Much of Born in the USA was recorded live with the full band in three weeks. Then I took a break, recorded Nebraska and didn’t return to my rock album ’til later. “Born in the USA,” “Working on the Highway,” “Downbound Train,” “Darlington County,” “Glory Days,” “I’m on Fire” and “Cover Me” were all basically completed in the very early stages of the record. Then brain freeze settled in. I was uncomfortable with the pop aspect of my finished material and wanted something deeper, heavier and more serious. I waited, I wrote, I recorded, then I waited some more. Months passed in writer’s block, with me holed up in a little cottage I’d bought by the Navesink River, the songs coming like the last drops of water being pumped out of a temporarily dry well. Slowly, “Bobby Jean,” “No Surrender” and “Dancing in the Dark” joined my earlier work. The rains had eventually come. By that time, I’d recorded a lot of music (see disc three of Tracks), but in the end, I circled back to my original group of songs. There I found a naturalism and aliveness that couldn’t be argued with. They weren’t exactly what I’d been looking for, but they were what I had.
The wait was worth it. Those last songs were important pieces of my record’s final picture. “Bobby Jean” and “No Surrender” were great tributes to the bonding power of rock and my friendship with Steve. “My Hometown” would be an important bookend to “Born in the USA,” capturing the racial tension of late-sixties small-town New Jersey and the post-industrialization of the coming decade. Then, very late to the party came “Dancing in the Dark.” One of my most well-crafted and heartfelt pop songs, “Dancing” was “inspired” one afternoon when Jon Landau stopped by my New York hotel room. He told me he’d been listening to the album and felt we didn’t have a single, that one song that was going to throw gasoline on the fire. That meant more work for me, and for once, more work was the last thing I was interested in. We argued, gently, and I suggested that if he felt we needed something else, he write it.
That evening I wrote “Dancing in the Dark,” my song about my own alienation, fatigue and desire to get out from inside the studio, my room, my record, my head and . . . live. This was the record and song that’d take me my farthest into the pop mainstream. I was always of two minds about big records and the chance involved in engaging a mass audience. You should be. There’s risk. Was the effort of seeking that audience worth the exposure, the discomfort of the spotlight and the amount of life that’d be handed over? What was the danger of dilution of your core message, your purpose, the reduction of your best intentions to empty symbolism or worse? On “Born in the USA,” I experienced all these things, but that audience can also let you know how powerful and durable your music might be, and its potential impact upon your fans’ lives and the culture. So you take those steps tenderly, until you reach the chasm, and then you jump, for there is no steadily inclining path to the big big time. There is always that engulfing abyss where each traveler measures his next move, questions his motives. So, move with spirit, but be aware that along with the thrill and satisfaction of exploiting your full talents, you may find the clear bounds of your music’s limitations, as well as your own.
My Born in the USA songs were direct and fun and stealthily carried the undercurrents of Nebraska. With my record greatly enhanced by the explosiveness of Bob Clearmountain’s mixes, I was ready for my close-up. Onstage, this music swept over my audience with joyous abandon. We had hit after hit and in 1985, along with Madonna, Prince, Michael Jackson and the stars of disco, I was a bona fide mainstream radio “superstar.”
Sometimes records dictate their own personalities and you just have to let them be. That was Born in the USA. I finally stopped doing my hesitation shuffle, took the best of what I had and signed off on what would be the biggest album of my career. Born in the USA changed my life, gave me my largest audience, forced me to think harder about the way I presented my music and set me briefly at the center of the pop world.
