When Bruce Springsteen appeared on stage all I could think was: that is really him. There I was and there he was. Wearing a dark suit, holding what looked like a bunch of red roses just like in the poster for the tour. My eyes flashed across the hundreds of fans wearing T-shirts with his image on them and settled back almost instantly on the man on the stage. ‘Hello, London,’ he said. ‘Are you ready for a ride?’
My memories of the actual concert are snatches of sound and images. I was near the front of the stage and by the time he came on, I hadn’t been to the toilet for most of the day and hadn’t eaten for hours. Having been up for twelve hours was taking its toll. Even before the concert started I was thirsty, starving and shattered. Once the gig started I was hardly able to concentrate on the music for the first half-hour or so; it took all my energy to not be swept away by the crowd surges that rippled through the front of the stadium. Each surge swept me off my feet and hurtled me every which way; each time I was thrust further forward my chest felt like it would implode under the pressure of thousands of bodies pressing behind me. To try and create some space I held my arms up and rested the back of my forearms on the back of the person in front of me. Within a few minutes my shirt was drenched in sweat and I was feeling weak from hunger. Somewhere in the crowd was Amolak but I had no clue where he was. Instead, it was just Bruce and me on our own with seventy-two thousand others crashing the party.
I didn’t see Amolak during the concert, we had lost each other in the race to reach the floor of the stadium. I took the train back to Luton alone, my T-shirt damp with sweat, my throat ravaged and my stomach crying for food. I woke the next morning with every muscle in my body aching. My back was still sore and my feet felt as if they had run a dozen marathons. My voice was reduced to a hoarse croak from singing so heartily. Everything hurt.
After my first Springsteen concert I should have felt exhilarated and yet I felt desolate. I had not imagined I would feel so low. There seemed little point in speaking to Amolak, perhaps he had not come down from the thrill of the concert and I did not want to admit how depressed I was feeling if he wasn’t. It was not until the next day that I saw him in college. He was dressed in the same tour shirt that I had bought. We walked silently into the common room and sat opposite each other, saying nothing. It was as if one was waiting for the other to reveal their hand. ‘So, what the fuck do you say to that?’ I finally said to him.
Amolak shook his head. Seconds passed in silence as we both sat staring into the middle distance. It was a sign of how close I was to my friend that we could be together and not say anything. ‘You want the truth?’ Amolak said at last. ‘I still can’t fucking believe I was there.’
I nodded my head sympathetically. It was hard to get my head around the reality that I had been in the presence of the man whom I had obsessed about for the past nine months. ‘I’m feeling so shit right now,’ I said sadly.
‘Me too!’ Amolak cried. ‘It’s like I am totally filled with this really deep sadness or something, and I can’t get rid of it.’
I told Amolak that I had started getting sad before the end of the concert, the knowledge that it would soon be over almost ruining my enjoyment. We had spent so long dreaming of this one evening that now it was over there seemed nothing left to look forward to; the real world was encroaching again; exams, parents and everything else that we had relegated to the back of our mind came racing to the front.
‘Do you think we’d be happier if we saw him again?’ I wondered glumly.
‘He’s a fucking drug, ain’t he,’ declared Amolak, ‘and you know what the cure is, don’t ya?’
‘What’s that?’ I asked him.
‘We gotta see him again!’
However, it was another four years before we next saw Springsteen in concert. It was the summer of 1992. Springsteen had split up the E Street Band and released two albums on the same day; I was in my last few months of studying in Manchester. When the tour was announced I was so determined to get the best seats I travelled down from Manchester to London and was outside Wembley Arena by lunchtime on Tuesday afternoon; the box office was not due to open until Thursday morning. I was one of the first in line but by the end of the first night there were hundreds of us waiting, trying to keep warm. Even though I did not actually know anyone there was a wonderful sense of camaraderie. Shared passion for Springsteen transcended other boundaries; there were fans who had, like me, travelled across the country just to wait in line. For someone who was only twenty-one it was a wonderful thing to be surrounded by other fans who could regale me with tales of having seen The River tour back in the early eighties. When the box office finally opened I was able to buy front-row tickets for all six concerts; row A smack in front of the centre of the stage.
