Bruce Springsteen's prog leanings

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you "Jungleland" — wherein Bruce Springsteen goes prog.

That’s right, I said it. Bruce Springsteen, blue-collar hero of meat and potatoes rock and roll, comes up with one of his most beloved songs, featuring multiple distinct sections, abrupt tempo shifts, long instrumental passages, unexpected modulations and an overtly melodramatic storyline. In other words, prog.

Oh, sure, it wouldn’t seem to have a lot in common with ELP or King Crimson, musically. And lyrically it’s got nothing in common with Yes since the lyrics are, you know, comprehensible. ("Mountains come out  of the sky and they stand there" — and that ain't cherrypicking, that's from their most popular song.)

But it’s not far off from what Genesis was doing its last few years with Peter Gabriel—in fact, given the radically different backgrounds of its creators, it really is like the American cousin of Selling England by the Pound’s “Battle of Epping Forest.”

Both take scenarios thoroughly steeped in their own local mythologies—Robin Hood’s old stomping grounds as a setting for a gang war versus the New Jersey Turnpike and a more mundane urban street scene—and craft a relatively straightforward narrative around them, both shot through with violence and ending in death. (SPOILERS!)

There are more than a few differences, of course: for one thing, Peter Gabriel’s lyrics play up the absurdity for comedic effect, and the variety of voices he utilizes only emphasizes that. Springsteen, in contrast, is aiming for high tragedy, complete with heartbreaking catharsis.

But even the names—the Magic Rat and the Maximum Lawman, Liquid Len and Bob the Nob—are of a piece. Both feature slower, softer instrumental intros which burst into uptempo rock and roll. (Well…something kind of approaching some sort of rock and rollian, rock and rollesque approximation, in the case of Genesis.) Both feature prominent keyboard parts as the dominant instrument overall, but “Jungleland” makes outstanding use of Clarence Clemons’ saxophone for its long, arduously composed and recorded solo, the most memorable part of the song—no small feat, given the gorgeous piano and violin intro, or the fine guitar solo, whereas ace Genesis guitarist Steve Hackett was, as all too often, relegated to textures (at which he was exceptional) and mixed too low.

And coincidence that the only time Springsteen released a song like this was in 1975, during the height of prog, when it was pretty much the most popular genre going at the time? And he wouldn’t do anything even remotely approaching it for 35 more years? Nay, I say—I say thee nay.

Which isn’t to say "Jungleland"'s not great, of course. ‘cuz it is, and I say that as someone who admits he’s got a fondness for prog. In fact, one of the big differences between the two songs is their relative quality: "Jungleland" succeeds in everything it tries to do, whereas "Epping Forest" is, as almost all the musicians involved admit, more than a bit of a mess: musically overly busy, even by prog standards, and massively overstuffed lyrically; comparing it to the same albums "Cinema Show" or "Dancing with the Moonlit Knight" make clear how powerful these ingredients can be when mixed in the proper proportions...which they aren't here.

“Jungleland” is epic and sprawling and gorgeous and ambitious and moving and sums up the entire Born to Run album perfectly. It’s the last gasp of a tenacious young kid willing, happy, desperate to try anything, to toss the kitchen sink and anything else he can find into the pot, hoping to discover the ideal medium for his message. He’d find it when recording his next album, and things would pretty much forever be far more stripped down and direct. So enjoy this last gasp of Bruce Springsteen figuring out who he is.  Once he figures that out for sure, things might get even better, maybe, but there’s nothing quite like the rush of a young artist exploding into full promise.

Don't Let Him Go

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the entire Journey family. I mocked—not without reason—the silly, lazy lyrics to "Any Way You Want It." And then I saw, for the first time, the lyrics to REO Speedwagon's "Don't Let Him Go."

There's a concept in storytelling called a Mary Sue:

A Mary Sue is an original character in fan fiction, usually but not always female, who for one reason or another is deemed undesirable by fan critics. A character may be judged Mary Sue if she is competent in too many areas, is physically attractive, and/or is viewed as admirable by other sympathetic characters. 

It originated in fan-fic but it's a pretty well-known term these days in wider literary circles. A character is often unjustly called a Mary Sue if the critic doesn't like the (female) author and wants to score some easy points by claiming the author has simply inserted an idealized version of herself into the story.

