Walked to the grocery store this afternoon, an excuse to enjoy the weather. I took a picture of the backyard, where sodden toys the kids had left out before the first big snowfall have now reappeared. Here's Minnehaha Creek at Lyndale Avenue, the snowy south bank and the bare brown north one that faces the sun:
The olfactory sense is said to have the strongest hold on memory, which seems dubious until you think of burning leaves and baking bread. I think in a similar way this time of year, this kind of weather, has the strongest claim on my memory: it's associated with basketball tournaments, the start of baseball season, filling out tax forms, and, farther back, in the morning before school walking on those puddles glazed over with ice strong enough to hold you even though you can feel in your feet the water sloshing beneath. There's always that first really warm day—I think this year it's today—when, on college campuses, the windows of dormitories open and the music blares so loud you can feel the sound waves. I've been listening today to Springsteen because in my memory the song blaring across campus starts:
In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream
At night we ride through mansions of glory in suicide machines
Sprung from cages on Highway 9, chrome-wheeled, fuel-injected, steppin' out over the line
Baby, this town rips the bones from your back, it's a death-trap, it's a suicide rap
We gotta get out while we're young, cuz tramps like us, baby we were born to run.
Back in the 70s, he really had a thing about cars. The girl could be Mary, or Wendy, or some other name, Rosalita, but she's always invited into the car for a ride that's more than just a ride:
Well, I'm no hero, that's understood
All the redemption I can offer girl is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow, hey, what else can we do now
Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
The night's busting open, these two lanes will take us anywhere. . . .
This kind of stuff carries forward onto at least the next couple of records.
I got a '69 Chevy with a 396 Fuelie heads
And a Hurst on the floor
She's waiting tonight down in the parking lot
Outside the 7-11 store.
Even when the car isn't moving, it's associated with escape and paradise:
I met Wanda when she was employed
Behind the counter at the Route 60 Bob's Big Boy
Fried chicken on the front seat, she's sitting in my lap
We're wiping our fingers on a Texaco road map.
I've gotten used to thinking of Atlantic City, the stark 1982 record that features brooding crime ballads, one after the other, as representing a wholly new direction for Springsteen, musically and thematically, but that's not really true. The song on Born to Run called "Meeting Across the River," which I hadn't listened to for years before today, would not be out of place on Atlantic City. From "Meeting Across the River":
Hey, Eddie, this guy's the real thing
So if you want to come along
You gotta promise you won't say anything
Cuz this guy don't dance
And the word's been passed, this is our last chance....
And tonight's gonna be everything that I said
And when I walk through that door
I'm just gonna throw that money on the bed
She'll see this time I wasn't just talking
Then I'm gonna go out walking.
From "Atlantic City":
I been lookin' for a job, but it's hard to find
Down here it's just winners and losers and
Don't get caught on the wrong side of that line
Well, I'm tired of coming out on the losing end
So, honey, last night, I met this guy, and I'm gonna do a little favor for him. . . .
Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty
Meet me tonight in Atlantic City.
I guess I've landed quite a distance from the spring theme!
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