Bruce Springsteen

The rhythm sounds measured. A harmonica and a piano play their first notes together. Suddenly, the piano keys hold their breath, the harmonica lets out its last whimpers, and in the background, a simple chord progression turns into a chiming carpet of notes, both forceful and delicate, that keeps ringing out relentlessly. "That's my way of saying 'Hey, watch out, something's about to happen here'." Bruce is singing:

The screen door slams

Mary's dress sways

Like a vision she dances across the porch

while the radio plays Roy Orbison

singing for the lonely

It's an opening that carries all the suggestion of a cinematic cut. Roy Orbison, with his wonderful “Only The Lonely,” is right there performing: “Only the lonely know the way I feel tonight/ Only the lonely know this feeling won't leave.” Our hero, in a romantic rush, a mix of boldness and madness, has come running to Mary's house, trying to fight back against loneliness and the emptiness that's suffocating him. (Hey it's me, and you're all I want/ Don't send me home, I can't stand to see myself alone again).

It would take a review all its own to properly describe “Thunder Road.” More than a song, it's a prayer—a prayer to a woman, sparked by faith and hope in a dream. That American dream that was slow to show itself to Bruce Springsteen. Of humble origins, Bruce sought redemption through art. His father, skeptical, would scold him, telling him to quit that damn guitar and try studying for a career as a lawyer instead. “I write all the time now, I do nothing but write songs, but when I was young I was very insecure about my songs, I kept changing everything constantly.” Case in point: before “Thunder Road” there was “Wings For Wheels,” the same song but with different lyrics (and a rock'n'roll ending with sax). This version was meant to close the album as the final track, ending with a striking line: little girl, I was born to win!

Bruce Springsteen probably knew, deep down, that he was Bruce Springsteen. But much of the public, his father included, had no idea. The first person to spot something remarkable in him was future manager Mike Appel, who convinced Columbia's John Hammond to give Springsteen an audition. Since the audition consisted of a solo acoustic guitar tryout, Hammond—who had also signed Bob Dylan in the past—became convinced he had finally found his heir, and so Bruce was presented as the new Dylan, with all the pressure that came with it. In a situation like that, when you feel you're destined for greatness, you imagine the hard part is getting noticed and getting into the machine. Once you're in, the rest should be downhill from there. Instead…

The first record, full of masterpieces but with arrangements not yet up to the level of the songwriting, was a colossal commercial flop. The second one didn't fare any better—a beautiful progressive rock album with jazz undertones, which in America stayed confined to prog radio frequencies, fittingly enough. Columbia had by then decided that if the third album performed the same as the previous ones, they would terminate Springsteen's contract. At the same time, to make the most of their investment, the label's executives still felt it necessary to run a major advertising campaign to promote him. In short, a great deal of pressure began building up around Bruce. Pressure compounded by skepticism. “I want to try to make the greatest rock record in history.” It took him six months just to write one song: “Born To Run.” A monstrous amount of time, which set tongues wagging up in the executive offices. The most frustrating thing is that doubt was probably starting to creep into him too. “I've got the right sound in my head, I just don't know how to get it out.” Would he ever pull it off? Was he really destined for greatness? Or had he been overrated? The consequences of an artistic failure would have meant either scraping by as a live musician for the rest of his life, or having to go back, tail between his legs, to his father, who still kept insisting he build himself a real future and stop chasing unrealistic, pie-in-the-sky dreams. In short, he faced a future in which he'd spend most of his time brooding over the missed chance, dissatisfied at never having made it. So here we are: all or nothing, do or die!