I've never encountered a Mary Sue in pop music, that I can recall, but holy shit is that what this song is all about.

I mean:

So you figure that you've got him all figured out
He's a sweet talkin' stud
Who can melt a girl's heart with his pout
He's the kind of lover that the ladies dream about
Oh, yes he is
He's got plenty of cash
He's got plenty of friends
He drives women wild
Then he drives off in a Mercedes-Benz
He's got a long wick with a flame at both ends [editor's note: insert eye-rolling emoji here]
He's hot

But don't let him go
Just give him a chance to grow
Take it easy, take it slow
And don't let him go
Don't let him go 

He makes you so angry
He makes you so sore [editor's note: and another here]
The wait may be worth it
But how can you wait any more?
When you're wonderin what you're waitin' for 

Baby I don't know
But don't let him go
Just give him a chance to grow
Take it easy, take it slow
And don't let him go
Don't let him go 

As I've mentioned many times, I don't care all that much about lyrics; generally speaking, for me they're a tray built to hold the vocal melody. If they're especially great, they can elevate a good song to great and a great song to brilliant. And it's only occasionally that they're so bad they can sink an otherwise fine song—as the great Peter Gabriel once said:

"There have been many great songs which have had really appalling lyrics, but there have been no great songs which have had appalling music." 

Well, this song wasn't going to be great no matter what. The band plays the Bo Diddley-inspired beat well enough, the dude with the pink silk shirt improbably rips off a tasty solo on his gorgeous Les Paul, the keyboardist does a creditable Rick Wakeman impression—it's all fine bar band fare. But the lyrics...oh my god, the lyrics are just so damn bad.

I mean, on the most basic level, they simply make absolutely no sense: this guy is that irresistible, he's that magnetic a panty-dropper, despite sounding like a raging douchenozzle. To an objective listener, he's clearly someone who should be treated with utter disdain by anyone with half a brain...and yet, the singer implores, if you just give him a chance, he'll...what? Presumably, faith and patience will be rewarded, but the song (to its minor credit) doesn't really promise any such thing. No it simply admonishes her (presumably) to give him all the time he could possibly need, with the implication being that he'll turn out to be a decent guy in the end. I mean, hey, he's got money, he's got the Mercedes Bends (unh), and he's got a lot of pretty pretty girls that he calls friends. He's hung like a candle—is that a saying?—and, most important, he's pouty.

Okay, listen, I know the end of the 70s/beginning of the 80s was a long time ago, but really? Did girls really think a guy pouting was a good look? I'm thinkin' not so much. That reads to me like a guy who likes to pout and really wishes girls found it attractive and baffled and angry that none of them do.

Speaking of, this guy pisses the listener off, and the listerner's already waited long enough and doesn't even know what s/he's waiting for...and yet, keep on waiting. 'cuz.

Why? Why? Why would you ever give this assclown the time of day, much less another chance?

I don't even know what to say. Other than that Les Paul really is gorgeous. Now for that I'd wait a lifetime. (And have so far.)

Racing in the Street

Writing for The New Rolling Stone Album Guide (that's the title and, yes, the "new" is a misnomer, given that it was published back in 2004), the redoubtable Rob Sheffield wrote of the Born to Run album, "Springsteen got the E Street Band together to stomp all over some jaw-droppingly great songs, ascending into a Zen realm of pure carness and girlness." Which is, of course, accurate, but could also be used to sum up both the song "Racing in the Street" and why so many music fans who don't care for Bruce Springsteen don't care for Bruce Springsteen.

The carness part is pretty much self-evident—all it requires is the most half-hearted of casual listens:

I got a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396
Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor
She's waiting tonight down in the parking lot
Outside the Seven-Eleven store

Me and my partner Sonny built her straight out of scratch
And he rides with me from town to town
We only run for the money got no strings attached
We shut 'em up and then we shut 'em down 

Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em off in my first heat
Summer's here and the time is right
For goin' racin' in the street

We take all the action we can meet
And we cover all the northeast state
When the strip shuts down we run 'em in the street
From the fire roads to the interstate

Some guys they just give up living
And start dying little by little, piece by piece
Some guys come home from work and wash up
And go racin' in the street 

Tonight, tonight the strip's just right
I wanna blow 'em all out of their seats
Calling out around the world, we're going racin' in the street

Having established that bounty of carness, the girlness only enters for the final verses:

I met her on the strip three years ago
In a Camaro with this dude from L.A.
I blew that Camaro off my back and drove that little girl away

I mean. How perfect an intersection of ultimate carness and girlness is that? (Correct answer: so very.) It's so macho, so manly, so...hold on. What's this?