FORTY-SEVEN
BUONA FORTUNA, FRATELLO MIO
Halfway through recording the biggest record of my life, Steve Van Zandt left the band. I’ve always felt a combination of personal frustration, internal politics and unhappiness with some of my decisions led to Steve’s departure. That along with my closeness to Jon Landau left my friend feeling distant from his pal and the direction my work’d taken me. Though I would have never gotten where I am without the E Street Band, it is ultimately my stage. By thirty-two, Steve needed to take his own long-deserved shot at the title, fronting his group and playing and singing his own songs. Steve is one of the best songwriters, guitarists and bandleaders I’ve ever known and the timing must’ve felt to him like now or never. Looking back, I think Steve would agree it didn’t have to be that way. We could’ve done it all, but we weren’t the same people then that we are today. I was still very protective over my right to self-determination and proprietary over my career. I would listen, but I didn’t consider what we were engaged in a “partnership,” and Steve, back then, was an everything-or-nothing kind of guy. That’s always been my pal’s blessing and his curse . . . mostly his curse. The night he left, he visited me in my New York City hotel room. A very difficult discussion about our friendship, his position in the band, past grievances and our future together was had. There were certain things we could not agree upon. We were still pretty young and without the perspective time can bring to smooth out the rough spots. We had no overview to help us see the beauty and full value of our long friendship. What we did have was a lot of passion, transferred emotion and misunderstanding.
That evening Steve asked for a fuller role in our creative relationship, but I’d intentionally set limits on people’s roles within the group. The E Street Band is so filled with talent, no one gets to use but a small percentage of their abilities at any one time, so naturally, there was some frustration felt by everyone, Jon included. But this was how I shaped my work, kept my hands on the reins and my ship tight. I was an easygoing guy but I had hard boundaries dictated by both my creative instincts and my psychological strengths and frailties. Steve’s frustrations were intensified by his sizable ego (join the club!), his underutilized talents and our lengthy friendship. He was extremely dedicated to me and our band, and probably felt some guilt and confusion from his own ambition and desire to move to the front.
In the teen clubs of our youth, we’d been not only friends but friendly competitors. It was good. But as we began to work together, this was probably something that neither of us was completely comfortable with or up front about. Steve had given himself completely to his role at my side and had long been an ambivalent front man. One night at the Inkwell, when Southside Johnny was originally signed to a record deal (before Steve joined the E Street Band), I questioned Steve about why he simply didn’t perform and record the great songs he’d written for Southside, himself. (Don’t worry, Southside, you did good.) Since we were young, I’d watched Steve masterfully front his own bands. That evening, he said it just wasn’t completely “him,” and a big and wonderful part of Steve’s personality (and my good fortune) was his vision of himself in a premier but supportive role as my musical lieutenant.
But now, Steve’s move to the center mike would be complicated further by those very years he’d spent at my side in the E Street Band. It’s hard for an audience to accept you in a new role, to hear you without the veil of the established popular image that comes with being a part of a successful group. I understood Steve’s position. He wanted more influence in our work. But I’d gently played him and Jon off each other for a purpose. It was why they were both there. I wanted the tension of two complementarily conflicting points of view. It bred a little intended professional friction in the studio and perhaps some unintended personal friction outside of it, but that was the way I needed it. We were all big boys, very dedicated, and I figured everyone could handle it. They did. But this, along with the intentional gray area I kept the band in, created a purgatory I was happy with but, perhaps, confused and unsettled some of my band
mates. Each band member and every fan probably has their own definition of who and what we are (and for most, we’re probably just Bruce Springsteen . . . and the E Street Band), but at the end of the day, I get, and got, to officially decide. From the day I walked alone (and very aware of what I was doing) into John Hammond’s office, that’d been the setup.
These questions, along with the maelstrom of emotions they brought forth, were at the heart of Steve’s and my estrangement and his absence from the band during the eighties and nineties. I loved and deeply love Steve. As we parted that night, he paused for a moment at the door. Filled with concern over the loss of my friend and right-hand man, I said that despite where we were headed, I was still the best friend he had, we were still each other’s great friends, and I hoped we would not let that go. We didn’t.
