Egad! “The Boss” is 60

My first reaction to the cover of my September/October AARP magazine was “what’s he doing on it?” Then I read the title: “The Boss Turns 60.” Bruce Springsteen is almost as old as I am. Holy Cow! Born in Long Branch, New Jersey, on September 23, 1949, he’ll turn 60 next month. I certainly never thought of him as a fellow baby boomer.

I didn't sign on for this. . .

In 1985, soon after his marriage to his first wife, Julianne, he and his new bride were passengers on one of my flights. What a circus it was. They were escorted onboard directly from the tarmac. There was no dashing through the terminal for them; they would have been mobbed by hysterical fans. When they were brought onboard, as First Flight Attendant, I was met by their aide and given my instructions: protect Mr. Springsteen from his fans during the flight. He was tired and needed some rest and I was not to let anyone bother him.

This happened during the “Born in the USA” tour at the height of Springsteen’s popularity. I told the rest of the flight attendants we were to try to keep other passengers from bothering the Springsteen’s; and we really did try. His beautiful young bride was the sweetest little bodyguard that night. She was very patient with the fans that were able to slip past the cabin crew and approach the dozing megastar. It was a constant but losing battle trying to keep people away from him. Springsteen was tired, a little grumpy, but never impolite to anyone, even when they pestered him.

Jim and I enjoyed the music of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band when the Born in the USA album was released. I did aerobics to “I’m on Fire,” “Glory Days,” and “Dancing in the Dark,” in our family room. His music videos on MTV were always fun—yes I really did watch MTV at one time. The track “Born in the USA” on the album was my least favorite. I didn’t like Springsteen’s angry, shouted lyrics, nor did I enjoy the ugly, depressed scenes of America in the music video.

After reading the article in AARP, I decided to do a little digging and learn more about “The Boss.” As it turns out, I wasn’t supposed to feel warm and fuzzy about the “Born in the USA” track. Duh. It was meant to make me think and feel bad. It was about the Vietnam War and the treatment of the returning Vets. But I wasn’t the only one who didn’t get his message. Ronald Reagan thought it was an upbeat, patriotic little ditty and wanted to use it in his campaign. Springsteen said “no.” He also turned down millions of dollars from Chrysler Corporation for the use of the song in a car commercial.

Helping Others

I have a newfound respect for Bruce Springsteen. Not only does he have convictions, he is a very pro-active supporter of our nation’s food banks. At his concerts everywhere, he asks his fans to “remember your neighbors,” and then food-bank reps pass through the crowd looking for donations. According to AARP, if you would like to help one of his favorite charities, go to feedingamerica.org, a network of more than 200 food banks. AARP magazine also says “...America needs Bruce Springsteen now more than ever.” I believe I like him now more than ever.

Donna

Peace, Love, and Rock and Roll

Forty years ago this past weekend, the greatest rock music festival in the history of the world took place. It was in every sense, “a happening.” Of course I’m referring to the 1969 Woodstock Music and Arts Fair, the ultimate musical tribute to peace, love, and rock and roll. Memorabilia and retrospectives are out and still coming out in every media, including some very expensive books and CD’s. Ironically, it was only eighteen dollars if you bought a three-day ticket in advance to see and hear some of the biggest names in pop, rock and folk music.

“We were half a million strong.” Joni Mitchell

In case you weren’t around at the time, it happened on Max Yasgur’s 600-acre farm in a muddy pasture in Bethel, N.Y., about 43 miles northeast of Woodstock, New York. When there were no more tickets, people just kept showing up, until more than four hundred thousand people had gathered there from all over the United States. Woodstock was an under-staffed, under-stocked, under-financed phenomenon that took on a life of its own. It was an orgy of epic proportions; the pinnacle of sex, drugs, and rock and roll—with no violent crimes. And it was also a mess of rain, mud, and bad acid trips.

Coffee, Tea or Me?

What was I doing between August 15th and August 17th in 1969? I was probably on an airplane, prancing around in white plastic go-go boots and a red, white, or blue mini dress. I would no more have showed up for a Hippie love-in than I would have attended a witch burning. I knew absolutely nothing about Woodstock until it was history. And of course, it was history in the literal and figurative sense.