But now there's wrinkles around my baby's eyes
And she cries herself to sleep at night
When I come home the house is dark
She sighs "Baby did you make it all right"

Well, that's not quite expected. The singer's got the baddest car and thanks to it, he won the hottest girl—over some dude from L.A. no less! Surely they're going to live happily ever after, no? I mean...she is clear about just how vital an awesome ride is, no?

She sits on the porch of her daddy's house
But all her pretty dreams are torn
She stares off alone into the night
With the eyes of one who hates for just being born

Apparently not. Apparently even the finest of cars isn't enough to bring happiness—apparently even such a car isn't fast enough to be able to stay in front of all your troubles.

For all the shut down strangers and hot rod angels
Rumbling through this promised land
Tonight my baby and me we're gonna ride to the sea
And wash these sins off our hands

It's a dark twist that in this ultimate macho car song—its most serious contender for the cup, "Don't Worry, Baby," telegraphs its concerns from the very first—the guy proves his manliness by besting the other male in a competition, thus winning him the love of female in a rather caveman manner. The noble knight has rescued the damsel in distress...only he hasn't, not really, not even close. For all his he-man virility, he's utterly powerless to actually help her. All he can do is stop driving his car in a straight line as fast as he can and instead turn towards the sea, where the two of them will attempt to solve all their problems...by getting wet.

Tonight tonight the highway's bright
Out of our way mister you best keep
'Cause summer's here and the time is right
For goin' racin' in the street

Of course, in the end, this isn't the ultimate car song, because from the very first notes, in one of Springsteen's trademark juxtapositions—a trait that flies right over the heads of non-Springsteen fans—the music makes clear that this particular story is unlikely to have a happy ending, in a textbook example of dramatic irony, whether the singer knows it yet or not. The long, slow, heartbreakingly lovely fadeout only serves to confirm what we've suspected from the start, and what music fans who only think of Springsteen as an overly-earnest caricature are incapable of hearing.

Heroes

Though nothing will drive them away
We can be heroes just for one day
We can be us just for one day

Well. There 'tis.

Favorite Song Friday: The Emperor's New Clothes

It seems years since you held the baby

While I wrecked the bedroom.

Call it a vast oversimplification on my part. But even with a decent knowledge of the huge and wondrous canon of rock-n-roll lyrics, I can’t think of a song that opens up with more of a lyrical gut-punch, with a more clearly defined and blunt statement of purpose.

Yes there are equals. “Like a Rolling Stone.” “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” “Tomorrow Never Knows.” Patti Smith’s “Gloria.” The Who’s “I Can See For Miles.” "Born in the U.S.A." I get that. They are all equally as visceral, as pointed, as clear and concise in intent from their opening lines.

Just no more than Sinead O’Connor is in the words that open one of her best, most personal and most raw and pointed songs, “The Emperor’s New Clothes.”

The song is laced with acid and spite, seething anger and frustration. And it comes with the full knowledge that she is a part of this story, that she holds a stake in all that has happened. It’s not victimization; it’s realization and self-reporting. It’s about love that’s not there and anger that is difficult to express. That’s “The Emperor’s New Clothes”—that’s what Sinead is doing in this 25-year-old song.

And that’s why those opening lines floor me. The juxtaposition of the sad regret of the first line with the unhinged madness of the second line is a warning shot for what’s to come. It will not be sentimental. It will not be wistful. It will not be apologetic. But it will be honest and it will—it will—be something we won’t forget.

That’s why in the old school lesson vein of a “topic sentence”—make your intent clear from the outset, Mr. Marcus always advised—those opening lines are so perfect.