In this state of mind, at 25, when you're still young but can no longer afford to be, Bruce Springsteen writes this masterpiece: "Thunder Road". A musical crescendo directly proportional to the urgency with which the protagonist declaims his own lyrics, lyrics that cannibalize the entire piece of music. An urgency dictated by the need to react, to try to live. It's the first time this dramatic element appears in Springsteen's lyrics. His impulse doesn't lead directly to solitary flight. What's the point of living if you have no one to live for? He probably knows he doesn't even have the strength for it. He needs the love of a woman who believes in him, who fuels his vigor, someone worth fighting for and worth overcoming the hardships he'll surely meet along the way, far from the dusty coastal roads of Asbury Park. And since this woman is his soulmate, she too feels the same emptiness and loneliness (Lo so che ti senti sola a causa delle parole che non ti ho detto/ ma stanotte saremo liberi, tutte le promesse saranno infrante). So our hero bursts into Mary's house, in the period when la stagione volge al termine e sento che sta arrivando il freddo (from "Wings For Wheels"). It could be a typical early-September day in a small seaside town, when the crowded beaches turn into deserts, revealing themselves devoid of that illusory vitality that once made them so attractive. A grey future unfolds before its inhabitants; the little seaside town, emptied out, becomes a metaphor for its protagonists' state of mind, in a cycle broken every year by the return of summer, the season in which illusions are born and at whose end the greyness resumes, dominating most of the months and weeks to come. So when guitar and drums come crashing in, every last inhibition collapses, and our hero addresses his beloved with brazen defiance: tu puoi nasconderti sotto le tue coperte e studiare il tuo dolore/ fare delle croci sui tuoi amanti/ spargere rose nella pioggia/ e sprecare la tua estate pregando invano/ per un salvatore che si levi da queste strade. Mary is waiting for her Prince Charming. Beh, ora io non sono un eroe (but in "Wings For Wheels" Bruce says prince) questo è chiaro/ tutta la redenzione che ti posso offrire, ragazza, sta sotto questo sporco cofano/ con una possibilità in qualche modo di renderlo migliore/ ehi, cos'altro ci resta da fare adesso… / se non… abbassare il finestrino/ e lasciare che il vento scompigli i tuoi capelli. A second overdubbed voice comes to the aid of the first, turning the plea into a passionate, romantic cry, in which the protagonist shows his Mary his own faith in the future, or more precisely, in a future together. He says he's no Prince Charming, yet he acts like one: Abbiamo un'ultima possibilità per fare avverare i nostri sogni/ per scambiare queste ali con delle ruote. Mary is left, against her will, facing a choice. Has she dreamed all her life that someone would offer to whisk her away on a white horse, but it's just a childish fancy, an adolescent fantasy that sooner or later drifts through every girl's mind, even as she knows full well it neither should nor could ever come true — or is it a sincere desire to make her existence special and meaningful, branding it forever with a memorable gesture tinged with madness?

Her lover is offering to take her down Thunder Road (a title Bruce borrowed from the poster of a film starring Robert Mitchum, which he himself had never seen), which isn't just the road on which one can make dreams come true, but also the road on which one decides, once and for all, to grow up, to break free of old patterns and finally give in to one's own emotions and desires, to make something "great" out of one's existence. It's the decisive moment, the one in which you hold the power to become the hero of your own fairy tale, set in a reality of two-lane roads and convertible cars.

This is where archetypes come into play: the desire to make one's love and one's existence special is indeed a wish to materialize one's secret dreams (every romantic little girl dreams of a knight who will carry her away, protect her and grant her happiness; every romantic little boy dreams of a princess who believes in his abilities and for whom it's worth fighting) — but in this case, for the protagonist, that desire becomes a way out of despair, a reaction to apathy and depression, and that's what makes the story far more dramatic. That's the whole point. For our hero, the antidote to the greyness of life is the race towards myth! It's trading reality for a dream! But dreams are vague. Just as in “Born To Run”, this possible future being held out to us is still steeped in the confused, adolescent-tinged hopes of youth. You're not 18 anymore, Mary, can you still afford to believe in something as hazy as an escape into the dream? (So you're scared/ and you're thinking that maybe we can't be so young anymore). Bruce Springsteen wants to go from 0 to 100, but that's too big a leap for anyone. That's why this race comes at a price. The price is leaving your certainties behind. Even as they flounder amid a sea of mediocrity, these certainties allow us to survive. You're aware that you dreamed of 100, but so far you've only received 10. You could call it a failure. But it's that 10 that lets you survive. You don't want to risk losing even the little you have, and dying for good, crashing amid the fog of the future. Maybe, by surviving, sooner or later something will fall from the sky and turn the situation around. The protagonist is right there to say that something has arrived, and it calls for a choice. Because surviving without your love, and dying, are one and the same. C'mon, take my hand/ we're gonna make it, I swear/ Whoa, I know it's late, we can make it if we try. It's the line that sums up the whole song.