Amolak had decided he did not fancy spending two days sleeping on concrete for tickets and was instead relying on me to secure him tickets. Since each person was only allowed to buy six tickets, all my allocation went on my seats. So a system was arranged which meant those who didn’t want as many seats would still buy their allocated four tickets and sell the extras at face value to those who needed them. These would not be as good as those we bought for ourselves but it would at least mean your friends would be able to get in.
On the first night of the Wembley residency I woke early and ironed my clothes. Being so near the front it was possible that Springsteen would actually see me and I wanted him to notice the Pakistani lad in the front row. I decided that rather than dress in regulation T-shirt and jeans I would dress up: black trousers, white shirt, paisley tie and blood-red bandanna. Just before rushing out of the house towards the train station I grabbed my vinyl copy of Born to Run, just in case I ran into Springsteen himself. It could happen.
Amolak was attending the concert with his brother and nephew. They had seats up in the gods, so far from the front he took binoculars. We met outside the Wembley Arena. It was late afternoon and the touts were busy trying to buy and sell tickets; there were a few hundred fans milling outside the arena when I met Amolak. ‘This is it, dude,’ said my friend simply.
‘Cool to not have to queue up all day like last time,’ I replied. ‘I can just walk past everyone and take my seat. Right. At. The. Front.’
‘Yeah, all right, don’t rub it in for fuck’s sake,’ said Amolak hurriedly. His brother and nephew were trying to find parking and my friend told me he would catch up with me later.
I wandered over to the side entrance of the arena where some other fans were floating around. Some had carrier bags with CDs and vinyl records. I didn’t feel quite so stupid having my copy of Born to Run with me.
I had always known I would meet Bruce Springsteen. I didn’t know how or when it would happen; I assumed it would be when he was old and largely forgotten, when he could no longer sell out stadia and arenas, when most of his fans had lost the faith. But I met him earlier than I had hoped. The first glimpse I had of him was through the window of a people carrier, a smudge of face and a wave of a hand as the vehicle passed through the gates that led to the artists’ entrance. ‘That was him!’ someone shrieked. Within seconds fans rushed towards the entrance shouting, ‘Bruce! Over here, Bruce!’
The people carrier came to a halt, a thick-necked bodyguard emerged, opened the passenger door and out stepped Bruce Springsteen. I could see him through the bars of the gates as he walked slowly towards us. I was at the front of the crowd that was waiting for him, our hands outstretched holding objects for him to sign. The closer he came the faster my heart raced. By the time he was amongst us, a strange calm descended on the fans. Everyone politely waited their turn to give him a book, a poster, an album to sign. With an almost embarrassing shyness I handed him my copy of Born to Run, saying, ‘Hi, Bruce, any chance you could sign this?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ he answered but his eyes never met mine; he was too busy scanning the other outstretched hands and trying to ensure everyone got their own personalised scribble. It was over in seconds, the evidence of
our meeting a smeared signature in spidery writing scrawled across the cover of my beloved vinyl record.
‘You’re lying! Tell me you’re fucking lying!’ Amolak was, understandably, less than thrilled when I told him who I had met.
‘Mate, I’m serious, he was out here just half an hour ago,’ I told him as I took out Born to Run from my carrier bag.
Amolak grabbed it from me and began to examine it as if it was something holy, akin to the Turin Shroud. His brother and nephew were falling about laughing at his bad luck to have missed out on meeting Springsteen but Amolak was failing to see the joke. To add insult to injury his seat was nowhere near as good as mine. After the concert he told me that he could, thanks to his binoculars, see someone wearing a red bandanna waving his right arm in the air.