FORTY-EIGHT
THE BIG BIG TIME
Born in the USA went nuclear. I knew I had a real runner in the title cut but I didn’t expect the massive wave of response we received. Was it timing? The music? The muscles? I dunno, it’s always a bit of a mystery when something breaks that big. At thirty-four, I decided to ride it out and enjoy it. I’d grown strong and knew how to withstand the spotlight, but over the next few years, I’d be rigorously tested.
Nils Lofgren came aboard and filled a difficult position perfectly. Our paths had first crossed in 1970 at the Fillmore West auditions, then again at the Bottom Line in 1975, where Nils was booked following our stand. One afternoon in the early eighties we’d run into each other at the Sunset Marquis. With an empty afternoon in front of us, we took a drive north along the California coastline and stopped roadside off Highway 1. We climbed to the top of a sand dune looking out over the sparkling Pacific, sat and talked. He’d had a run of misfortune with his record companies; solo work was a tough grind and he imagined someday he wouldn’t mind moonlighting in a great band. (I think he mentioned Bad Company.) This was long before the position in our band came open, but I’d always remembered our afternoon conversation. Nils had been poised for stardom just as we began recording Born to Run, and Jon and I had referenced Nils’s first solo album for our sessions. We strove for its sharpness, cleanness and great drum sound. It became a part of our blueprint for Born to Run. Nils’s early career caught some bad breaks and he never reached the broader audience his talents merited. He was a voracious student, one of the world’s great rock guitarists, with a voice like a rebel choirboy, and his wonderful stage presence took some of the sting out of Steve’s absence and was a perfect addition to the 1985 revamp of the E Street Band.
Bar-Hoppin’ Mama
One crowded evening I stood in front of the stage at the Stone Pony as a young redhead joined the house band, took the mike, then smoked and sassed her way through the Exciters’ “Tell Him.” She had a voice filled with the blues, jazz, country and the great girl groups of the sixties. Patti Scialfa had it all. We met, flirted, had a drink and became bar pals. I’d drop by the Pony, where we’d have a cocktail and a dance. The night would end up with her riding shotgun on my lap as Matt drove us for an after-hours cheeseburger and chat at the Inkwell. Around three a.m. Matt and I dropped her off at her mom’s; a few smiles, a kiss on the cheek, a “See you at the club,” and the night would come to a close.
After Steve left, I decided we needed to raise the bar on our harmony singing. I listened to a few local voices and invited Patti to an “audition” at my home (along with Richie “La Bamba” Rosenberg; oh, the choices one must make). That was followed by an audition rehearsal, while we were preparing for our tour, on the Clair Brothers soundstage in Lititz, Pennsylvania. The band holed up at the local motel, rehearsed in the afternoon and hung out in the evening. I drove around in my 1963 convertible Impala, “Dedication,” a gift from Gary US Bonds for writing and helping produce, with Steve, his comeback hit, “This Little Girl.” The night before we headed home, after a dinner, I had the whole band in the car, the convertible top down and Garry Tallent at the wheel. As we crested a hill Patti and I, sitting in the rear, heads leaning back, drinking in the night sky, heard a collective “oooh” rise from the guys as the blue trail of a shooting star cut the Pennsylvania sky in half. A good omen, all the way around.
Three days before we hit the road, Patti Scialfa joined the E Street Band. As the first woman in the band, she sent shock waves through the troops, broke the boys’ club, and everybody had to adjust, some more than others. Make no mistake, a rock band is a tight-knit, rigid little society with very specific rituals and unspoken rules. It is designed to ward off the world outside, and particularly adult life. The E Street Band carried its own muted misogyny (including my own), a very prevalent quality amongst rock groups of our generation. By 1984, we were a much tempered version of our earlier incarnations, but scratch the surface and the “way of the road” with all its pleasures, prejudices and punishments would slither into view. Patti handled all of this exceedingly gracefully. She neither displaced nor ceded her place to my dedicated and long-standing bandmates.