To draw a comparison with a great song from the previous album, in the legendary "Rosalita" too Bruce was asking a girl to believe in him, to leave her family behind (who didn't like him because he was a broke nobody and the leader of a rock'n'roll band), and to run away together. However, it was completely lacking in dramatic quality. If Rosy hadn't followed Bruce, the worst that would have happened is that he'd have stayed away from the person he was infatuated with, but in the end he'd still have found comfort in the band's rock'n'roll. What was missing were the consequences of refusal. In “Thunder Road” everything is too urgent, refusal means loneliness, both their lives are at stake, it's all or nothing. Where the two songs do resemble each other, though. Bruce doesn't ask Rosy to sneak out through the window or over the rooftops, but to walk out through the front door. It's an act of legitimization of their relationship: Bruce is asking for proof, Rosy must cross the threshold of her home on her own, not caring about the opinions of those close to her and facing their disbelief head-on. In “Thunder Road” loneliness pushes the protagonist to take things a step further and burst into the house. But it's up to Mary to make that journey from the front porch/ to my front seat/ the door is open/ but the ride ain't free (as already explained earlier), and she has to do it now, or he'll be gone forever. Even though he knows he can't make it alone, he's decided to go for broke and set off anyway. She won't be swept away like a knight sneaking into a castle tower. It doesn't matter whether she's willing or not. It demands an act of courage on his part. He's down there waiting for her, perched like a killer under the sun, and it's up to her to jump down from the tower and reach him. Because this is a city of losers/ and I'm getting out of here to win!. The piano and sax burst into a clear, recognizable melody, with the flavor of triumph and escape. Rock'n'roll epic. This is Bruce Springsteen.

Everyone saddle up, because this is only the beginning of one of the most explosive musical sequences in history. "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" is a driving slice of soul, with an irresistible piano and a Springsteen in "black" mode at the peak of his powers. The song tells the story of the birth of the first-era E-Street Band, and in particular of the artistic partnership (and friendship) between "Bad Scooter" (B.S. is a nickname, standing for Bruce Springsteen), a slightly depressed musician who feels alone, and "Big Man" Clarence Clemons, with whom he would go on to conquer the stages of Jersey. The key point of the song (and of the whole album) is that, according to Bruce (who grew up between Catholic school and rock music), rock'n'roll has a redemptive power, because it's able to bring people together and turn their lives around. I'm all alone, I'm all alone, the song goes. A voice in the background whispers hey kid, you better get your plans made, and Bruce replies I'm on my own/ and I can't go home. Until a change was made uptown/ and the Big Man joined the band/ from the coast to the city/ all the little pretties raised their hands. The horn arrangements for the intro were written by "Miami" "Little" "Silvio Dante" Steve Van Zandt, a fresh recruit to the E-Street Band, who became not only the group's second guitarist but also Bruce's "consigliere". Asked recently whether he still believes rock'n'roll can save people's lives, Little Steven answered: "Yes, it's different from pop or hip-hop, rock'n'roll is all about the band, it's about connecting people." It was Rolling Stone critic Jon Landau who convinced Bruce to bring Steve Van Zandt into the E-Street Band. Landau, after uttering his now-famous words about the artist ("I saw rock and roll future, and its name is Bruce Springsteen"), was called into the recording studio by Springsteen himself, at a critical moment in the making of the record. Having taken on board his first, effective pieces of advice (for instance, moving the sax solo in "Thunder Road" — which originally floated in the middle of the song — to the end), Bruce decided to make him co-producer of the album, causing the first rift with his then-manager Mike Appel.

In this respect, and looking closely, this album is in all likelihood the only one Springsteen conceived specifically for studio production. "Born To Run" is almost entirely composed at the piano by Bruce, with new recruit Roy Bittan, the greatest accompanist-pianist in the history of pop-rock, tasked with "crystallizing the author's ideas — innocence, and the loss of it — into the piano's music." And indeed Bittan adds: "only after we got a good sound with piano, bass and drums did we move on to overdubbing the other instruments." The overdubs on "Born To Run" would become legendary. "I wanted an album where Roy Orbison sang with Duane Eddy's guitar and had Phil Spector as producer." It's precisely the "wall of sound" of Spectorian memory — that is, the use of overdubs with reverb and doubled instrumentation — that defines the album's music. That's because the "wall" was conceived by Spector to give greater power to the simple rock'n'roll song. And what else was the New Jersey songwriter looking for in the "wall of sound", if not that very power needed to give his songs new, epic sonorities? In this sense, Springsteen would prove to be an experimenter, but not an innovator. An experimenter because he was obsessive and perfectionist in his search for the right sound, and for the ideal arrangements to convey the lyrical ideas of his lyrics. But not an innovator, because he did nothing more than repeat what Spector had already been doing at the start of the '60s with his little groups of fearsome girls (he didn't use the "wall of sound", in short, the way Brian Wilson did, making the much-maligned pop song more sophisticated and complex, on a par with the Beatles). But that doesn't matter, because Bruce Springsteen isn't Bruce Springsteen because he's innovative or original. Bruce does what's already been done. But he does it better than anyone else, because he squeezes every last drop of potential out of every note. Listen to "Night", for example. Pure, undiluted energy, blending sax, drums, bass, electric guitar, a mix of acoustic guitars, glockenspiel and piano. Two overdubbed vocals (both Springsteen's) tell us of a worker venting his frustration after his shift, at night, driving around in his car, searching for a love with which he can momentarily leave his sense of alienation behind. The music envelops the listener from start to finish. The instruments, the sound, the towering vocal performance — everything conjures up the image of a caged man who needs to find a momentary way out, searching for some relief from the mediocrity of his existence. Once again it's the sax that closes things out in flight, leaving us with the image of a man driving off sad and free/ 'til all you can see is the night.

