The Springsteen Generation – A Reflection on Mother Jones
classic pop hit) and “Stagger Lee” (a blues romp later made famous by Lloyd Price). He transformed these songs of youthful lust into declarations of irresistible joy and determination. Whether singing about summer romances or the life or death in the street, he delivered these tales with a passion and commitment that suggested that while the world was a tough place, it was possible to overcome its challenges and find true love, or at least true connection.
Springsteen’s characters—Me-Doc, Wendy, and Mary, among others—were folks a lot of us could recognize. Western Stars, his 2019 album, which was turned into a documentary film, examined the lives of regular people who had ventured on a rite of passage and now were dealing with the consequences, good and bad. They were about the kids who lied, failed, stumbled, changed, aged, and endured. It was an ongoing narrative of life’s ups and downs and hopes and fears, of hopes deflated and dreams dashed, but also of resilience and determination. His songs — “The River,” “Independence Day,” “State Trooper,” “Brilliant Disguise,” “My Hometown” — told the stories of men stuck in place or on the job or forced to confront harsh truths. You could lose a lot in life, Springsteen noted, but you could also find yourself along the way. This was not escapist fare or sugary pop. It was a set urging trips into the heart of darkness, alone, the cancer lying in the root of its figure, but with faith that you could emerge on the other side.
I was already a Dylan guy. And there was Dylan’s son-of-the-dust voice and soul-deep lyrics to contend with. In those days, I didn’t believe there was room for anyone else in the pantheon of bardic rock stars. I went out and bought Highway 61 Revisited before I ever purchased a Springsteen disc. But Springsteen’s anthems struck a chord, or more accurately, a grand refrain. Born to run, honey. Born to run.
As the ’70s progressed, punk imploded and New Wave emerged, cable TV dawned, the Berlin Wall fell, AIDS hit, and Iran-Contra reared its head. Springsteen, as more or less the unchallenged Boss, churned out more hits and more albums, presenting new sides of himself. His 2002 album, The Rising, was a reflection on the 9/11 attack and its aftermath. His Broadway show sold out for months, with tickets fetching thousands on the resale market. Western Stars, which he described as a “return to my solo records,” was accompanied by a film tribute to the myth of the American west. Songs of life and death changed places and fashioned the familiar themes of love and loss between threads of American history. Springsteen kept pulsing out choruses of grace, redemption, and destiny.
He navigated more than one brush with hypocrisy. John Kerry and Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton were not dream presidents, and Springsteen was most definitely not one for Donald Trump. He dedicated his show to Max Cleland. For the past five years, he had held off on tours and recording. In recent months, it was uncertain that his music would ever reach the masses again, but in the midst of a pandemic, with the killing of George Floyd sparking protests throughout the nation and catalyzing a more charged civil rights movement, Springsteen came forth with a new single, “American Skin (41 Shots)” that spoke to the moment.
The Boss was back. And he offered the tunes they needed to stay on course. He was there to provide the soundtrack for the next generation of Boomers.