His New Boss Has a Stronger Human Touch

Dear Bruce:

Caught your show Monday night at the Sports Arena in L.A. Really good to see you again.

What’s it been--almost five years? Not counting that postcard of an appearance you put in a couple of years back at the Amnesty International show at the Shrine. It’s been a long time since you and I and 11,000 or 12,000 of our friends got to sit down and really kick things around at length like we did Monday.

But something’s troubling me. I don’t quite know how to put this, but it wasn’t the same this time. Not like it used to be with us.

On the way home, I got to thinking about the glory days. I remember back in ‘78, hopping in the car and zipping down to San Diego just because after spending--what?--10 or 12 hours with you over a couple of nights in L.A., I still needed more.

Back then, you and I were quite a team, all right. You’d play your heart out on stage and I’d feel the joy, the despair, the struggle and the triumph you sang about like there was no tomorrow.

Monday night was different. When you were singing about our lives now, or even when you were telling those old familiar stories, the emotions just weren’t quite as strong.

I think I know what happened. There are several little things I could mention. Not so much that you fired your old band, even though I think you and the E Streeters had a chemistry you’ll never find again (and let’s face it: any band without a saxophone automatically drops to the B list).

Another thing: Some of your new songs just aren’t as good as your old stuff. Sometimes I get the feeling that you’re so concerned with trying to get a point across (and they’re nearly all points that need to be made, I’ll give you that), you forget about that great poetry I’ve come to expect from you.

Still, I guess I’m beating around the bush, because that’s not the biggest thing either. You see, since the last time we got together . . . I can’t believe I’m about to say this . . . I’ve discovered someone I like better.

In fact, most of the time that you were playing Monday, I was thinking about how I’d rather be seeing this new guy. Which is pretty amazing, since I was the one who used to brag to everyone about how my pal Bruce was as good as it got or ever would get, bar none.

You don’t know this other guy I’m talking about. He doesn’t play guitar, and the songs he sings are, like Dylan’s and some of your own early ones, comprehensible only to him. And sometimes I wonder if he understands them.

I’m sure you haven’t heard him. His name’s Alec, and he’s quite a bit younger than you. How much younger? Well, he’s 2 1/2 . . . months.

Yes, Bruce, like you, I have a son now. He just started smiling a couple of weeks ago and I gotta tell you, Bruce, it’s better than the best version of “Badlands” you ever did.

And when he grabs my little finger as I’m feeding him, it’s a bigger rush than a dozen hemi-powered drones screaming down the boulevard. Born to run? Not exactly, but he does seem to have been born to eat. He’s a bigger mystery than Wild Billy, Hazy Davy, Killer Joe and Crazy Janey put together, and he’s more fun than a night wandering the boardwalk with Rosalita.

I think you’d understand what I was feeling Monday night. I’d expect you were feeling it too. Because as much energy as you put into declaring the power of a leap of faith, and as much adrenalin as the crowd pumped back at you, I’m guessing it all runs a poor second to a hug from Evan or a grin from Jessie when you get home, and that at the end of every hard earned day, they give you two reasons to believe.

Does that mean we’re growing old? Maybe too old for rock ‘n’ roll? The thought crossed my mind, but I blew it off as soon as we collected Alec at his grandma’s house after the show. We haven’t grown old (though with any luck, we will). We’ve just grown up. Rock ‘n’ roll is still important to us. It’s just not everything any more. Is that sad? Maybe a little. But it ain’t no sin to be a dad.

And while I wouldn’t trade my memories of the glory days we used to have, I’ve got to agree with you on one point you made the other night:

These are better days.