It's hard for me now to talk about “Backstreets”. It seems a moment of respite has finally arrived. But when the toll of the low notes makes its way through, and the bass stretches out, that's when the sound of the piano keys builds, and it's the explosion. Organ, piano and rhythm guitar hit us head-on, while the drums take on a marching, martial gait. A minute-long introduction that Rolling Stone journalist Greil Marcus would describe as "the prelude to a rock version of the Iliad." “Backstreets” is the apotheosis of the “wall of sound,” and its six-minute length makes it something far more epic than the “little symphony for the kids” theorized by Spector. The piano notes fade away as the narrator's voice comes in, laying out the backstory with a disillusioned air. Una dolce estate infestata io e Terry diventammo amici/ cercando invano di respirare il fuoco in cui eravamo nati. A story of friendship, then, born nascondendoci nelle strade secondarie. But the repeated, obsessive rage with which Bruce delivers this last line, combined with the return of the piano and the power of the other instruments, hints at bleaker scenarios to come. Danzando lentamente nel buio/ sulla spiaggia a Stockton's Wig/ dove vanno gli amanti disperati/ noi stavamo seduti in compagnia dell'ultimo Lp dei Duke Street Kings/ abbracciati nelle nostre auto/ in attesa del rintocco delle campane. Have the two friends become desperate lovers, then? Who is Terry? In the '78 concerts, when Bruce would add, halfway through the song, parts of the future "Drive All Night," the lyrics would seem, with certainty, to be addressed to a woman. But in 2007/08, with Springsteen dedicating this song to his bodyguard Terry and to keyboardist Danny Federici, both of whom had passed away, the idea would once again creep in that the lyrics were actually about a man. The song therefore lends itself to ambiguous interpretations; that said, whoever Terry is, the narrator reminds him that we swore we'd live forever on the backstreets.

If we were to embrace the "homosexual" reading, Backstreets would become the setting for a clandestine, perhaps impossible relationship between two friends who discover something more between them, a relationship destined to break when Terry betrays the protagonist. Will his reluctance to face this situation with courage and clarity be what pushes Terry into someone else's arms? And what if this mysterious “third man” being spoken of were none other than Terry's father, to whom it proves impossible to confess such a condition (prenditela con le bugie che ci hanno uccisi/ prenditela con la verità che ci ha affossati)? The musical crescendo, and the vocal one, violent and furious, reaches sublime heights of interpretation, managing to convey to us, right under the skin, that infinite and incurable pain that only a friend, or an abandoned lover, can feel. Puoi addossarmi tutte le colpe, Terry/ non me ne frega più nulla adesso/ quando a mezzanotte irruppe la rottura non c’era più niente da dire/ ma io ho odiato lui/ e ho odiato te quando te ne sei andato via. The notes of Springsteen's Telecaster are searing, and lead us into the final verse, where the two protagonists find themselves together again. Sdraiato nell’oscurità sei come un angelo sul mio petto/ solo un’altra visione che piange lacrime di infedeltà/ ricordi tutti i film, Terry, che andavamo a vedere/ cercando di imparare a camminare come gli eroi/ che pensavamo di dover diventare/ e dopo tutto questo tempo ci siamo accorti/ che siamo come tutti gli altri/ prigionieri in un parcheggio/ e costretti a confessare di/ nasconderci in strade secondarie. This was their greatest defeat: realizing they could never be what they had always imagined and dreamed of becoming! After the poetry of words comes the poetry of music. Two minutes of pure sonic epic (quoth Roy Bittan), which, starting from Springsteen's raspy voice, make room for a wonderful bassline, for the entrance of the organ notes (recalling Al Kooper's work on "Highway 61 Revisited"), for the return of the piano and a series of energetic guitar strikes, born of the final crescendo, which carry us swiftly toward the ending where the voices fade away.