I had never been as happy in my life as when I stood at the front of the stage waiting for Bruce Springsteen to appear. Unlike Wembley Stadium there was no crush, no waiting for ten hours in the heat, starving. Here, my seat was reserved and there wasn’t a better one in the house. The highlight of the concert for me was some way into the show when Springsteen had just finished one song and was about to introduce another. His shirt was drenched in sweat. I was standing by the front of the stage, right by the microphone as Springsteen strode towards the front of the stage, unstrapped his Fender Telecaster guitar and said to me, ‘Could you hold this? I just wanna take my shirt off.’ I automatically stretched out both hands and found myself grasping the neck of Bruce Springsteen’s fabled Telecaster guitar, the one he had played for twenty years, the one that featured on the cover of his live box set. I held on to the Telecaster while those around me looked on in envy and disbelief. Springsteen slipped off his dripping shirt to reveal a T-shirt. He walked back towards me, took the guitar from me and said, ‘Thanks.’ Why had he chosen me? Did he have a sixth sense in identifying his most devoted fans? Did he see in my eyes how much his music meant to me? He chose me, more probably, because there wasn’t anyone else with brown skin in the front row, there wasn’t anyone my age and nor was there anyone dressed in a tie and wearing a bandanna.
The following year Bruce Springsteen returned to Britain for a full national tour. I managed to secure seats by sleeping outside Sheffield Arena. I had heard he was going to be staying at the Midland Hotel in Manchester; as I was living in the city it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Ringing the Midland, I booked myself in for one night under the name ‘Bill Horton’; the girl on the reservations desk had obviously never heard ‘Cautious Man’ or she would know where I had borrowed the name from. Mr Horton was due to arrive late that evening, I told her, and could she reserve the room in that name. He would pay on his credit card on arrival. That afternoon I took the 42 bus from West Didsbury into town, walked into the Midland and told the receptionist I was due to meet Bill Horton. ‘Ah yes, Mr Horton isn’t due to arrive until a little later.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said. ‘Is it all right if I wait in the bar for him?’
‘Certainly, sir, that’s not a problem,’ she replied.
I headed towards the bar and sat down. About twenty minutes later Roy Bittan – pianist for the E Street Band – and Jon Landau, Springsteen’s manager, walked into the bar together and sat down. I tried to look as if I didn’t know who they were whilst at the same time listening in on their conversation. A waiter came and asked if I wanted a drink. I asked for a coffee. Meanwhile Zack Alford, the drummer with Springsteen’s band, walked in and sat opposite me. Any moment now, I told myself, Bruce Springsteen himself will come walking in. Any moment now.
While I waited I managed to muster up the courage to intoduce myself to Bittan. As I shook his hand I told myself, ‘These are the hands that played the introduction to ‘‘Backstreets’’!’ As soon as I left the bar I called Amolak. ‘Shit! Why do I keep missing all this?’ he said.
Uzma had missed out on seeing the Wembley concerts and had cried each of the six nights I had seen Springsteen. I told her that if she could persuade our father to let her go I would take her to see him. To my surprise, permission was granted and Uzma took the train up to Manchester on the day of the Sheffield concert. I told her about my experience in the Midland and suggested we spend the afternoon outside the hotel before taking the train to Sheffield. We were not the only ones who had this idea, there were around thirty other fans all wanting their albums signed. I had brought my red bandanna and my copy of Dave Marsh’s Glory Days. We were unsure whether we would meet him or not but excited by the possibility. As I was chatting with Uzma, a white-haired bodyguard walked out and told us that Bruce was about to leave the hotel. He would sign autographs and pose for photographs. All he expected from us was that we line up in an orderly queue. I could see Uzma smiling with nervousness and disbelief.
Suddenly the man himself was standing before us. ‘Hi, Bruce,’ said Uzma.
’Hello,’ Bruce replied.
‘Would it be possible to have a photo taken?’ she asked.
‘Sure, we can do that!’ he replied, smiling broadly.
I took the photograph. Then it was my turn. He signed my book and bandanna and posed for another photograph. Just as I was about to let the next fan have their moment in the sun I turned to Springsteen and said, ‘Bruce. Three words: ‘‘Point Blank’’, acoustic.’
