I’m a Bruce fan. If you’re a Bruce fan than I don’t need to explain. You know that the word FAN takes on a whole new meaning when placed directly after the word SPRINGSTEEN. If you’re not, well you’re probably as big a mystery to me as I am to you. I concede that there are those rare few that fall in the middle of this equation. They look at the Bruce disciples with a bemused look on their face and marvel at their zealousness. This is because they are music fans and are therefore no more blind to Bruce’s impact on rock and roll than the horticulturist who admires the skill and nurturing essential to the growth of a marijuana plant, even if they do not care to indulge in or understand its intoxicating effects.
So falling into the Bruce fan category, you can imagine my state of elation upon hearing of the impending E-street band reunion, album and tour and then my bitter disappointment upon discovering I would be in the throws of a wedding ceremony when the tickets for the NYC area shows went on sale. Yes, I would be wiping the forced tear from my eye and desperately trying to contrive a sentiment slightly more original than “You two just seem so happy” to offer the newlyweds at just the moment Ticketmaster would be opening its phone lines. (If I sound cynical I assure you these comments are not necessarily directed at the institution of marriage itself, but more at its intrusion upon my summer and its larceny of about 50% of my weekends.)
Well, I shrugged it off, vowed to work every angle I had and waited for the release of The Rising. On July 30th, I woke up bright and early for The Today Show to catch my first glimpse of what had been hyped by the media as nothing short of the second coming of Christ (or Born to Run…same difference.). I was disappointed. Not disappointed enough to not purchase the damn thing that very day, but I was having doubts. After one listen, I was still disappointed. But again not disappointed enough to talk myself out of heading over to Madison Square Garden the night of August 12th and placing myself at the end of a 500-person ticket drop line. (To clarify for the non-fan, Bruce traditionally drops a large chunk of tickets at the box office the day of the show to minimize scalping and give all of us shutouts one last-ditch effort at getting into the show.)
I knew that the majority of the people in front of me had probably been there about 30 hours, received their bracelets and had actually paid their dues. My chances of making it to that ticket window were slim to none. I can’t explain it though. I just had this feeling, like when you can smell the rain and know it’s coming long before the clouds even roll in. I’ve had good concert karma in the past, but I just felt especially confident about this night and knew if nothing else, I had to put myself out there where the action was.
So I started to make friends and size up the crowd. It’s tough in these situations because it’s important to make alliances but at the same time you can’t commit too soon. Let’s face it, you’re out here battling solo and while you want to prospect the chances of that elusive Rosalita as much as the next guy, you know you’re a mercenary and will turn on these fellow soldiers as soon as the words “One for face value” make themselves audible. In this particular case, something did fall my way. I was working on getting a single ticket from a woman in front of me and while it looked promising, there were still many variables at play making the purchase anything but a sure thing. So when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a familiar face, my sensors were out and I was ready to pounce. “I just need one,” I blurted. No niceties here! This was a friend of a friend. While we had bonded over a particularly hairy incident involving a stolen purse, the incarceration of an innocent man, and a raced rental car up the NJ Turnpike from an abandoned Greyhound to the NY District Attorney (another story for another day), we weren’t exactly close friends. Therefore, my Bruce enthusiasm could have been construed as rudeness, but he didn’t bat an eyelash. He simply said he’d be right back. “$75?” he stated upon his return. Was he joking? Did he really phrase that in the form of a question? Hell yeah! My colleagues from line patted my back, cheered for me and bid me farewell, as I broke free from the line ready to claim my prize. I knew this was my night!
“So who has the ticket?” I asked John as we headed back to congregate with his friends. “Well, it’s not really a ticket. We’ve got a deal worked out with some of the guys in the Garden,” he explained, as visions of lost opportunity flashed before my eyes. Did I abort too soon? That other lady’s ticket was in the bag! As these panicked thoughts floated through my head, John handed me what appeared to be a ticket. It had all the makings of a Ticketmaster Rip-off Du Jour, but where it should have been emblazoned with BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN AND THE E-STREET band, it had the words VOID VOID VOID and SHAHANI/RUSTOM/P 434 Monmouth St. Jersey City, NJ. Huh?
“OK, here’s what we do!” The ringleader of the group was now speaking. He was another familiar face, but I knew him about as well as a handshake and a “Good to meet you”. Survival instincts kicked in. Whatever this guy was about to tell me, I knew it was going to pertain to something highly illegal. The question was did this guy look like someone who could pull it off, and more importantly could he take me along for the ride. (Hey this was Bruce we were talking about!) I listened as he spelled out the plan. “Cover the ticket and flash it as you go through security. From there, it’s all prearranged. We go to a ticket taker at Gate X who will scan these tickets and let us in.” (Let’s just say Gate X for the story. I mean I’m no whistleblower. Maybe the contact at Gate X wasn’t even in it for the money. Maybe he was simply protesting the plight of the throngs of ticket takers across the country by sticking it to the MSG machine. This guy could be the next Casear Chavez for all we know.)
