Itchy Fingers

Last night I was at a Bruce Springsteen concert, this morning my fingers were desperate for a keyboard. Words tumbling to get out. So I started a new short story, which I’m using to get a feel for the lead character of a novel I’m 30k words into (yes, maybe I should have started that earlier) and now I want to type some stuff about Bruce. Easier said than done, maybe, when the sun is beating down on the Botanics, but I’ll give it a go, and then I’ll try to do a “State of the Me” post.

Oh, the short story is called “About A Dug”.

Maybe we ain't that young anymore

Last night was my third Bruce Springsteen concert. I was carrying enough memories of the past two that I worried I might have spent all my time thinking of those gigs, and it would put a shadow on this one.

As it turns out, the music helped my put my memories if not to rest then in place, and I realised that wasn’t entirely by chance. It was a night about celebrating the present, honouring the past, and making some promises to the future.

Hampden Park in Glasgow is the home of our national football team, and I’ve shed a fair few tears there. I added some last night. Stadium gigs are a strange thing. Last time Bruce was at Hampden it was raining, I was away back in the stands, and I felt divorced from the music except for a few brilliant moments. Last year in Hyde Park I was within fifty yards of the stage, and felt in touch with the music, and out of tune with the crowd.

Last night I was in the stands again, and the sun shone, and the crowd rose to the music, and it all came together beautifully. Not immediately, though. For the first hour or so my section of the stand stayed in our seats, and that made us spectators. There was loud applause, and a little swaying, but we didn’t feel the music. Then, about an hour in, Bruce said that he could see a lot of us sitting down. He said that it wasn’t his place to tell us to stand up, but warned us that in 30 seconds our asses were going to tell us to get on our feet. That there would be a direct message from there to our brains, and we’d get up like we’d been shocked. And, sure enough, we did.

Everyone, about 30,000 or so, and we didn’t sit down again for the next two and a quarter hours. I realised, again, that rock music is something you feel through the soles of your shoes, and that you participate by dancing. Or by swaying in a slightly self-conscious way.

I think the band were better than I’ve ever seen them. I think Bruce was a better bandleader than ever (at one point he did the obvious, ridiculous thing to do with 20 musicians on stage, and launched into a Big Band number, swinging like a sonuvagun. I watched my friend James’ chin hit the floor – not what he was expecting, or what any of us were expecting. But Bruce pulled it off, and then pulled us back into the story songs, a little at a time).

A word about the audience… At one point Bruce asked anyone who’d bought Wrecking Ball as their first Springsteen album to put their hand up. I was amazed by how many young hands shot up. Then I looked along my row. A couple in their sixties. Their daughter. A girl wearing a “Class of 2012” hoodie. Of our party of five, only one was still in her 30’s. James, Eddie and I are pushing 50 so hard that our wrists are starting to bend backwards. There were babies, of course, and kids, and when Bruce pulled up his dance partners for “Dancing In The Dark” they were a mother and daughter. I wondered how many of us remembered the cries of “Sell Out!” when Born in the USA came out…

The great sing-alongs came about 2 and half hours in. Born to Run. Dancing in the Dark. A stark version of Atlantic City. A requested, “I’m on Fire”, which ran through me like a knife, edgy and dull.

There was some crowd participation at the three hour mark, as the band worked their way through “Twist and Shout”, then “Shout” (I expected Lulu to appear), then filed off, each of them getting a pat on the back or a kiss from Bruce, finally leaving him standing alone, his back to us, all lights but one extinguished. He turned round, acoustic guitar in front of him, and began to sing, softly, the first words of “Thunder Road”.

“The screen door slams, Mary's dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey that's me and I want you only”

It’s a sigh that goes round the stadium, not a shout. The tension of three hours running out of us to be replaced with, with what.

“Don't run back inside, darling you know just what I'm here for
So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore
Show a little faith, there's magic in the night”

And I look along my row again, and we’re crying. We’re all crying. The young for the promise of magic, those who fear they aren’t that young anymore, for the promise that no, we can still feel the magic in the night, and those who are old because, dammit, they remember the promise, they remember the fulfilments and the frustrations, and dammit, they may be 63 like Bruce, they may be older, but they are still there, on their feet, singing with him.

Oh oh come take my hand
Riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh oh oh oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road


And thirty thousand voices swell – “Oh, oh, oh…” and fall back, because there’s nothing else to be sung, nothing to be said, and we go home, and we wait for the next time the screen door slams.


 

State of the Me

Kind of, sort of, more or less.

As I mentioned to helianthas a while back, this journal probably won't be the place I talk about my relationships anymore. My most recent partners are still members here, and while I'm sure neither of them read this journal, talking about either of them seems, well, it seems tacky. So although I've got a lot to say on that front (hell, I was at a Springsteen gig last night) it won't be getting said here.

So that leaves how I'm feeling, and what I'm doing, and where I'll doing it.

How I'm feeling is still largely dominated by the absence of Anna, my cat.I hate the fact that she's gone, and every time I step into the flat I expect to see her. That will fade, I know, though it's not going away any time soon.

That not inconsiderable fact aside, things are going well for me. I'm just back from a long weekend at the cottage, the sun is shining, and I'm halfway through a month long holiday.

Yes, the outfit I've been contracting with  came through with an offer, and I'll be a full time employee of their's from the 1st of July. Not being freelance is going to feel strange, but then, it was a very good offer. This isn't a bad time to have a pension, and paid holidays, and whatever security there is in this strange economy of ours. For one thing, the notice period is longer than some of my contracts have been.

I've also been offered a company car, but not told what's available, so I'm holding back on that for a moment. The work will be at Programme manager level, and I've a feeling I'll be split across several programmes as a kind of fire-fighter, but in a good sense. None of those programmes is in bad shape at the moment, they just want a nice new face to show the client.

To that end I've bought two new suits from Ted Baker (and a stunning coat that I'd never wear to work). My shirt collection is running neck and neck with my malt whisky collection, which is not good. I need a bigger flat to put them both in.

For the moment, and probably for the next six months or so, I'll be staying in Glasgow, while working out if the daily commute to Edinburgh makes sense. I like Edinburgh a lot more than I did a year or two back, but I'm still not sure I want to move. We'll see, there's no hurry.

I feel that way about a lot of things right now. There's no hurry. The future will unfold, and I'm really looking forward to finding out how. When I do find out, you'll be the second to know.