Review Summary: You may not ever visit Jersey itself, but the nuances of Springsteen’s glorified opera have taken place in your soul. If it hasn’t, you haven’t fully lived.
In Bruce Springsteen’s eyes, there’s a piece of the Jersey shoreline in every inch of America. Cynics will tell you the actual Jersey shore is the personification of America’s shame; dusty deserted boardwalks littered with the ghosts of forgotten hope and a stench that would bring The Situation to his knees. If you’re not a romanticist or raging idealist like Springsteen, you won’t see the layers of interpersonal complexity bubbling beneath the surface of this shame. You won’t appreciate the beauty of the turnpike where mythical operas are hummed by suburban youth and working class downtrodden adults alike, or the ballets fought in the back alleys of that tough-as-nails street corner who’s level of badass is only enhanced by the night. The concept of the beautiful loser is hardly new in the annals of rock’n’roll, it’s just that Springsteen heroically brandished an ornate ability to romanticize the concept of plight, finding honor in working dead end jobs and being a directionless kid, wandering aimlessly towards destination who-the-hell-cares. They say that one man’s sh*t is another man’s gold. To Bruce Springsteen, that so called sh*t is the backbone of America, and on “Born to Run,” The Boss personified the concept of glorifying faults and troubled times, uplifting the downtrodden with heavy doses of escapism and romanticism, all borne through the sheer possibility of ROCK.
“Born to Run” is widely considered one of the greatest rock albums of all time, and there’s a damn good reason for that. The concept of escapism and metaphorical alludes to better times; times when rock was born; certainly do not hinder its status. There’s something magical about drinking warm beer in the summer Jersey rain, and if there isn’t Springsteen damn sure makes it sound like it. If there is a better way to sonically transcribe the notion of turning everyday activities into mythical ideals and the backbreaking 40 hour work week into honor, it’s through the usage of big sounds. Moreover, the sounds of anthems, of transcending the feeling of driving down deserted highways with windswept hair, aiming for freedom through escapism. Springsteen’s concept was massive if not simplistic, and the only way to legitimize it was to throw away any semblance of restraint, going for broke on his last chance power drive.
The reason “Born to Run” works so well is Springsteen actually pulled this off. Massive sounds, unprecedented nostalgia, and egregiously over-done romanticism were concepts raging inside his brain, and as it turns out, throwing caution to the wind catapulted to him the status of guitar wielding legend, even if he only wanted to be Bob Dylan. When something is considered “one of the greatest” of a group, certain pieces of that work must stand out above the majority of its peers, for all time. The title track may not be the ultimate anthem of tawdry youth ever composed, but take one listen to the first and last verses, and you’ll realize it probably is. “Thunder Road” is arguably the greatest opener in rock history, and more importantly, one of the most transcendent lyrical pieces of metaphorical nostalgia and escapism ever conceived. It’s THAT song, the one that you’ll scream your lungs out in relation to, the one that uses cars and women as metaphors for life, and really, what better metaphor is there if you’re a young man trying to figure himself the f*ck out. “Jungleland” is another watershed moment, West Side Story set to the tune of enormously overdone metaphors and saxophones. It’s the longest ride on the album, but when the piano coda takes you home, it takes you home, straight to the places you might be too scared to visit but somehow have been to before. If three masterpieces are not enough to satiate a thirst for transcendent greatness, the Boss doesn’t let us down on the remainder of the album. When the cool cat back alley strut of “Tenth Avenue Freezeout” gives way to the titanic duo of “Night” and “Backstreets,” disappointment is not an option. Smoking cigarettes with beer in hand while waxing nostalgic is however a full-on requirement, and it really is that way throughout Springsteen’s opus.
The ride of “Born to Run” is impossibly short, yet feels much longer. Only Springsteen could turn that ideal into a positive, because whichever track you pick, he probably just described your life. The power of “Born to Run” lies in relation, romanticism, and escapism, all concepts that frequently rage inside all of us. You may not ever visit Jersey itself, but the nuances of Springsteen’s glorified opera have taken place in your soul. If it hasn’t, you haven’t fully lived. “Born to Run” reminds us of this possibility in ways never achieved before and after, and if there is one piece of Americana pop culture that stands tallest, this is it. The American dream itself is a runaway, but if you can get out while you’re young, you might just get a chance to grasp it.