The tone shifts (and so does the side, for those who own the vinyl edition), and hope returns with "Born To Run", the single that would literally save the New Jersey singer-songwriter's career. Six months of work, and "when you spend six months on a single song, something's wrong", Little Steven would say. Van Zandt recalls: "I walked into the studio and Bruce played me 'Born To Walk', so I told him it would be better to speed it up a bit". Jokes aside, "Steven's biggest contribution was fixing the notes of the opening riff", Bruce testifies. The product of obsessive work on the music (three or four acoustic guitars blended together, electric guitars, tambourines, glockenspiel) and of a long, obsessive process on the lyrics (accounts describe a Springsteen who would spend two hours on a single line only to end up just moving a comma), "Born To Run" would force its way, lyrics and all, into American popular culture.

Once again the lyrics tell of a young man asking his love to run away with him. "Born To Run" is, in fact, the twin song to "Thunder Road". The fundamental difference between the two tracks is that "Thunder Road" is a prayer, one we can all identify with because it speaks of our dreams and our fears, yet it remains anchored to intensely individual feelings. "Born To Run", on the other hand, is an anthem. Where the closing line of "Thunder Road" reads I'm pulling out of here to win, in "Born To Run" we get tramps like us, baby we were born to run. The shift from first person singular to first person plural marks a change in perception. The two protagonists become one with the listeners, young Americans of the mid-1970s, disoriented by the failure in Vietnam and the oil crisis, who feel like tramps because they no longer belong within this America, imprisoned in an elusive American dream.

Bruce Springsteen speaks to an entire generation and instantly captures its mood. Unlike Mary, Wendy, the protagonist of the title track, shows no signs of excessive resistance to the idea of running away. The protagonist's intentions, that will to reclaim his own destiny, are taken as righteous from the outset, because they are the intentions of a group. Our man isn't some reckless madman who's decided to risk it all against every ounce of reason. Le autostrade sono piene di eroi distrutti alla guida della loro ultima possibilità, Bruce will sing, with the fervor and energy of a people's leader. The song's strength lies above all in its powerful, propulsive music, unfolding in a structure complex enough to keep it original, yet never so convoluted as to make it uncommercial. The guitar riff drives the first parts of the verses, while piano combined with the chime of the glockenspiel forms the backbone of the second parts. Midway through the song, before and after the bridge, two hugely famous saxophone solos mark out its key passages. Listening closely to the composition, it becomes clear why it took so long to get it just right. The structures, both musical and narrative, run in parallel. Si comincia con un antefatto (Di notte giriamo fra ville gloriose su macchine da suicidio/ Piccola, questa città ci strappa le ossa dalla schiena) e un proposito per superarlo (dobbiamo fuggire finché siamo giovani/ perché vagabondi come noi sono nati per correre) che presuppone la situazione iniziale, ovvero lui che cerca di convincere lei. We thus arrive at the central phase, Wendy's resistance, which is tackled by leveraging the sensual power of the car journey. Failing to achieve the desired effect, the protagonist returns to “Thunder Road” and, with passion, in one of the finest lyrical moments, plays the card of sincerity (Perché piccola, sono soltanto un viaggiatore spaventato e solo/ Ma voglio sapere come ci si sente/ Voglio sapere se il tuo amore è selvaggio/ Ragazza, voglio sapere se l'amore è vero).

Once again we're faced with a mix of insecurity and a defiant burst of courage. But above all, for the third time after “Rosalita” and “Thunder Road”, Bruce asks his woman for an act that will legitimize their relationship. Love is only sincere if it's wild. Love is only real if you choose on your own to follow me on this journey away from home. It's time to choose, to understand whether the love you think you feel for me is real or not. And here the sax solo leaves us hanging. The sax of “Thunder Road” and “Night” was a sax that foreshadowed a car ride. What could have happened? What will our heroine have decided? Bruce starts singing again, hinting at various groups of people presumably crossed on the road while at the wheel. But then he turns to Wendy. So she's in the car with him, she's agreed to go along on the journey, but the protagonist's words make us jolt: Voglio morire stanotte in strada con te Wendy, in un bacio senza fine. And off we go with another sax solo at the peak of tension. Musically, it's the best part: the saxophone runs are counterpointed by guitar phrases, with both movements ending up coinciding with each other, before the drum roll that precedes the epilogue. The second act ends with a death threat: the kids fleeing a suicide of a town (Freehold, where Springsteen was born) are ready not just to run, but to crash if it means escaping, echoing the fate of the heroes of “Rebel Without a Cause”.