The rest of the song is a marvel. Two chords, from opening to close, that never deviate. The dance beat comes with a not-at-all subtle layer of menace. Sinead’s voice, always a fascinating instrument in her ability to go from vulnerable to commanding within nanoseconds (Mikal Gilmore of Rolling Stone called it going from "ethereal to feral," and he was very right), stays more towards the understated side mostly throughout, but it drips with pathos and soul-bearing desperation.

And the writing is so…primal. This isn’t Sylvia Plath, but it does come across like a Sylvia Plath rough draft, or maybe even a page of notes. A sampling:

I see plenty of clothes that I like
But I won't go anywhere nice for a while
All I want to do is just sit here
And write it all down and rest for a while

Everyone can see what's going on
They laugh 'cause they know they're untouchable
Not because what I said was wrong

Whatever it may bring
I will live my own policies
I will sleep with a clear conscience
I will sleep in peace

Maybe it sounds mean
But I really don't think so
You asked for the truth and I told you

Through their own words
They will be exposed
And they've got a severe case of
The emperor's new clothes

These are words that need to get on the page now. Not tomorrow, not when they are fully formed, not after they’ve been pondered and thought-about for awhile. This is a bleeding, struggling need to get these thoughts out without any more hesitation, whether they or anyone else is ready or not. This is as confessional as confessional songwriting gets in its sense of urgency and immediacy.

(I haven't even mentioned the video, which it equally jarring. Sinead in some ways almost seems to want to blend into the background, clad in a shapeless black tunic, remaining largely expressionless as she reluctantly half-dances/careens he way across the stage in front of a small, collegial audience. But that face, those eyes. That's what you keep seeing; you can't look away.)

For that reason and others, “The Emperor's New Clothes” this is one of the bravest, most brutally honest songs I have ever heard. From one of the bravest and most brutally honest—for better and for worst—songwriters/performers I have ever heard.

And it all starts with that opening line.

It seems years since you held the baby
While I wrecked the bedroom

It might not be as poetic and soaring as, “Once upon a time you dressed so fine, threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you?” But it’s no less shocking. It may even be moreso.

Coming Up Close

"Everything sounds like welcome home."

Well. There 'tis.

Twist and Shout

Well, shake it up, baby, now
Twist and shout
C'mon c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, baby, now 
Come on and work it on out

Well. There 'tis.

Growin' Up

"When they said 'sit down,' I stood up."

Well. There 'tis.

Favorite Song Friday: Do It Again

One of the first things I remember learning about the Kinks was that Ray Davies was an extraordinary songwriter, one of the all-time greats, with an unsurpassed eye for detail and a penchant for looking at unusual subjects with incisive delicacy, or standard subjects from unusual points of view.

Since at the time, the only Kinks songs I knew I knew were "You Really Got Me" and "Lola," I simply took it on faith.

Turns out, for once, I was right to. All those things were true, and more. The Kinks are one of those bands that most rock fans know a good half-dozen or more songs, and that's enough for them. But, in my experience, the deeper you dig into their discography, the bigger a fan you tend to become...to a point. Delve into their 60s output, going all the way back to their blues heavy debut, and you're likely in for life. Gaze too deeply into the abyss of their early 70s RCA concept albums and you risk overload and burnout, although for some it's entirely possible it'll be their favorite section of the oeuvre. Grow up in middle America in the 70s as a fan of classic rock, and it's their Arista LPs from the second half of the decade that might resonate most fully.

I like pretty much all of it. (Preservation Acts I-IX were a bit too much for me, to my shame.) But over the years, maybe my single favorite Kinks song is this 1984 semi-hit.

ensemble dance in videos has really come quite the long way, hasn't it

I liked their previous few hits, "Come Dancing" and "Don't Forget to Dance" quite a bit. If nothing else, it was a hoot seeing these British Invasion vets on MTV right next to the likes of Duran Duran and Adam Ant, especially given how defiantly retro those dancehall tunes were. But "Do It Again," now...that was rock and roll. Nothing wrong with genres that aren't rock, once you've accepted they aren't rock and are therefore inferior. (I kid, I kid...mostly.) But still and all, to see one of the main godfathers of punk kicking ass again 20 years on? Even as a teenager, I thought that was pretty badass.

