We all have favorite songs that we passionately love. It's easy to assume that we've adored these pieces of music from the very first time we heard them, but this isn’t always the case. I'd bet that many of us have favorite tunes that we initially hated. It's time for me to confess the truth: as much as I love Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” now, I was not terribly impressed the first time that I heard this tune.
Let’s set the WAYBACK machine to the fall of 1975: I was an 11-year old fifth grader at Beck Street Elementary in the South End of Columbus. At the time, I was fanatical about two bands: The Beatles and The Who. I can honestly blame that upon youth and minimal understanding of popular music. I was a few years away from connecting the dots and understanding what I liked and why. Even so, that was still rather precocious for a schoolboy. I can thank my older brother, John, for hipping me to The Fab Four and the ‘Orrible ‘Oo.
Every Thursday after school, my brother and I had a weekly ritual: we'd walk to a neighborhood store to buy the latest comic books and/or rock magazines. We'd usually hit Sloan’s Drugs on Parsons Avenue or Paul’s Cut Rate on South High Street. It was the latter where I first heard “Born to Run.”
Paul’s Cut Rate was something of a neighborhood institution, but a difficult store to define. It wasn’t a pharmacy, though you could buy over-the-counter medicines like aspirin or cough syrup. Like a carry-out, one could find beer, wine, or soda pop as well. There was a small section for non-perishable groceries like canned soup, crackers, or cereal. A small shelf was also dedicated to model kits and supplies for building them, such as glue or paint. Well-stocked magazine and comic book racks resembled a newsstand. The reality was a grey area: rumors among adults claimed that Paul’s was actually a front for illegal gambling, but I have no proof. Regardless, I spent a lot time in this store as a schoolboy.
One particular Thursday afternoon, the clerk behind the counter had a radio tuned to a Top-40 station. It was loud enough for customers to hear clearly: I actually enjoyed hearing new Pop hits as I perused the comic rack. And then it happened.
Right as my brother walked to the counter to pay for new issues of “Sgt. Rock” or “Creem,” a Pop symphony serenaded us from that radio: it sounded like an old Phil Spector production from the 1960’s, with layers of instruments and a hauntingly twangy guitar riff leading the way. My brother gave a broad smile of recognition and exclaimed, “Hey! That’s Bruce Springsteen!”
John paid for his purchases and lingered near the cash register to hear the rest of the song. When it was over, he asked, “Hey, Jim, what did you think of Bruce Springsteen?”
Having limited knowledge of music, I could only register my first impression, and it wasn’t good. “He sings like he has a mouth full of food! He sounds like he is chewing on a sandwich!”
My brother rolled his eyes at my ignorance and probably even called me “uncool” or “narrow-minded.” I didn’t care: I was so naively “Beatles Uber Alles” that little that wasn’t John, Paul, George, and Ringo could impress me.
Fast forward about four years: I would visit my brother at his apartment near the Columbus College of Art and Design every weekend. Saturday afternoons, we usually hopped a bus to the Ohio State University campus to buy records or to catch a movie at The University Flick. On those rides, I began to notice a huge poster for Bruce Springsteen in the window of Singin’ Dog Records. The singer looked different from what I remembered: rather than a 1970’s quasi-hippie with a beard & bell-bottoms, he resembled the classic American greaser, like Fonzie. There was something cool about his scruffy pompadour, leather jacket and beardless face, but I didn’t quite understand it. That would soon change.
Back at the apartment, John turned the radio to Q-FM-96, and we heard the usual “AOR” fare: Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, Jethro Tull, and so on. The disc jockey then announced Bruce Springsteen: my brother once again got enthused, “They’re playing the ‘Steen. You like the ‘Steen, don’t you?”
Feeling somewhat uncool, I could only mutter, “Yeah.”
Rather than “Born to Run,” the jock played a newer song that sounded like it was recorded in concert. It was propelled by a slow bass riff as Springsteen compared his love for a woman to “Fire.” I was somewhat impressed. I liked the passionate delivery and his cool attitude. And, no, he didn't sing like he was chewing on a sandwich!
By this time, I was starting to figure out that I loved the simplicity and immediacy of early Rock ‘n’ Roll and 1960’s Soul. This included those Girl Group “Wall of Sound” records produced by Phil Spector. I was pleasantly surprised one afternoon at National Record Mart when I heard a new album that smacked of Spector producing Gary U.S. Bonds: it was The River by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. I loved it and requested a copy for Christmas. I was finally a Springsteen fan.
I now kept my ears open whenever Bruce Springsteen was on the radio. In no time, I finally fell in love with that record I first heard back in 1975: “Born to Run.” Since then, it has been in my personal Hall of Fame. Now you know the whole story.