ROCK ‘n ROLL HALL OF FAME 25th – 29.10.2009

Spettacolare DVD bootleg del concerto di Springsteen e la E-street band al Madison Square Garden di New York per i 25 anni della Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Notevoli gli ospiti fra cui Sam Moore, Tom Morello e John Fogerty.

La scaletta:

10th Avenue Freeze Out
Hold On (With Same Moore)
Soul Man (with Same Moore)
The Ghost of Tom Joad (with Tom Morello)
Fortunate Son (with John Fogerty)
Proud Mary (with John Fogerty)
Pretty Woman (with John Fogerty)
Jungleland
Fine Fine Boy (with Darlene Love)
Do Run Run Run (with Darlene Love)
London Calling (with Tom Morello)
Badlands
You May Be Right (with Billy Joel)
Only the Good Die Young (with Billy Joel)
New York State of Mind (with Billy Joel)
Born to Run (with Billy Joel)
Higher & Higher (all of the above and Jackson Browne & Peter Wolfe)

Se qualcuno degli abbonati alla ricezione dei post per email è interessato ad una copia lasci pure un commento qua sotto.

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IL BOSS E L’ ITALIANA – 8^ PARTE

Puntata numero 8 del racconto scritto da Sharonlacorta.

Fece varcare la soglia ai suoi ospiti. I quali si ritrovarono in un soggiorno completamente perlinato, con divani di pelle di bufalo, coperte buttate sopra a casaccio ed una grande stufa di maiolica chiara che dominava la stanza. L’aria profumava di arancio, cannella e chiodo di garofano, e un vassoio con tazze, tè e cioccolata e qualche biscotto era appoggiato su un tavolino di fronte ai divani. Caldo e profumo… Bruce fu travolto da una sensazione di infinito benessere.
“Oh Nora… è carinissimo qui…”
Nora sorrise, visibilmente soddisfatta.
“Non mi lamento”
D’un tratto si sentì un pesante scalpiccio provenire dalle scale. I figli di Nora scesero come una valanga verso valle.
“Questi sono i miei gioielli… Emma e Andrea”
I piccoli arrossirono leggermente, sorridendo agli ospiti, poi scomparvero.
“Poco casino e mettete a posto i vostri giochi!!!” gli urlò dietro Nora.
“Tuo… marito dov’è?”
“Dai suoi. Non tarderà a venire: prende i bimbi con sé”
Bruce si fece serio, abbassò lo sguardo lievemente addolorato.
“Come stanno le cose?”
Nora nel frattempo fece cenno loro di sedersi. Servì una tazza di tè a Bruce e a se stessa e la cioccolata a Evan.
“Insomma… Diciamo che abbiamo avuto tempi migliori. Però, in considerazione di una certa fiducia l’uno nell’altra c’è una lieve propensione all’idea delle ferie… all’estero”
Un lieve bussare alla porta distolse l’attenzione di tutti dalla conversazione.
Bruce disse:
“Dev’essere Jon. Le nostre valigie…”
Nora aprì la porta e fece entrare il tuttofare.
“Vieni Evan – fece lei, facendo strada al ragazzo che si stava portando la sua valigia – ecco qui. Questa è la tua stanza. E’ leggermente… spoglia, ma c’è comunque tutto ciò di cui puoi avere bisogno: qui di fianco alla porta c’è l’armadio e il divano diventa un comodo letto, vicino c’è l’interruttore del faretto. Non c’è altro perché… oltre ad essere camera degli ospiti questa è la mia stanza dello yoga”
Il profumo di arancio, cannella e chiodo di garofano si trasformava infatti in incenso Nag Champa, oltre quella porta e sulla parete sopra il divano campeggiava un enorme poster con tutte le 908 posture dello yoga. Sulla parte a fianco un altro poster più piccolo con la sequenza del saluto al sole e sotto una panchetta in legno con il porta incensi, un piccolo lettore cd e i libri della disciplina. Quello che sembrava uno scendiletto era in realtà il materassino di Nora e sopra ad esso un cuscinetto con un ricamo rappresentante il simbolo “Om”. Nora spostò il tutto e lo ripose nell’armadio dal quale tirò fuori un “vero” scendiletto.
Evan la ringraziò.
“Se non ti dispiace mi cambio… Sono così ancora da casa, è stato un viaggio lungo”
“Fa’ come se fossi a casa tua” rispose Nora.
Lei e Bruce uscirono dalla stanza. Lui la guardava come se si fosse trovato davanti una persona che non conosceva.
“Fai yoga… vivi in una specie di chalet e hai un cane…”
“Vedi cosa succede a voler tener botta ai colpi di fulmine…?” chiese lei sorridendo.
“Finisci per non riconoscere la persona per cui hai perso la testa”
“Io dove dormo…?” chiese Bruce, la voce quasi un sussurro, eppure sempre carica di quella sua roca sensualità.
“Fuori. Con Chinook” fu la pronta risposta di Nora.
Bruce scoppiò a ridere, lievemente preoccupato. Nora lo portò su per le scale. Aprì la porta della sua camera da letto. Ancora legno, pareti, pavimento, soffitto, legno naturale nel cassettone, un letto grande, in ferro battuto, con la biancheria bianca. Un nido semplice ma incantevole. Nora aprì la porta di fianco al letto: conduceva al guardaroba e attraverso quello, al bagno.
“Puoi lasciare qui la valigia, se vuoi. La disfi domani?”
Bruce non le rispose. La tirò verso di sé e la baciò con trasporto, accarezzandole il corpo dalle spalle fin sotto i glutei.
“Finalmente… – mormorò – non ne potevo più: ho aspettato questo momento da quando sono salito sull’aereo, cinque mesi fa”
Nora gli sorrise.
“Sono molto contenta che siate venuti”
Nora sentì il cellulare vibrare nella tasca posteriore dei pantaloni. Lo tirò fuori e guardò il display.
“E’ Alessandro. E’ arrivato. Aspettami qui, per piacere. Gli lascio i bambini poi torno da te”
Bruce sentì Nora che andava in una delle altre stanze che aveva intravvisto al piano, quando erano saliti. Sentì la sua voce mentre – presumibilmente – chiedeva ai bimbi di lasciare i loro giochi e di mettersi i giacconi e gli scarponi, che papà era arrivato. Si sentì in colpa per aver causato quello scompiglio. Ma il senso di colpa sfumò quasi immediatamente al pensiero del suo corpo avvinghiato a quello di lei in quella stanza tutta di legno, in quel delizioso letto di ferro battuto, con la biancheria bianca e l’odore di legna bruciata e di arancio, cannella e chiodi di garofano che riempiva l’aria anche lassù.
Sentì Nora e i bimbi scendere le scale. Non volle guardare, sentì ancora Nora che parlamentava probabilmente col marito, sulla soglia. Poi sentì la porta chiudersi.
Nora impiegò un po’ a risalire in camera. E quando Bruce la vide si accorse che aveva gli occhi lucidi. La strinse ancora a sé.
“Dai… ti prego, non fare così. Vedrai come staremo bene l’estate prossima, con anche loro insieme a noi”
“Lo so, ma non è quello… – ribattè piagnucolando – E’ che ti guardano e ti baciano… e lo fanno come se… come se… sono sempre così affettuosi! Ignari del casino che sto montando intorno a loro!”
“Calmati… – l’incoraggiò Bruce – vedrai che saprai mantenere un profilo alto con loro e loro non sentiranno la tua mancanza e non ti rimprovereranno per nulla”
“Salvo per il fatto che li porto via al padre per l’unico periodo dell’anno in cui potrebbero stare tutto il tempo con lui”
“Restano le feste di Natale”
Nora lo guardò.
“Uff… Andiamo a bere il tè?”
Bruce le si avvicinò.
“Mmhh… non credo…”
La mano di lui corse sulla sua schiena, dal collo verso il basso, poi risalì, da sotto il maglione. Rimase con la bocca socchiusa, vicino alle sue labbra, carezzandole la gota con la punta delle dita. Si fece ancora più vicino, finché i suoi lombi toccarono quelli di lei. Nora si accorse che era… piuttosto felice di essere lì. Sentì il suo profumo, il suo fiato stentatamente rallentato e tiepido contro il suo viso. Poi, lentamente ma decisamente Bruce infilò la lingua nella bocca di lei, aprendogliela e muovendola dentro, all’inseguimento della sua. Nora circondò le spalle dell’uomo e lui, col solito colpetto di calcagno, chiuse la porta dietro di sé e la spinse su quel grande, morbido letto dalla biancheria bianca.