Through Patti’s addition, I wanted to accomplish two things. One, I wanted to improve our musicality. I wanted dependable, well-sung harmony vocals. Two, I wanted my band to reflect my evolving audience, an audience that was becoming increasingly grown-up and whose lives were about men and women. It was a tricky course to chart, for at the end of the day, a big part of rock music continues to be its value as escapist entertainment. It’s a house of dreams, of illusions, delusions, of role-playing and artist–audience transference. In my line of work, you serve at the behest of your audience’s imagination. That’s a very personal place. Once you’ve left your fingerprints there, crossing that imagination can have grave consequences (disillusionment, or worse . . . loss of record and ticket sales!). But in 1984, I wanted, on my stage, that world of men and women; so, I hoped, would my audience.
Opening Night
June 29, 1984, the Civic Center, St. Paul, Minnesota. We’d spent the afternoon filming “Dancing in the Dark,” our first formal music video. We’d released one video previously, for “Atlantic City,” a beautiful black-and-white short, directed by Arnold Levine, but neither I nor the group appeared in it. I’d always been a little superstitious about filming the band. I believed the magician should not observe his trick too closely; he might forget where his magic lay. But MTV had arrived, was potent, pragmatic and demanded tribute. Suddenly we were in the short-film business and new skills would be needed. Videos happen fast: an afternoon, a day, then it’s in the hands of the director and editor and there’s no going back. It’s a medium that’s more dependent on collaboration than record making, and a lot of money can be burned in a short time. The finished product can only be indirectly controlled by the recording artist. To do it well, you need a team of directors, editors, art directors, stylists, who get what you’re about and can help you translate that to the screen. It had taken me fifteen years to put together a record production team that could do that for me; now I’d have to raise a complete film team in fifteen minutes. Still, the times and ambition demanded it. This collection of songs, accompanied by Bob Clearmountain’s mixes and Annie Leibovitz’s images and cover photo, reached farther for a mass audience than I’d ever done before.
You never completely control the arc of your career. Events, historical and cultural, create an opportunity; a special song falls into your lap and a window for impact, communication, success, the expansion of your musical vision, opens. It may close as quickly, never to return. You don’t get to completely decide when it’s your time. You may have worked unwaveringly, honestly, all the while—consciously or unconsciously—positioning yourself, but you never really know if your “big” moment will come. Then, for the few, it’s there.
The night I counted the band into “Born in the USA,” we kicked one of those windows wide open, a big one. A breeze rife with possibility, danger, success, humiliation, failure, lightly drifts in and rustles your hair. You look at that open window. Should you step closer? Should you look thro
ugh? Should you lift yourself up and take the measure of the world being revealed? Should you climb through and drop down, feet on unknown terrain? Should you step forward? Those are big choices for the best musicians, and I know great ones who turned them down, tempered them, took another route, made highly influential music and had important careers. The big road isn’t the only road. It’s just the big road.
So here I am, on the big road, and standing in front of me is Brian De Palma, a friend of Jon’s. The director of The Untouchables, Scarface and many other great films, is here to give us a leg up on “Dancing in the Dark.” We had a false start a week or two previous with another director, so Brian’s come to make sure justice is done to what will turn out to be my greatest hit. He introduces me to a pixie-ish, dazzlingly blue-eyed young girl in a freshly minted Born in the USA shirt, deposits her at the front of the stage and says, “At the end of the song, pull her up onstage and dance with her.” He’s the director. So a baby-child Courteney Cox takes her cue, while I white-man boogaloo and daddy-shuffle my way to the number two spot on the Billboard charts. Until Brian told me later he’d chosen her from a casting call in New York City, I thought she was a fan! (A star was born . . . make that two!)
We were held out of the number one spot only by Prince’s “When Doves Cry.” We would make many videos in the future—I’d even come to enjoy them—but none would ever elicit the same knee-slapping guffaws and righteous, rolling laughter from my kids as me doing my Jersey James Brown in “Dancing in the Dark.” (“Dad . . . you look ridiculous!”)
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