But it took me another decade to realize that this wasn't just Ray Davies slumming with his take on the Rolling Stones pump-'em-up anthem "Start Me Up." It was something like that, sure. But it's hard to believe (a post-1965, at least) Davies would be capable of writing something as one-dimensional and ham-handed as that Stones gem, even if he tried. (More likely, he'd find himself exploring a protagonist whose lack of impulse control leads him into sordid adventures worthy of the Marquis de Sade...or perhaps a pipe-fitter whose wandering eye and love of alcohol led to the implosion of his marriage and alienation from his beloved children.)

So with "Do It Again." It is the kinda of get stoked song beloved by those who program time-out music for the NBA. But it's more than that. It's hard to believe it's not at least partially autobiographical, especially given that original Kinks drummer Mick Avory—the last non-Davies member of the band to have been there from the beginning—was fired after 20 years during the making of the album. Not to mention the simple fact that Davies was now 40 and looking around at his compadres—the Who had broken up, John Lennon was dead, the Stones were...whatever they were by that point (A: massive and rich and shitty)—he must have felt the impending, inexorable doom of time.

But it's so much wider in scope than that. "Do It Again" manages to be straightforward anthem, pointed analysis of the never-ending work cycle and matter-of-fact character study, all at the same time.

Standing in the middle of nowhere
Wondering how to begin
Lost between tomorrow and yesterday
Between now and then

And now we're back where we started
Here we go round again
Day after day I get up and I say
I better do it again

So far, it would seem to be largely autobiographical, a still popular but possibly fading rock star facing band turmoil and the need for more product, exhorting himself to yet again gird his loins and do what once upon a time came so easily.

Where are all the people going
Round and round till we reach the end
One day leading to another
Get up go out do it again

Then it's back where you started
Here we go round again
Back where you started
Come on do it again

This sounds more like a worker bee of some sort—perhaps in a factory, maybe in a cubicle—looking at the meaningless, faceless, endless nature of so many jobs in modern society, the pointlessness of this utter necessity.

And you think today is going to be better
Change the world and do it again
Give it all up and start all over
You say you will but you don't know when

Here the tone shifts and it's easy to imagine the singer is addressing a more youthful listener, perhaps someone just past the apex of optimism, or someone who's always just about to go to the gym, stop smoking, finally finish That Thing. You know, That Thing you really want to finish and are going to. Any. Day. Now.

Then it's back where you started
Here we go round again
Day after day I get up and I say
Come on better do it again

The days go by and you wish you were a different guy
Different friends and a new set of clothes
You make alterations and affect a new post
A new house a new car a new job a new nose
But it's superficial and it's only skin deep
Cause the voices in your head keep shouting in your sleep
Get back, get back

Once again, the focus changes, and it closes inward, gets more personal, less socio-economic. And while it's extremely unlikely Davies had that year's earlier mega-hit, "Dancing in the Dark," in mind when writing this verse, the similarities are striking.

Back where you started, here we go round again
Back where you started, come on do it again

Back where you started, here we go round again
Day after day I get up and I say, do it again
Do it again
Day after day I get up and I say, do it again

And we're out, ending on the somewhat precarious subtonic, rather than resolving to the more common tonic, with its sense of stability. And what we're left with is a general sense of unease, all pounded into us through the scalpel of one of Davies's catchiest melodies, and powered by the never surpassed and rarely even close to equalled assault of Dave Davies guitar playing, here in all its stabbing, distorted glory.

Queen of the Supermarket

"Queen of the Supermarket" is one of Bruce Springsteen's most misunderstood—even hated—songs, off Working on a Dream, one of his most interesting but (seemingly impossible for Springsteen) underrated albums. 

(I'm about to post a full-throated defense of the song...and, even so, even I have to admit this is a really funny image. And, hell, it's not like it's worse than the official cover art for the album.)

The opening, with its soft piano and delicately strummed acoustic guitar supporting what sounds like a musical box-like glockenspiel, is lovely, sweet, giving hints of both the romance and the possible unreal nature of the rumination to come.

