I started to include this in my previous post, but I decided that Bruce deserves a post of his own. I’m sitting here rocking out to one of the idols of my youth as my five-year-younger husband shakes his head because he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it! How can you not get Bruce? What is to become of this younger generation?
Bruce may not be the stud of my teen years anymore, but he is seriously rocking the Super Bowl out. Give an old guy credit–he’s not doing any lip-syncing tonight. My only complaint about tonight’s performance is it was way too short.
In 1984, I lied to my parents (just that once, I swear! I would never lie to my parents! Really. That D in chemistry must be a mistake! And of course I didn’t miss curfew. Smell? What smell? I don’t smell anything sweet!). I told them I was spending the night at Eva’s house. Eva told her mom she was spending the night at mine. Instead, we camped out at Vibrations record store at 163rd Street, getting there at about 8 p.m. and tickets for the “Born in the USA” tour were going on sale at in the morning. In those days there were no sophisticated numbering systems–it was first come first serve, so those waiting would write out numbers on scraps of paper and give them to people, so we didn’t have to stay in the same spot all night. I was number 79; Eva was 78.
The night was a party scene. Lots of drunk people (and in all seriousness, not us). People dozing on and off. Lots of runs for Burger King. Most of us had our Walkmans and we were trading tapes (yes, tapes). One of the guys in line took a shine to me, and at some point, traded my number 79 for his number 7. I remember his buddies yelling at him, but who was I to argue? I got two tickets, fairly far up in the Orange Bowl; Eva got two pretty far back. I’m pretty sure when my parents asked how I’d gotten the tickets (because I’d obviously done it in person as I didn’t have a credit card to use on the phone and it was on the news how fast the concert sold out), I ‘fessed up pretty quickly. I believe the consequence of my indiscretion was I had to take my sister to the concert. Eva had to take hers, too. We sat up front. They got the crappy seats. (Sorry, Tweeds, for just ditching you at the concert.)
I had a poster of Bruce over my bed. “Born to Run” was an anthem, something we blasted while driving up Collins Ave or Biscayne Boulevard. One of my high school boyfriends was always befuddled that I couldn’t remember the battles of the American Revolution for A.P. American History, but I could sing “Blinded by the Light” forward and backward (still can!).
Of course, I had other phases. I was waaay into Pink Floyd for a while. Rush. The Who (I saw them on their first final tour!). Genesis. The Clash. Toward the end of high school, I definitely segued into New Wave, with Depeche Mode and Yaz topping the list.
Quick digression: Anyone else see that ad for Race to Witch Mountain. I said to Adam, “I’m horrified that they’ve remade Witch Mountain?” and he said, “What? What’s Witch Mountain?” Aaaaaggggggg!!!
Okay, back to the music. Actually, I only have one more thing to say: Bruce. Bruce! Buh-rrrruuuuuucccccceee!
Because tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.