How will their story end? One, two, three, four…/ Sono tutti in fuga stanotte ma non c’è più posto per nascondersi. A road strewn with difficulties awaits them, and so they try to give each other strength, holding on tight through sheer force of feeling (Insieme Wendy possiamo sopportare la tristezza/ ti amerò con tutta la pazzia della mia anima), but to a listener's presumed objection of excessive faith and optimism, Bruce answers with the last line he addresses to his beloved: Un giorno ragazza/ non so quando/ arriveremo in quel posto/ dove vogliamo davvero andare e cammineremo sotto il sole/ Ma fino ad allora/ i vagabondi come noi/ sono nati per correre. These are the words that hand this song over to eternity. The ending is open, and it's an ending in which the song transforms from a generational anthem into a universal one. The destination is no longer a physical place, but becomes a place of the soul, in that long journey of self-discovery we call life.

There's also room for a “Bo Diddley” beat. “She's The One” is the most danceable song on the album, carried at first by Bruce's voice, and then immediately by Roy Bittan's piano and Max Weinberg's drums. Dedicated to her, con quella sua grazia assassina e con quelle sue parti nascoste che nessun ragazzo può invadere, whose bugie sono così disperate che tutto ciò che desideri fare è poterle credere, it's an ode to desire for an unattainable woman, who, once possessed, can only make you suffer. What consoles us for the situation is the rhythm, with the various “call and response” exchanges between Bruce's “She's The One” and Clemons's saxophone, a true bridge between soul and rock'n'roll, and between the singer's “oh”s and his guitar hits, right up to the final seconds where all the instruments blend into a hugely impactful “wall of sound”, in full dance-floor mode.

This, in my view, is where one of the greatest sequences in rock history comes to a close. “Meeting Across The River” is the album's lesser track. Sure, it has one virtue: those hermetic lyrics that seem to allude to a planned heist in New York after taking the tunnel under the Hudson River that separates Jersey from the Big Apple. It's no coincidence that the song's first working title was “The Heist”. As for its meaning, years later a dedicated book would be published featuring ten different interpretations of the lyrics, each by a different novelist — certainly proof of its power to inspire. What's more, after hearing it sung in unison, word for word, by the entire crowd at Madison Square Garden, in a spine-tingling rendition, it's impossible to deny its melodic worth. The problem is that “Meeting Across The River” is a minimal piano piece. But since a minimal piece was a contradiction in terms on a “Spector-style” album, it was decided to add a trumpet in the background, in a noir, 1930s style — to my mind thoroughly irritating and out of place, clashing with Springsteen's vocals and drowning them out in certain emotionally crucial passages.

"Meeting Across The River" leads us, in any case, to the gates of New York — the New York of "Mean Streets" and "Taxi Driver", of Robert De Niro and Martin Scorsese, but also the New York of "West Side Story". We're at the end of this episodic film, entirely set within a single summer day. We set off, in the morning, from the beaches of Asbury Park, in the company of Mary and her love. We travelled a few miles south along the coast, towards Belmar, where we found Bruce and Clemons playing together for the first time on 10th Avenue, at the corner of E Street. Then, after heading west onto Highway 9, we went up to Freehold, where we crossed paths with the characters of "Born To Run" fleeing in their Chevrolet, and from there we carried on north, cutting straight across Jersey. Skirting past Newark Airport, deep in "The Sopranos" territory, we then turned onto the New Jersey Turnpike, retracing in reverse the now-famous stretch of road that Tony Soprano would make immortal. At the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel are the protagonists of "Meeting Across The River", muttering allusive lines. On the other side of the Hudson lies Manhattan, and in particular Broadway's Theatre District.

