Phil: Bruce Springsteen turned 60 last Wednesday. Sixty. The Boss. The Big Six-Oh. For some reason, this little Yahoo News tidbit floored me. I’m old enough to remember buying Greetings From Asbury Park (Bruce and the E Street Band’s debut album) based on a review and ad I saw in Rolling Stone when I was but a mere sprout of 18. He was being touted by Columbia Records (along with label mate Elliott Murphy) as one of the New Dylans. I loved the album and adopted the Jersey Devil as a “personal favorite,” a prestigious honor not bestowed lightly. When L.A. Times music critic Robert Hilburn officially anointed him as “The Future of Rock and Roll,” I felt vindicated. I was working in record stores when his classic Born to Run hit the streets and even bought multiple copies of the Time magazine with his mug on the cover. My soon-to-be-wife was in attendance at the famous Roxy show (a fact I’ve never forgiven her for; even though we had yet to meet, she still should have invited me along.) When he toured for The River , we went to every show of his Sports Arena stand. Suffice to say, Bruce and I have history. To hear he’s turning 60 just freaks me out. I am forced by the news of this, his milestone natal anniversary, to confront the cold, harsh reality of my own mortality. I am, I fear, not getting any younger. The truth is, I AM GOING TO DIE IN THE WHAT IS NO LONGER THE VAGUE, MURKY AND DISTANT FUTURE!!!
So, how’s that for a chipper little intro?
Steve: I’m sorry, what? I wasn’t listening. I tell you, the older I get, the harder it is for me to, um, you know . . . pay attention. You said something about Springsteen?
Phil: You’re killin’ me, Brewer. I was talking about Bruce Springsteen.
Steve: Ah, the Boss! Yes, I’ve long been a Springsteen fan, too, though we learned of him a little later in the moss-dripping, banjo-slapping South of my youth. The Jersey Shore might as well have been another planet, but we still felt like he was singing our song. When I lived in El Paso, TX, I commuted daily under an I-10 overpass where someone had spray-painted “Springsteen Is God.” I always wanted to cross myself when I drove under that bridge, but that does constitute a driving hazard.
Phil: Well, it seems even Bruce “God” Springsteen can’t stall the slow creep of time. Six decades, man!
Steve: I read in a magazine that 60 is the “new 50.” Or maybe it was the “new 40.” Which means 70 would be the new 50. Which means I’m right on track, because I feel like I’m about 70. Wait, what? Did I do that backward? Is it too late to be fashionably middle-aged? Do I have to get in shape or something? Springsteen looks like he’s still in great shape.
Phil: He does look pretty good for a geezer. I guess jumpin’ around on stage with The Big Man and Little Steven keeps him fit. But, isn’t there something a bit unsightly about septuagenarian rock stars flitting about in front of thousands at a football stadium? Mick Jagger is pushing 70 and a JumboTron is not very forgiving. Liver spots the size of VW’s. I remember the young Mick saying, “I can’t see myself singing Satisfaction when I’m 40.” Well, there he is. Of course, I can see why Townshend reneged on the whole “hope I die before I get old” thing — can’t blame him for that. I suppose it’s only natural, this Circle of Life crapola. Getting older is just a process we can’t control, so why fight it?
Steve: Hakuna Matata, baby. Might as well roll with it. The wrinkles and the gray hair and the flab will come whether we like it or not. With each passing year, we all look a little less like Roger Daltrey and a little more like Meat Loaf.
Phil: I aspire to Meatloaf-ness. I’m starting to take on the appearance of some kind of dumplings. I have the muscle tone of Cream of Wheat! You wouldn’t want to confront me in a dark alley, unless you hadn’t had breakfast yet.
Steve: I just lost my appetite. As to getting older, I try to always remember what Woody Allen said about it beating the alternative. So far, I’ve been very lucky health-wise for someone of my advanced years, knock wood. I don’t have much trouble with the loss of my youthful athleticism (what there was of it) because I don’t really want to get up off the sofa anyway. But I do find that I am more easily injured these days. For example, I recently threw my whole shoulder into spasms with a pretty strenuous sneeze.
Phil: I was standing still and my knee went out. In fact, my knee is about the only thing that goes out anymore, everywhere is too far for me to go these days. But, honestly, hurting yourself standing still?
Steve: I also find myself with a lot of more of those “mystery bruises” like old people get:
“How’d you get that big bruise on your arm, Grandma?”
“This? Hmm. I don’t remember. And where the hell did this tattoo come from?”
I can usually blame my bruises on the nearest door jamb. People underestimate the viciousness of door jambs. I believe they are out to get me.
Phil: I’ve heard you have trouble with ceiling fans, too. But, you actually do look pretty good for your age. Unlike Keith Richards, who has looked like he was 107 since 1982. See, that’s what’s so disconcerting, I thought of these rock stars as old back then. I mean, John Lennon died when he was 40, ancient by rock and roll standards, but he was a young man. I remember listening to Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks and thinking how mature his music was becoming, after all he a was wizened old man of 32 at the time. Thirty? What the hell did he know about life to be singing that stuff at 30? Like Shecky Green (jeez, I am old) used to say, I have socks older than that. But, to add insult to injury, the old axiom, “If it’s too loud, you’re too old” now applies to me. I find myself yelling, “turn that crap down!” as the new Eminem is thumping from a teen’s bedroom. I’m now living the title of a Jethro Tull album, “Too Old to Rock and Roll, Too Young to Die.”
Steve: The fact that you invoked Jethro Tull marks you as an official Senior Citizen of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Maybe you can get into concerts at reduced rates. But, please, leave your teeth in this time. You spray people when you chant, “Bruuuuuth! Bruuuuuth!”
