A Suburban Girl's Guide To Music That Doesn't Suck 07.26.08: High Fidelity

Posted by Vanessa Willoughby on 07.26.2008

He’d been my rock. But when my love affair with The Boss temporarily fizzled, I didn’t know what to do.

Bruce Springsteen

Born to Run

1975

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I knew that something was wrong when I put on The Boss and nothing happened.

Oh, of course something happened. The CD player turned on and the speakers trembled with that lovely opening hybrid of harmonica and piano, his voice easing into the first verse. I could remember all the reasons why I loved the song, the entire album, all the reasons why I'd drawn parallel lines from my own life and to the carefree escapades of Springsteen's epics of haunted youth and Salinger-esque longing. But as Mary sought redemption in the beat-up backseat of some sad-eyed boy's pickup, I felt absolutely nothing. The words surrounded me like helium balloons, darting out of my reach.

Usually, The Boss was a surefire remedy for melancholy or anxiety or fear. For most of high school, I turned to the comforting embrace of Morrissey. In college, I clung to the lapels of Springsteen, aching for a sense of nostalgia that had never been fully mine. I found myself associating Springsteen with innocence, with the impatience of adolescence, of that on-the-verge-ready-to-burst high of finally escaping the rat trap of small-town existence.

At the time, it'd been the stuff of afternoon melodramas, three parts Peyton Place and one part watered down Bret Easton Ellis. I was tired of the usual. Sick of the routine. The pretense. The need to inspect the neighbors' dirty laundry, only to take offense when they gawked at your own. Time and time again it's been said. But I can't help but repeat the cliché: suburbia is a wasteland.

Some people like it and that's fine. To each his own and whatnot. For me, it was like living in fishbowl with limited space. With each passing year, oxygen dwindled and I was pushed farther and farther to the bottom. I'd been planning my escape since middle school. I always felt like I was sleepwalking, as though greatness lay beyond the manicured lawns and the Friday night football games. The world was passing me by. Growing up in suburbia always makes you wish you were somewhere else.

Of course, this probably sounds awfully trite and melodramatic to you, dear reader, but when we look back on the pitfalls of youth, what was once black and white can suddenly burst into Technicolor.

As I was saying…



I knew that something was terribly wrong when "Thunder Road" came on and I felt absolutely nothing. Under normal circumstances, my body and mind would reflexively respond. My head would start whirling and then my heart would stop pumping and for those three or for minutes, my desperation would transform into relieved euphoria. Finally, there was another voice that I could identify with, another person who could put a name to this jumble of emotions gnawing at the back of my throat.

This was only last year, when I was nineteen and unsuspecting of the events to come. Like Yeats, I was slouching towards my own Second Coming; an awakening where I would crack and split like an egg tapped with a chisel.

I was nineteen and struggling with anxiety and depression, and the only thing I knew to do was put on Bruce Springsteen.

I don't know what that says about me, but I'm sure it can't be anything too flattering. Then again, I didn't know what else to do. For years, my Mother had swept the problem under the rug, washing the dust from her hands as though she'd become tainted too. And so, for years, music had been the next logical solution.

It started out, like most addictions, as a fling. I'd spent my time pledging my undying devotion to a certain Steven Patrick Morrissey. By my senior year of high school, I wanted to play the field. Soon, I found myself intrigued by Bruce Springsteen.

I scoped out the most popular hits, "Born to Run," "Dancing in the Dark," "Hungry Heart." Harmless flirting, nothing too serious. Then I started reading a memoir where the author mentioned how much she loved Bruce Springsteen. Yet the funny thing was, she was the most unlikely candidate for a follower of The Boss. At the time, she was in middle school, not from New Jersey, and had never seen a steel factory in her entire life. Nevertheless, Springsteen became a mentor, a mirror, and a friend.

Thinking that perhaps I'd have the same reaction, I got my hands on a Springsteen Greatest Hits CD, courtesy my Dad. I was hooked. I went to the library and checked out Born to Run. The moment I heard "Thunder Road," I was sold. Here was a complete stranger that seemed to know me better than I knew myself. That slightly raspy, layered voice seemed to capture everything I could and could not say, every stupid daydream that floated through my cluttered head. His music was welcoming; in the sense that his songs were works of poetry and his voice was a manifestation of the simplicity of the words themselves. This isn't to say that Springsteen is simple or ordinary or common.

What I mean to say is that despite the overlooked intellectualism and tight story-telling of his lyrics, his vocals convey the universality of the emotion or situation. I suppose it can also be traced back to the whole Narcissus theory. Perhaps I fell in love because I saw a bit of my own reflection in Springsteen's music. Whatever the reason, God damnit, I wanted to be Mary!

