springsteen's stuff over the past decade and a half is just stunning, an almost unprecedented catalog in all of rock and roll history.

Springsteen's got so many gems, many of which DT and/or I will hopefully get to eventually. But perhaps the very best of them all is "Land of Hope and Dreams," a song that sort of sums up in just a few minutes the post-1980 Bruce Springsteen the way "Born to Run" did the pre-1980 Bruce Springsteen.

Musically, it’s magnificent. Kicking off with The Mighty Max’s patented drums, it’s soon joined by Bruce’s mildly distorted guitar line, pure rock and roll. Next comes the late Danny Federici’s organ, bringing with it a hint of gospel, and then finally the entire band kicks in. Of particular note is Roy Bittan’s piano—always tasteful and technically perfect, his lines here are especially interesting, with his almost contrapuntal playing lending a subtle darkening of tone. And perhaps the nicest touch is the most basic—the tambourine played by The Big Man. Syncopated, it gives just the slightest hint of a hip-hop groove and opens the entire arrangement up.



Every single time I listen to the first fifteen seconds of this song I marvel that it’s not a staple of rock and roll radio, the way "Rosalita" and "Born to Run" are. Mainly it reminds me of the promise The Band held and occasionally delivered, but never, to my ears, more gloriously than  this. "Land of Hope and Dreams" may not be Bruce Springsteen’s best song. But he has never released a better one.

Interestingly, "Land of Hope and Dreams"—unlike "Blinded by the Light" or "Rosalita" or "Hungry Heart" or "Born in the U.S.A."—doesn't really have a traditional chorus, a relative rarity for a Bruce Springsteen song…but it is  something it has in common with both "Born to Run" and "Thunder Road."

The lyrics, though, are pure Bruce, filled with promise yet never denying that hard times led to this place and that there’s still hard work ahead:

Grab your ticket and your suitcase
Thunder's rolling down the tracks
You don't know where you're goin'
But you know you won't be back
Darlin' if you're weary
Lay your head upon my chest
We'll take what we can carry
And we'll leave the rest

Big wheels rolling through fields
Where sunlight streams
Meet me in a land of hope and dreams

The train imagery is, of course, pure Americana and has anchored countless blues, country, gospel, folk and rock songs, from "Mystery Train" and "Johnny B. Goode" on up to and including the late Curtis Mayfield's great "People Get Ready," lines of which are actually interpolated, and grounds the entire thing securely in the American tradition. But note, too, the legendary (mythical?) American tradition of a nation of people on the move, pilgrims, if you will. They don't know where they're going—but they know they won't be back. Once upon a time it meant looking for the eastern shore. Later it meant the midwest, or west coast, and later still The Great Migration largely (but far from entirely) northward. Here it's clearly figurative, symbolic, but no less powerful.

I will provide for you
And I'll stand by your side
You'll need a good companion for
This part of the ride
Leave behind your sorrows
Let this day be the last
Tomorrow there'll be sunshine
And all this darkness past

That's an interesting bit right there. The most obvious interpretation is that he's exhorting his companion to let today be the last day she has sorrows, but nearly as obvious is the implication that it'll be the last day, full stop. Given the song's strong gospel roots, that's not entirely surprising, although it would make it somewhat sui generis in Springsteen's oeuvre.

Big wheels roll through fields
Where sunlight streams
Meet me in a land of hope and dreams

Which would make Springsteen's vision of heaven...basically middle America. Which is so delightfully Springsteenian, albeit far more in the stereotypical idea of Springsteen's catalog than the much grittier reality of most of his work.

But taking the lyrics at face value, what's even more striking is the faith Springsteen still has in the promised land, a land he first sang about as a young man back in 1978—or, rather, not the promised land, but a promised land. Similarly, he doesn't look to find the land of hope and dreams, merely a land of home and dreams. And he's still searching for it, after all these years, after all the heartbreaks and amazing triumphs. He doesn’t claim to have gotten there, or even to have caught sight of it yet. Yet he’s positive that there’s a way to get there—but not just a way; note that he wants to meet there, meaning each voyager finds his or her own path—and that he and all who care to will get there eventually, with help and by helping, and that there’ll be room for all who are interested in making the journey.

This train carries saints and sinners
This train carries losers and winners
This train carries whores and gamblers
This train carries lost souls
This train—dreams will not be thwarted
This train—faith will be rewarded
This train—hear the steel wheels singin'
This train—bells of freedom ringin'
This train carries broken-hearted
This train—thieves and sweet souls departed
This train carries fools and kings
This train—all aboard

This train—dreams will not be thwarted
This train—faith will be rewarded
This train—hear the steel wheels singin'
This train—bells of freedom ringin'

And who'll be making this trip with him and his loved one? A motley crew if ever there was one. Saints and sinners, whores and gamblers, fools and kings, losers, winners, thieves—lost souls all. In other words, the place he's searching for sounds just like the America we all learned about growing up in school. And in the case of Bruce Springsteen, famous lapsed Catholic, populated largely by the disreputable but not irredeemable people a certain very famous long-haired, bleeding heart liberal hippie philosopher prominently featured in the New Testament chose to hang out with. It even looks something like the odd assortment of individuals which make up the E Street Band. (Not to assume about their collective moral turpitude or nothin'.)

In the end, Springsteen’s sure, dreams and faith will—in fact, must—prevail. He's no naïve waif; he has, as he's sung, been around a time or two. And yet. And yet he still believes. Somehow, at the end of every hard-earned day, he still finds some reason to believe. He still has dreams. He still has faith. And that’s just one more reason Bruce Springsteen is my hero and why I wish every schoolchild learned this song in first grade, why I wish it were handed out to each and every new immigrant to our nation and why, as you walked into the polling place each election day, you were handed a copy of the lyrics. 

Dreams will not be thwarted and faith will be rewarded. 

All aboard.