No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man. -Heraclitus In the evening, when I still smelled like Pert and Irish Spring, the house my mom got us would wrap me in it’s arms and I could feel it like a protector. Like a cave up in the hills away from all that dangerous human jazz. And in that dark, with only the red blip of the power light shining off my Walkman, I would lay there on the bottom bunk in the bedroom I shared with my younger brother and I would feel outside of all the life I had witnessed that day. Like I was there but I wasn’t there.
So much to unpack here. Bruce, sure. We’re all fans here. But that 13/14 year old. Yeah, that struck a chord. Trying to fly under the radar. A smallish kid who somehow went from being in the “in” crowd to being definitely “outside” over the summer between 6th and 7th grades. Why? How? What’d I do? No idea. But I was alone come the big move into junior high school. A-fuckin-lone. But, for the most part, I flew under the radar. Avoided being bullied. Thank God. But I was too introverted to even make a play for any of the girls. I was just another kid in a sea of kids. Lonely. Sad. Bewildered. My music tastes are what earned me any cool. 1972/73. Alice Cooper. T.Rex. Bowie. Mott. Lou Reed. Richie Mitchell, the toughest kid in our grade, challenged me on what music I liked and I told him and he says, “so, you think you’re cool?” And all I could think of to say (hoping he wasn’t going to give me a thumping) was, “no. That’s just what I like.” He smiled at that and became a sort of protector for the next three years. Not really a friend—we never hung out outside of school; hell, we never really hung out IN school, either—but if we were in a class together I knew I was ok. 13/14. Nightmare years. You could practically smell the testosterone in the school halls. Two different kids punching the shit out of each other every day. Or at least that’s how I remember it. Aggression a-go-go. And the girls who’d blossomed into young women. Some of whom looked like they could be teachers; who were rumored be dating guys in high school. And here I am with my Circus/Rolling Stone/Creem record collection, Archie comics, Famous Monsters magazines, Times
Square Stores fake jeans (because my parents weren’t gonna spend “how much?!?” on a pair of Levi’s) on which the fly was messed up and always showed, just wanting to get to that moment of decompression. Thinking “how the hell am I gonna get through another five years of this???” Of course things change. As they do. This too shall pass. It’ll be better tomorrow (or two or three years from now). It won’t be this good tomorrow. I’m still riding these swells fifty years later.
It’s cool that you had that opportunity to spend some real time with one of your heroes and came away with your feelings for the guy in tact. You definitely had the steak AND the fish.
What a great, worthwhile read - the parts about enjoying the perks of being invisible while lamenting things like human touch really resonate with younger me. The stories about Bruce’s way of telling you everything would be okay, you coming to the realization that you were at his house because he wanted you there, his gift to you, and the way your wife and you bonded over his and others music was all very touching. I think this will take multiple reads to fully appreciate.
I had the pleasure of meeting you roughly 20 years ago when Marah played a Dallas-area show. I wasn’t too familiar with your music but came to it by way of the Bruce Springsteen influence and Nick Hornby interviews. I enjoyed the show, and you were nice to 1) sign my CD (which I still have) and 2) take a few minutes to talk to a socially awkward music lover who didn’t know what to say so instead asked about Bruce Springsteen and Nick Hornby. Your patience and graciousness is still stuck in my head and appreciated all these years later. Thanks, again.
All too often we overlook or underestimate the power of music. I mean, our lives were saved by rock and roll, right? You captured so many great moments in this piece, but your writing soared when you shared how you and Arle connected over Bruce. Bonding with someone over a performer/band/song is magic.
Feb 18, 2022·edited Feb 18, 2022Liked by Serge Bielanko
LOOSE ENDS. The first time I heard it, my first thought was "WTF, classic--gorgeous, transcendent, wow!" Followed by "WTF, another one he left off a record that Steven couldn't convince him about." I heard it on a bad boot cassette in a boom box bought from Sears in the parking lot of the L.A. Sports Arena. Got it during BITUSA tour from some guy we met there while waiting in the ticket drop line. That's a story for another time. But HOLY SHIT that song...
For years I plotted and planned what I would say to Bruce should I ever meet him. I shudder to think at how much time I spent coming up with the perfect thing. Something that would elicit more than a nod. It was 2003. I knew he was a fan, what with us having popped our seeing Marah live cherry at the Pony back in 2000. So of course I opened with a line about yall.
It’s funny how some things just get wrapped up in your life. Forty of your fifty years listening to Springsteen, and somewhere deep down (or not that deep down) that fact comes to define you. Being a Springsteen fan becomes an integral part of the definition of you.
I was thinking about this the other day. I’ve been a member of the music listserv Postcard from Hell for 20 years now. I’m 41 so that’s half my life. It’s how I knew Lane Campbell (writing the past tense there pains me). It’s how I met my wife, because we were both fans of this new band from Ohio called Two Cow Garage; we’ve now been married 14 years and have an amazing daughter and we are still friends with everyone in that band.