The opening lines are arresting:

There's a wonderful world where all you desire
And everything you've longed for is at your fingertips
Where the bittersweet taste of life is at your lips
Where aisles and aisles of dreams await you
And the cool promise of ecstasy fills the air

If we didn't already know the name of the song, we might almost think we were in sort of strange new gospel song. The language isn't quite right—"aisles of dreams"? "ectasy"?—but the general vision is certainly one of a heavenly afterlife.

But then we get to the first verse's last line:

At the end of each working day she's waiting there

Hm. Unless the narrator's speaking of the Virgin Mary—and certainly "Mary" is a name that's cropped up in far more Springsteen songs than is statistically likely—that's a pretty big tell that we haven't gone past the Pearly Gates.

I'm in love with the queen of the supermarket

Bwah?

As the evening sky turns blue
A dream awaits in aisle number two

Ah. So. What we've got, it seems, is one of those Springsteen songs that's not just humorous, ala "Local Hero" or "TV Movie," but flirts with parody, such as "Ain't Got You," "57 Channels" or "Crush on You."

Certainly the following lines would lend credence to this view:

With my shopping cart I move through the heart
Of a sea of fools so blissfully unaware
That they're in the presence of something wonderful and rare

These lines seem to be deliciously, delightfully taking the piss, as the Brits would say. They're so over-the-top in their descriptions and florid language that there's almost no way to take them seriously.

But then we get to the next few lines:

The way she moves behind the counter
Beneath her white apron her secrets remain hers
As she bags the groceries, her eyes so bored
And sure she is unobserved

And things become slightly less clear. Suddenly the description—"secrets remain hers," "her eyes so bored and sure she is unobserved"—is insightful, keen and unusual. Sure, we learn when we're young that everyone has their secrets, but it's something that's rarely remembered in a supermarket, of all seemingly unsecretive, mysterious places. And how easy is it to lose yourself in your own thoughts and forget you're surrounded by observers in that least isolated of locations? There's little sign of parody here, and even the humor's a thing of the past. Suddenly, this all feels sincere.

It's possible that, if nothing else, Bruce Springsteen is here finding and celebrating the extraordinary beauty in the most common, everyday place. He'd already paid tribute to the plain virtues of desert racetracks, illuminated turnpike signs, and baseball diamonds—why not a supermarket? The answer is both obvious and a little troubling. For what's more common and everyday than a supermarket? And yet what an unimaginable wonder it would have been to even the wealthiest people just a few centuries earlier, or technologically, just a few decades ago. And what a wonder it would be to huge percentages of the world's population. And yet somehow it obviously feel different to most Springsteen fans: lesser, somehow, not as worthy of a paean. Why would that be? It wouldn't appear to be a class issue, or one of rural v. urban, leaving the unsettling possibility that it's a gender matter.

I'm in love with the queen of the supermarket
There's nothing I can say
Each night I take my groceries and I drift away, and I drift away

Some of Springsteen's greatests triumphs as a recording artist have come when he's slyly juxtaposed an upbeat sound with a downbeat lyric, in such songs as "Glory Days," "Dancing in the Dark," "Hungry Heart," "Badlands," and so many others. And here's where the sound of "Queen of the Supermarket" becomes vital. It had been pretty, and unusually melodic for Springsteen, with the 60s baroque pop vibe of much of Working on a Dream, but here, as he sings "drift away"—with its subtle nod to the beloved Dobie Gray song he's sometimes covered—he not only swoops up into his higher register, the sound of the recording changes. His vocal comes forward in the soundstage, is doubled and joined by a sumptuous, heavenly chorus of oohing and aahing backing vocals:

With guidance from the gods above
At night I pray for the strength to tell the one I love
I love, I love, I love her so
I take my place in the checkout line
For one moment her eyes meet mine
And I'm lifted up, lifted up, lifted up, lifted up, lifted away

Unusual as the setting may be—although what's more "common man" than a guy buying groceries after work?—this all comes across as utterly heartfelt, and quietly, sadly beautiful. And as the final "away" fades out, Springsteen's earlier, lower, voice fades back in, falling down for the second line.

I'm in love with the queen of the supermarket
Though a company cap covers her hair
Nothing can hide the beauty waiting there

But come the repeat of the "beauty" line, he again soars upwards, lifted up by his majesty and grace.