This excerpt by Elliott Tiber, from a 1994 Times Herald-Record piece, sums up the event: “The last bedraggled fan sloshed out of Max Yasgur's muddy pasture more than 25 years ago. That's when the debate began about Woodstock's historical significance. True believers still call Woodstock the capstone of an era devoted to human advancement. Cynics say it was a fitting, ridiculous end to an era of naiveté. Then there are those who say it was just a hell of a party.”

“Talkin’ bout my generation.” The Who

If it was indeed the end to an era of naiveté, then I guess I was still very naïve. I wasn’t burning draft cards, bras, or illegal drugs. I was bringing bodies home in caskets in the bellies of airplanes for families to meet on the tarmac; and still the tragedy of the Vietnam war had not yet sunk into my small town, middle-America, middle-class psyche. Peace and Love was not my mantra—Eat and Pay the Rent was. I had no connection whatsoever with those young people. The me I was back then would have been shocked and horrified to witness the Woodstock spectacle.

My friend Trish was there. I didn’t know her then and I never would have understood her interest in going to Woodstock. She seems to have come through it all none the worse for it. She’s a successful professional, drives a Lexus, and her grown children are college graduates, (not that these things alone make a person a success). Trish was also there when the demonstrators were beaten by the police at the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Talking to her about her youth is like rereading Michener’s The Drifters.

“Every life is a march from innocence . . .” Lyman Abbott

Even though I would not have enjoyed Woodstock, I recognize its momentous effect on our society. Like the old man who gratefully escaped war because of health issues or the sheer luck of timing, but looks back with regret for not being there, I now feel a sense of pride about Woodstock. Did it have an effect on human advancement as Elliott Tiber wrote? Did it herald the end of our naiveté? I’m sure it did both of these, plus it musta been a helluva party. There have been attempts to recreate Woodstock, to do it again, but I’m afraid the innocence that made it possible may be over the hill.

Donna

Will Someone Please Turn Down the Music?

My son believes he’s the only twenty-one year old in America who has to ask his mother not to play her music so loudly. I know that can’t possibly be true. There must be plenty of other slightly past middle-aged moms who still love loud rock and roll. And it wouldn’t matter that my hearing is not what it used to be. It’s the music itself that makes me play it loud. To quote a friend, another old rocker from many years ago: “It was made loud to be played loud.” He played the stereo system in his apartment so loudly that whenever we were there I expected his door to explode open at any moment, exposing a crazed neighbor brandishing a loaded sawed-off shotgun.

In the 1950’s I remember watching the Ed Sullivan Show and seeing Elvis shake, rattle, and roll across our tiny little black and white TV screen. My parents, in their twenties at the time, heckled, jeered, and predicted an early death to rock and roll. “It’s not music! It’s just loud noise! How can you listen to that crap?” Over the years, “turn it down!” became their battle cry. Mother and Dad, both born in 1928, were professional musicians and had performed everything from classical to ragtime. Naturally this made them feel highly qualified to preach about this new “racket” we youngsters were calling music. A few years ago, I had the smug pleasure of telling my dad that while he was right about a lot of things, he had been dead wrong about the life expectancy of rock and roll.

Fast forward to the 60’s and 70’s when I vacillated between devotion to Joni Mitchell and Janis Joplin. I lived in Chicago and saw Chicago Transit Authority, Jefferson Airplane, and Blood, Sweat and Tears—live and loud at the clubs on Rush Street and State Street. Like countless other aging baby boomers currently test-driving or already the proud owners of hearing aids, back then we stood for hours in front of booming, blasting amps taller than ourselves. The word “tinnitus” was not yet in our vocabularies.

Every now and then I have a flashback to the 60’s or 70’s and I can no longer exist without buying a CD with music by Joe Cocker, Chicago, or Janis Joplin, to name a few. Right now my favorite album is a compilation of hits by Chicago. I play “Feeling Stronger Every Day” so loud that I’m sure the people in the car next to me at a stop light can hear it, even with their windows and mine fully closed and a motor cycle roaring behind us. I’m hoping—no, praying—that if I have an accident and I’m rendered unconscious, there will be a Good Samaritan who will turn the volume down on my car stereo. I would die of humiliation if the police and paramedics arrived only to hear the words, “you know I’m all right now” blasting in the wreckage.