I never set out to have my life defined by music or a band. But without those things my life is nothing like it is. It amazes me to contemplate.
Going on two thirds of my life with Elliott Smith living up in my head (despite his limited output), this resonates
So much to unpack here. Bruce, sure. We’re all fans here. But that 13/14 year old. Yeah, that struck a chord. Trying to fly under the radar. A smallish kid who somehow went from being in the “in” crowd to being definitely “outside” over the summer between 6th and 7th grades. Why? How? What’d I do? No idea. But I was alone come the big move into junior high school. A-fuckin-lone. But, for the most part, I flew under the radar. Avoided being bullied. Thank God. But I was too introverted to even make a play for any of the girls. I was just another kid in a sea of kids. Lonely. Sad. Bewildered. My music tastes are what earned me any cool. 1972/73. Alice Cooper. T.Rex. Bowie. Mott. Lou Reed. Richie Mitchell, the toughest kid in our grade, challenged me on what music I liked and I told him and he says, “so, you think you’re cool?” And all I could think of to say (hoping he wasn’t going to give me a thumping) was, “no. That’s just what I like.” He smiled at that and became a sort of protector for the next three years. Not really a friend—we never hung out outside of school; hell, we never really hung out IN school, either—but if we were in a class together I knew I was ok. 13/14. Nightmare years. You could practically smell the testosterone in the school halls. Two different kids punching the shit out of each other every day. Or at least that’s how I remember it. Aggression a-go-go. And the girls who’d blossomed into young women. Some of whom looked like they could be teachers; who were rumored be dating guys in high school. And here I am with my Circus/Rolling Stone/Creem record collection, Archie comics, Famous Monsters magazines, Times
Square Stores fake jeans (because my parents weren’t gonna spend “how much?!?” on a pair of Levi’s) on which the fly was messed up and always showed, just wanting to get to that moment of decompression. Thinking “how the hell am I gonna get through another five years of this???” Of course things change. As they do. This too shall pass. It’ll be better tomorrow (or two or three years from now). It won’t be this good tomorrow. I’m still riding these swells fifty years later.
It’s cool that you had that opportunity to spend some real time with one of your heroes and came away with your feelings for the guy in tact. You definitely had the steak AND the fish.
What a great, worthwhile read - the parts about enjoying the perks of being invisible while lamenting things like human touch really resonate with younger me. The stories about Bruce’s way of telling you everything would be okay, you coming to the realization that you were at his house because he wanted you there, his gift to you, and the way your wife and you bonded over his and others music was all very touching. I think this will take multiple reads to fully appreciate.
I had the pleasure of meeting you roughly 20 years ago when Marah played a Dallas-area show. I wasn’t too familiar with your music but came to it by way of the Bruce Springsteen influence and Nick Hornby interviews. I enjoyed the show, and you were nice to 1) sign my CD (which I still have) and 2) take a few minutes to talk to a socially awkward music lover who didn’t know what to say so instead asked about Bruce Springsteen and Nick Hornby. Your patience and graciousness is still stuck in my head and appreciated all these years later. Thanks, again.
Brilliant Serge. Thanks for sharing your awesome self!!
All too often we overlook or underestimate the power of music. I mean, our lives were saved by rock and roll, right? You captured so many great moments in this piece, but your writing soared when you shared how you and Arle connected over Bruce. Bonding with someone over a performer/band/song is magic.
LOOSE ENDS. The first time I heard it, my first thought was "WTF, classic--gorgeous, transcendent, wow!" Followed by "WTF, another one he left off a record that Steven couldn't convince him about." I heard it on a bad boot cassette in a boom box bought from Sears in the parking lot of the L.A. Sports Arena. Got it during BITUSA tour from some guy we met there while waiting in the ticket drop line. That's a story for another time. But HOLY SHIT that song...
Dream Baby Dream...Fantastic essay, best one yet!
For years I plotted and planned what I would say to Bruce should I ever meet him. I shudder to think at how much time I spent coming up with the perfect thing. Something that would elicit more than a nod. It was 2003. I knew he was a fan, what with us having popped our seeing Marah live cherry at the Pony back in 2000. So of course I opened with a line about yall.
Damn, I swore it was Dean Martin you liked.
It’s funny how some things just get wrapped up in your life. Forty of your fifty years listening to Springsteen, and somewhere deep down (or not that deep down) that fact comes to define you. Being a Springsteen fan becomes an integral part of the definition of you.
I was thinking about this the other day. I’ve been a member of the music listserv Postcard from Hell for 20 years now. I’m 41 so that’s half my life. It’s how I knew Lane Campbell (writing the past tense there pains me). It’s how I met my wife, because we were both fans of this new band from Ohio called Two Cow Garage; we’ve now been married 14 years and have an amazing daughter and we are still friends with everyone in that band.
I never set out to have my life defined by music or a band. But without those things my life is nothing like it is. It amazes me to contemplate.
Only lucky trash hits the sea, man. Well said.