So, you can imagine my utter horror when, only two years later, lighting the match and expecting a fire, I didn't even get a spark. Forget the endless cycles of insomnia, the increased irritability, the ball and chain of apathy, the out of body buzz I felt while walking to class. The beast of exhaustion, the growing desire to sleep and sleep until my arms and limbs disintegrated into the mattress. Oh no, those were minor things. I was an academic now. This was what life was supposed to entail, right? Guzzling coffee and Red Bull, nose stuck in a book, plowing through papers until my vision blurred.

My friends from home would IM me tales of drunken debauchery, of the one-night lovers and whispered lines carbon-copied from our favorite movies. And when they asked me what I'd been up to, I'd respond like the dutiful scholar, trying my absolute best to keep my lips stitched and my fingers steady. I wanted to tell them I was miserable, that I was uncertain if I still wanted to be a writer, that I constantly felt lonely, even more so when hidden behind the fortress of my own mind. I purposefully sought out songs that would remind me of my instability. And despite all of this, I smothered the suspicion that something was truly and terribly wrong. I dragged myself to class and forced myself to complete my homework. At night, I lay in bed wide-eyed with fatigue, wondering when I would finally lose it.

However, this, the failure to properly respond to The Boss, was certainly terrifying. If I couldn't find relief in The Boss, what else was I supposed to do? I listened to the album, hoping my apathy would melt. "Night" made me feel doomed. "Backstreets" made my heart break. "Born to Run" made me realize I'd always feel restless and terrified that I'd never find someone to share it with.

After going through the entire CD with little to no results, I put all my faith into the last track.
Besides the obvious tracks, one of my favorites was "Jungleland." I was unprepared for such an odyssey of a song. Listening to the likes of NSYNC and 98° left me virtually clueless to the true power of music. To even call "Jungleland" just a song undermines its narration. Like a novel or short story, it has a beginning, middle, and an end. The characters are nameless faces passing through the night, but they aren't ghosts. There's something familiar about their anxious energy, about the bleak landscape of their environment.

Oddly enough, they seem much more real than fictitious, real enough for you to believe that somewhere out there, they're licking their wounds and preparing for the next fight. The specific details of the song, the Exxon sign, the Dodge, Magic Rat himself, are so artfully chosen for the purpose of a genuine connection.

For me, Magic Rat and his barefoot girl weren't just the clever products of a musical virtuoso. They were ironically glamorous heroes. They were just like me, in the sense that they were trapped in a world bent out to destroy them. They had shades of The Outsiders, of Sodapop and Ponyboy, flashes of Montgomery Clift.

The momentum builds and builds and you find yourself cruising along with Rat, wind slashing your cheeks as you zip through the tunnel. This is the pinnacle of the failed American Dream, the aftermath of manifest destiny, the yearning to conquer the world. It's all there, breathing in each lyric, each verse. Just look at the beauty of this verse:

The street's alive
As secret debts are paid
Contacts made, they vanish unseen
Kids flash guitars like switch-blades
Hustling for the record machine
The hungry and the hunted
Explode into rock'n'roll bands
That face off against each other out in the street
Down in Jungleland

Kids flash guitars like switch-blades. It's simple. It's quick. It's voluminous. It's pretty much poetry. He's like Dylan with his knack for truthfully and honestly capturing the everyday American, the breakdown of the human spirit. Yet, for me, Springsteen is much more timeless than Dylan. I know that saying anything negative about him, in any shape or form, appears to be reason for raised eyebrows and public condemnation. But I won't deny it or take it back. What do you think of when you think of Dylan?

You think of the past, of his wild, curly hair, of the turbulence of the 60's, of folk music and rock and roll, of a time when it seemed a simple song could save us all. This isn't to undermine his merit as an artist or to say that Dylan isn't relevant in today's industry. Maybe I'm doing a poor job of explaining myself. But the connection I have to Springsteen is much more potent and concrete than the one I have with Dylan. It's not so much that Springsteen is transforming and shedding his skin like David Bowie or Madonna.

But Springsteen's sound is often influenced by the social and cultural climate of the country. Born in the USA and The Rising are prime examples. He is the reliability of blues and soul, mixed with the hard-hitting slam of rock and roll. The coolness of Steve McQueen, the masculinity of Humphrey Bogart, the grace of Gene Kelly, the romanticism of James Dean.

I have to admit, I use music to shape my identity, because I'm still unsure of the specifics. I suppose I've got the basics down all right. I love music, as you already know. I've got a soft spot for the feel of brand new books, the history of second hand books, and, as the previous sentence reveals, a slight obsession with Old Hollywood that weaves in and out of my consciousness. I like to travel and I like the company of good friends and my family. But there're still blank spaces. And musicians like Springsteen fill the holes.

Last year, I reached for the familiar and put on Born to Run. My identity had been shaped by Springsteen and so, it seemed logical to seek his guidance. The final notes of "Jungleland" ended. I sat on my bed, room empty, staring out the window. The view looked out onto a brick wall. And for the first time in my life, I couldn't rely on music to get me out of my rut.

The only person I had to rely on was myself.