It's the violin of Suki Lahav, an Israeli artist and member of the E-Street Band between '74 and '75, that opens the door to the world of "Jungleland", a world of pure urban mythology. There are songs that not only turn out to be great, but also show the ambition of wanting to become so. How many legendary albums owe their place in music's pantheon partly to one final, sprawling track that elevated their already exceptional worth? The Doors used “The End” and “When The Music Is Over”. The Who sang “Won’t Get Fooled Again”. “Jungleland” belongs to the same breed. And if we hadn't yet realized we're deep in Broadway territory, Bittan's tinkling piano is there to remind us, in a fairy-tale intro later paid tribute to (or semi-plagiarized?) by the Dire Straits in "Romeo & Juliet" (on which Bittan himself would play piano). It almost feels as if the sun is setting on these notes, and before night falls and the show can begin, Bruce takes the chance to introduce us to his characters, shedding light on the previous day's comings and goings: the Rangers, gathered in Harlem, Magic Rat, a New Jersey hoodlum making his entrance into the city, and the barefoot girl, sipping her warm beer beneath the drops of a soft summer rain. Magic Rat meets the Barefoot Girl, falls in love with her, and the two run off together on the organ's sweet notes. It's worth noting how the cops chasing Magic Rat through the streets of New York are called Rangers. If the city is a Jungleland, its keepers of the law can only be special soldiers trained to fight on that very battlefield. The sun has now set, New Yorkers are in bed, everything is silent/ from the churches to the prisons, the organ announces the start of a ceremony, to be celebrated on this sacred night, while we, the spectators, take our place/ down in the jungle of asphalt. The rhythm section, guitar and drums, bursts in deafeningly, marking the official start of the show. Amico, c'è un'opera sulla Turnpike/ c'è un balletto che sta per essere combattuto nel vicolo.

In "West Side Story", the fights between rival gangs are staged as dance choreography. The way this song frames the issue, though, is singular. The boys try to look so hard/ They carry switchblade knives/ They're going to blow up their souls/ playing rock'n'roll/ hungry and hunted/ explode into rock 'n' roll bands/ that face off against each other out on the street/ down in the jungle. The fight transforms itself, it's the second term of comparison, not the first. Music has such power that it becomes narrative in itself: it is truth, not representation. The guitar solo that follows doesn't describe the unfolding of the brawl - it IS the brawl; the notes of Little Steven's Stratocaster (in the live version; on the record it's Bruce playing) don't evoke the blows of the knives, they ARE the slashes of a blade. Emblematic in this sense is the musical moment that follows, the most famous of the entire song. After the police raid, the gang members scatter in every direction, amid the girls in the alleys who dance to the records spun by the deejay (are they egging on their comrades in the fight, or fighting themselves?) and the visionaries dressed in their homemade shoes, there are Magic Rat and the Barefoot Girl, lonely-hearted lovers who fight for their share, running scared. La Ragazza Scalza belongs to a gang rivaling Magic Rat's. The two cross paths, just a glance and a sigh, and they're gone. It's the album's final saxophone solo. Once again, the sound of the sax is a metaphor for a getaway drive. A sweet, desperate escape, between two people who have just come face to face with death. An escape not unlike the one in the finale of “Blade Runner” (there too, a saxophone in the background), when you've just slipped free of an adverse fate, but nothing can be taken for granted. Then comes the sharp turn. And our eyes are no longer on the two young people in the car, tender and frightened, but on the landscape around them. And so we're bewitched by this urban escape. Clemons's solo carries the scent of New York's outskirts, of lone jazzmen playing on street corners, of drifters crossing paths at night, of Taxi Driver cabs and Manhattan's nighttime lights, of traffic lights and bridges, and of tunnels beneath the sea. Until the images fade, and what remains is the music, only Clarence Clemons's saxophone solo, only the feelings it conveys, as it faintly settles and falls silent, like a city late at night. The piano chords, with their pauses, are kept alive. The race is over, but there's still time. Springsteen whispers: Sotto la città due cuori battono/ motori dell'anima che corrono attraverso una notte così tenera/ in una camera da letto chiusa/ in sospiri di dolci rifiuti/ e poi di resa. It's hard to find verses this poetic to describe two young lovers making love. But without giving you time to think, unexpectedly nei tunnel dei quartieri residenziali/ il sogno stesso di Rat lo uccide/ mentre l’eco dello sparo rimbomba nei corridoi della notte/ nessuno guarda quando l’ambulanza si allontana/ o mentre la ragazza spegne la luce della camera da letto. Dreams can kill you too. In particular, if Rat was killed by his own dream, it's possible he was shot by a member of the rival gang, perhaps someone in love with Barefoot Girl. The bedroom light going out could refer to the moment when she watches him leaving the apartment where they've just made love, or perhaps to some future moment when Barefoot Girl will wait in vain for her beloved, with whom she had arranged to meet, or who knows what else. The fact remains that nobody cares about the lives of two marginalized young people, not even the poets who don't write about any of this/ but stay well clear and let it all happen/ and in the dead of night/ have their moment and try to look good/ but end up getting hurt/ not even dead/ down in the asphalt jungle. The piano's closing passage, with its final notes, would often be compared to a pouring rain, washing away the protagonist's blood and dreams. The final screams instead recall the words of Pete Townshend: “When Bruce Springsteen sings, it's not fun, it's fucking triumph.” “Jungleland” is the summation of the first part of Springsteen's career, when he sang about small-town toughs with a lyrical style similar to Dylan's. After this track, he would never again draw on this poetic vein. As for the poets of song, they are not permitted to die, only to be wounded, because they take no risks, and since they take no risks, the punishment for their indifference will be more indifference: the wounded will soon be forgotten.