“Sounds good so far,” I thought, quickly weighing the risk/reward quotient in my head when a light bulb went off. “Where are we going to sit once we get in?” I asked. I mean call me pessimistic, but I didn’t think showing my stub with SECTION ____, ROW_____, and SEAT _____ would go over too well with an usher who wasn’t in on the take. “We’re getting in to general admission,” he said. That was enough for me. It was getting too close to concert time to dissect this too much. Hey anyone with a cache of fake tickets must have the plan thought out well beyond Gate X!
We all got through security, no problem. My heart was racing at this point and I couldn’t tell whether it was nerves or the fact that I had just placed significant distance between myself and the scores of other non-ticket holders outside. I was that much closer to The Boss.
The crowd at Gate X was thick. It was a balancing act…stick together as a pack or try to spread ourselves out? It turns out the decision was made for John and me. We watched our “gang” go effortlessly through Gate X while we splintered and were carried off by an eager pack of Bruce fans. I was still confident. I figured John knew some prearranged code word or at least how to furtively slide a wad of cash into our boy, Chavez’s hand. No such luck. “What are you doing?” I heard Casear ask John. “Come back later.”
Okay no major worries yet. He probably just wanted to spread us out to make it less obvious. We got back in line. (Looking back on it we probably should have let a little more time pass before our second attempt. I don’t know, maybe 45 seconds rather than our designated 30. “You think we’ve waited long enough?” “Yeah, You?” “Yeah, Let’s Go.”) Well, needless to say Round 2 went just about as well as the first.
Shit! I had a piece of crap ticket, a wad of $20’s in my hand, and an activist with cold feet …not a lot to go on. As images of Bruce pulling up a Courtney Cox look alike from the exact spot on the floor where I would have been standing began to cloud my judgment, John whipped into action and turned to the trusted weapon of any self-respecting New Yorker, his cell phone. “MMMM…. Oh Okay”, I overheard, as a look of awakened possibilities passed over his face. Apparently, the key to our entry was not the cash but the uttered phrase “We’re friends of TJ”. In fact the cash was our downfall. For all you future ticket scammers, lesson number one. When the fix is in, no cash exchanges hands at Gate X. Apparently the players (and yes there were many in this case) divvy up the score behind closed doors. We had simply been flashing the risk of imprisonment in front of Chavez’s face and not as discreetly as we had thought.
Third attempt equaled success! I ran through Gate X like a child coming down the stairs on Christmas morning. We were in. The group reconvened and began talking in hushed whispers once again. I gave John $80 and went to the beer line. I have no idea who finally got the money or how, and at this point, I couldn’t have cared less about Phase II of the plan. I could walk laps around the Garden for the duration of the show for all I cared. I had gained entry into this intimate room of 20,000 that included Bruce, Clarence, Patty, Nils and Max. As far as I was concerned my $80 had been well spent and that was enough for me. I heard the opening notes of Lonesome Day, and bolted through the entrance to the arena. As it turns out laps around the arena it was. We had become instantly engaged in a cat and mouse game with special forces MSG…aka the ushers. (Apparently, it’s somewhat obvious if you don’t have a seat in a sold out stadium.)
Did I mention earlier I was feeling the concert karma that day? The beautiful end to this scam came when John and his friends bumped into yet another friend. Now THIS guy had yet ANOTHER friend who was a security guard. I think some more money exchanged hands (but again I don’t want to jump to conclusions--perhaps it was an act of charity) and next thing you know the whole posse is being escorted down under the stage and into the General Admission area! Now here we could blend in with these folks. Not only did we now belong, no longer discriminated against because of a few misspellings on our ticket, but we were standing dead center stage and Bruce was in my sights about 75 yards away. Never have I been, nor ever will I probably be again, this close to the man himself.
Within 15 minutes Bruce and the E Street Band wiped away all notions of disappointment over the new album. Had the songs changed? No, but the delivery had. I saw the timelessness of Bruce’s relevance. Perhaps the songs and production of the album were not quite as fresh and instantly gripping as I had hoped. But that is who Bruce is. He experiments within his comfort level and fortunately for his fans the results always stem from a sincerity and passion that few can rival. He is not going to go out and get the Neptunes for his next project or collaborate with Redman to broaden his appeal. The Rising is not going to win Bruce many new fans. (As if he needs them.) And while I may not consider it the opus it has been touted to be in the media, the bottom line is that it is a riveting composition, wrought in empathy, hope and yearning. The fact that I needed to see these songs performed live in order to want to own them and be a part of them does not diminish their appeal. Once I saw him and the band perform these songs, I instantly loved them because it was so clear that they loved them. And if Bruce and the band love these songs than that is enough for me. I’m a convert.
Maybe my potentially cataclysmic journey into the concert had something to do with my romanticized view of the night. Ethical? Moral? Legal? I can safely say “no” to all of these. I could rationalize another 4 pages about why I don’t feel bad about it though. After all I can’t think of many characters in Springsteen’s songs that wouldn’t have jumped at the opportunity to do the same. Eddie, Wild Billy, Bobby Jean - Not only would they have taken the risk, they’d have known in their hearts that by doing so they’d made the experience just that much sweeter. After all, who do you cheer for - Maximum Lawmen or Magic Rat and barefoot girl? Well, last night this barefoot girl made it free and clear down Flamingo to the house of Bruce, where yet again he opened the door and let her in.
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