The following night I was sitting in the Sheffield Arena with Amolak and my sister. It was 16 April 1993 and we were in the front block ten or fifteen rows from the stage. Uzma was having the time of her life. It was her first Springsteen concert and it was so wonderful to see her having so much fun. Springsteen had just finished singing ‘Badlands’ when he requested an acoustic guitar and told the audience: ‘A fella came up to me and asked for this song. I don’t know if he’s out there tonight, but if he is, this is for you.’ He began slowly strumming the acoustic guitar before singing, ‘Do you still say your prayers darling, before you go to bed at night? Praying that tomorrow everything will be all right?’ He was singing ‘Point Blank’. I doubled up, buried my face in my hands and wept. Amolak hugged me. ‘Point Blank’ was one of my favourite songs. I never imagined I would hear it sung acoustically. The fact that Springsteen had remembered my request and then decided to actually listen to my suggestion was overwhelming. As I continued to cry uncontrollably and as Bruce Springsteen continued to sing ‘Point Blank’, Amolak said to me: ‘You see, buddy, dreams do come true.’
* * *
In the winter of 1998 Bruce Springsteen made an appearance inside the Royal Courts of Justice for a lawsuit he was bringing against a company which had released illegal recordings of his early work. At this point I was a journalist working on Channel 4 News and my editors, knowing my Springsteen obsession, kindly agreed to let me be their offical court correspondent. What this involved, incredibly, was having to sit inside the court and spend the day listening to Bruce Springsteen give evidence.
On the second day of the case I found myself sitting on a wooden bench only two feet from Springsteen himself; it was a surreal experience which became even more extraordinary when the judge ordered a twenty-minute recess, meaning the lawyers all retired outside and I was left sitting with Springsteen in a near-empty courtroom. ‘So, what you reading?’ Bruce asked me.
I showed him my copy of The Grapes of Wrath.
‘That’s a great choice. You’ll learn more from that than any newspaper,’ he told me.
I told him that I was rereading the book as I wanted to appreciate the Tom Joad album more; he smiled and told me about how his parents used to live in California. We talked for about twenty minutes. It was strange and yet it didn’t feel strange. I had always believed that if I actually managed to talk to Springsteen it would not be a daunting experience; he wasn’t a freak like Michael Jackson, he wasn’t as opaque as Dylan. I imagined him as simply a regular guy with an extraordinary talent. That was what I most liked about him; even when I was listening to him in my Luton bedroom I could imagine talking to him and having a normal conversatio
n.
When I rang Amolak he went ballistic. ‘You complete bastard! I don’t fucking believe this!’ he yelled. ‘What is fucking going on that you keep meeting him and I keep missing out? Right. I’m coming down to the High Court tomorrow.’
The next day I sat with the other reporters at the front and Amolak sat towards the back in the public gallery. During an interval I strolled over to Springsteen – who was almost a friend by now – and made some small talk about how well I thought the case was going. Meanwhile Amolak was charging towards us. This was his first time meeting Springsteen. Bruce and I were laughing about something when Amolak walked over and offered his hand. ‘Bruce, I just want to thank you. I want to thank you for your music and everything it’s given me over the years. It’s meant a lot, it really has.’
I looked at Amolak; his voice was breaking with emotion. He had probably spent the past thirteen years rehearsing this moment.
‘Hey, thanks,’ said Bruce in his familiar Jersey drawl. ‘That was always the plan, y’ know. To make music that meant something to people. That’s why I do what I do, you are the reason.’
We walked with Springsteen and his lawyers as they headed out of the building where he was mobbed by other fans who had been unable to get into court. I shook Amolak’s hand and said: ‘So you finally met him, man.’
Amolak’s hand was shaking.
* * *
There were many more concerts during the following years. As we became successful in our careers Amolak and I ploughed more money and time into seeing Bruce Springsteen concerts. We were there in Spain for the first night of the reunion tour in 1999; we saw him in Paris, Bologna and Barcelona two years later; we travelled to New Jersey to see him on home ground. It was during one of those New Jersey shows at the Giants Stadium that I had my most uncomfortable experience at a Springsteen concert. I was standing on my own, having lost Amolak in the rush to reach the front, and next to me was a man wearing a baseball cap and drinking beer from a plastic cup. He was in his thirties with a sunburnt face and dull brown eyes. The show was yet to start when the man nudged me and said, ‘So you’re a Bruce fan, huh?’
Greetings from Bury Park Page 10