This track, however, is hard to forget. Fourteen months to compose it. Eight different piano lines all played in a single take after countless attempts ("Bruce didn't want any cutting and pasting," said Bittan). Sixteen straight hours just for the sax solo, with Springsteen listening to different takes at the same time and pointing out to Clemons which notes to keep and which to discard. Sound engineers who fell asleep with the songwriter's voice still ringing in their ears, ordering "again", and woke up hours later to Bruce's voice once more repeating "again". People who, after spending more than a day inside the studio, stepped outside, and upon seeing daylight again, burst into tears. For them, this record is hard to forget.

But most of all, it's hard for us to forget this album, which speaks of young losers betrayed or destroyed by their own desires (those who stayed behind) and of other young people trying to fight off disillusionment by giving full voice to their dreams (those who got away). In the end, "Born To Run" will mostly be remembered for the latter. Is that thanks to the title track, released as a single? Or to the fact that we'd rather picture ourselves behind the wheel of a Chevrolet chasing the myth, than sitting in a parking lot forever mourning a lost past? The answer is a bitter one: in "The Promise" we'll find the protagonist of "Thunder Road" alone, without his Mary by his side, gone in the meantime, or worse still, vanished who knows where, leaving him abandoned to his fate, taking stock of his own existence, and brooding over the broken promise. And while in "Darkness Of The Edge Of Town" our heroes, worn down as they are by life's hardships, will still try to hold on, in "The River" we'll find them definitively defeated, only to end up possessed by the existential nihilism of "Nebraska". But none of that concerns us here. Maybe because we like to think we can still win.

Bruce Springsteen never believed in the American dream. He watched his own father be consumed by it. But he did believe in the redemptive power of rock'n'roll, which he saw as a tool for salvation. Years later, around the time of "Tunnel Of Love", in the midst of an emotional crisis, after having himself become the very emblem of that American dream, Bruce Springsteen would take back that claim. "Music can't save people, you can't say music saved my life, because the audience doesn't see you for who you are, but for the image they've projected onto you." Just as the protagonist of "Thunder Road" seemed to sense, self-realization is nothing without love. So if I were asked what "Born To Run" is about, what its central theme is, I wouldn't hesitate to say that "Born To Run" is a portrait of what I'd call "virile romanticism", with everything that phrase implies: the almost religious conviction that one decisive leap into action - the kind you've always dreamed of but never had the courage to make - might just save your life. Or, why not, might destroy it for good. From this angle, "Born To Run" is, thematically, the quintessential post-adolescent album. After all, to a young man, even death can look romantic. But if I were asked whether it's plausible that rock'n'roll can actually save people, before writing this review I would have widened my eyes, half surprised and half amused, and answered with a firm no. Having written it... I'm no longer so sure. While working on this piece, I came across several accounts that took me by surprise. Clarence Clemons, who sadly passed away recently, spoke on more than one occasion about people who approached him to say that the sax solo in "Jungleland" had saved their life, that the song itself had helped them through a difficult moment in their existence. I personally found, here and there, on the Internet and on YouTube, comments from users claiming that "Born To Run" had changed their life and pushed them to make decisive choices for their future.

Bruce's own story, from possible failure to rockstar of the year, complete with covers on both Time and Newsweek on the very same day ("that was the first time my father understood I was actually doing something serious with all this music business") is suggestive enough on its own. But above all... there's a whole body of anecdotes about people who, after listening to "Thunder Road", decided to run to their loved ones and set their lives on a new course. After all this, how can anyone still say that rock'n'roll can't save a life?

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02/03/2026