The beauty waiting there

The backing vocalists sing the praises of the queen a few times, before almost everything dies out—an unusual move for Springsteen, musically. And to the heartbeat of Max's bass drum, the narrator—Springsteen, again in his lower register, and not doubled—sings the lines that send any lingering thoughts of parody, should any remain, away on the breeze:

As I lift my groceries into my cart
I turn back for a moment and catch a smile
That blows this whole fucking place apart

There's nothing funny here at all, not any more. Instead, we're left with something beautiful and sad, a narrator so very in love—and who's to say it's not real?—with someone he seems to feel is utterly unattainable, and given what we've learned in the past few minutes of his behavior, it seems as though she is, even if she just dropped a hint his way, a hint he's unlikely to ever act upon.

I'm in love with the queen of the supermarket

And then comes the strangest part of the song. After a few repeats of the refrain, everything shifts into an odd coda. Unlike "Thunder Road," or its antecedent "Layla," however, this doesn't seem to bring some sort of spiritual solace or thematic summation. Rather, its ethereal, somewhat spooky nature is reminiscent of the coda to "Dancing with the Moonlit Knight," by Springsteen's old friend Peter Gabriel's first band—or even more apropos, that song's musical bookend, "Aisle of Plenty."

Unlike the straightforward 4/4 of the main body of the song, the coda is in a dreamy waltz time. Instrumentally, it's almost all waves of strings, accompanied by disarmingly disembodied vocals of an almost Enoesque nature. The only instruments which are carried over from the usual Springsteen orchestration are Max's bass drum and ride cymbal, hints of piano here and there, and some barely audible echoes of single-string lead guitar, none of which are mixed nearly as high as the strings and vocals. But strangest of all is the most noticeable percussive element, a rather loud, familiar beep which seems to sporadically fall out of time with the rest, a beep which is recognizable to anyone who's spent any time in a hospital or even just watched medical dramas on television.

What does this mean? Has the narrator been in a coma, dreaming this entire time? Has none of this been real? "Queen of the Supermarket" is a wonderful, strange, complex, perplexing song, but never more so than in its coda.

I'm in love with the queen of the supermarket

This song, coming on the heels of the previous album's stunning "Girls in Their Summer Clothes," gives the impression that the narrator is middle-aged or even older, even though there's no textual evidence to support such a claim. Yet for me it strikes a chord that brings me all the way back to some of my earliest memories.

I remember being 4 years old and watching shows like The Brady Bunch, where little boys would do utterly incomprehensible things such as yell and run away from little girls their age, claiming an outbreak of cooties or some such nonsense. Later, when I began to go to school, I discovered that boys in real life were just as stupid as their fictitious counterparts, and was even more perplexed. "What is wrong with you?!" I would think. "Girls are awesome!" (True story.) A few brief years later, when I went to college, I recall feeling as though I were falling in love a dozen times every day—sometimes that many times just walking to a single class. (Turns out: it wasn't true love.) I had a crush on the teller at the bank. And the girl at the soft ice cream stand. And the girl at the record store. I was way too shy to actually speak to any of them, of course. All I could do was look forward to seeing them again the next time and pretend I'd have the guts to speak to them then. I never did, of course.

I don't know whether Bruce Springsteen was that kind of kid, but the narrator of the song seems to have been. And now that he's (perhaps) quite a bit older...he still is.

When we lived in New York city, there was a bagel place my then-girlfriend, now-wife stopped at every morning on her way to work. Amazing bagels, still warm, the kind that just melt in your mouth. After only a few weeks of going there, one of the old guys behind the counter began to wave her to the front of the very long line and hand her a bag, which always contained her usual—an everything bagel with a little cream cheese on the side—rather than make her wait for ten minutes, because he knew it was a simple order and would only take him a few seconds.

Or so she told me. But one day I went with her. He didn't know I was with her, so he waved only her to the front, while I stayed put way at the back. (She also had to be at work before me, so it was no big deal.) But I watched the way he lit up when she smiled and thanked him and told him to have a nice day. He got a look on his face that hadn't been there before. And it stayed for the next ten minutes as he helped the other people. One smile from a cute girl absolutely made his morning and turned his day around. Such is the power of beauty, even if it's a stranger and nothing ever comes of it.

I'm in love with the queen of the supermarket