I am on fire.
The Boss is coming to New Zealand on 1 March!
And not one damn day too soon.
I was starting to wonder whether one of us would croak before we ever got to party together.
Bruce has had a hip replacement. I’ve got the shoulder baby. And the black dog nips at both our heels.
All up, the miles on our respective odometers have turned over way too many times.
But in about 193 days, my odometer will be restarted at 000000.
I will be filled to the brim with testosterone.
Dancing In The Dark, probably by myself, but it won’t matter at all.
Because I was Born to Run.
Driving down Thunder Road.
Having a Hungry Heart.
Thinking of Glory Days and My Home Town.
While I am on Fire.
Looking for Someone to Cover Me.
Thinking about being Born In The U.S.A.and the Streets Of Philadelphia.
I’m Goin’ Down, but then One Step Up.
Because it’s about that Human Touch, about Better Days, in the Secret Garden.
I will Prove it All Night. In the Badlands.
And then I will Fade Away.
Because, finally, after decades of CRANKING UP BRUCE, to let off steam or blow away the blues, I will have seen the Boss Live.
Sure, I may have to sell two or three kidneys for the ticket, or tickets, if Junior is in town and can go with his Daddy to see a legend.
But that’s a small price to pay for something I’ve wanted to do since 1974, when Jon Landau’s wrote this in Boston’s alternative rag The Real Paper:
“Last Thursday, at the Harvard Square theater, I saw rock’n'roll past flash before my eyes. And I saw something else: I saw rock and roll future and its name is Bruce Springsteen. And on a night when I needed to feel young, he made me feel like I was hearing music for the very first time.”
I. Can’t. Wait. For.