Vi raccomando l’ iscrizione alla ricezione dei post per email in modo da non perdervi le prossime puntate.

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WALK TALL OR DON’T WALK AT ALL

Articolo del 1974 quello di quest’oggi scritto da Dave Marsh il biografo ufficiale di Springsteen.

“Walk tall or don’t walk at all”
By Dave Marsh

I’ve seen Bruce Springsteen twice in the last few months. He is better than anything
on the radio, and he has a new single, “Born To Run,” which, if we are at all fortunate,
will be played across the land by now. Given the current paucity of interesting subject
matter, he’s the subject of this column.
When I first saw him, last April in Boston, it was in a sweaty little bar in Harvard
Square, packed to the walls with street kids and college students, rock writers and
general hangers-on, drunks and know-it-alls. I expected nothing; I got everything.
When I saw him again at the Bottom Line in New York, I expected everything, and he
didn’t let me down. Springsteen is the perfect AM performer. His sangs don’t have all
the obvious hooks that wear out after you’ve heard them for a couple of weeks.
Instead, they grow on you, and soon, you’re fascinated not only by the Latin-inflected
soul and rock he’s playing, not only by Clarence Clemons’s magic saxophone, not only
by Springsteen’s voice—which embodies the mystique of James Dean and (yes) Bob
Dylan—but by the tales he’s telling, and the characters he creates.
There is a passion here, for the mythical girl friend, Puerto Rican Jane (known in
Springsteen’s greatest songs as Rosalita), and for everyone else who pops up: the fishwife
in “New York City Serenade” is enough to make you weep.
The magic of Springsteen harks back to a tradition at least as old as “Jailhouse Rock,”
and “Maybelline.” What you discover in the hundredth listening is not only music that
compels you to listen that often, but a tale that deserves telling. It’s not so far
different from trash epics like the cannibalistic “Timothy,” or even a nice little
suicide saga like “Without You.” But Springsteen does it every time out; if he cleans
up his production, there is no reason why the key line of “Born To Run”—”Tramps
like us, we were born to run”—won’t become the rallying cry of the decade.
But “Born To Run” is not Springsteen’s greatest song. His best is “Rosalita,” the tale of
a love affair at least the equal of Romeo and Juliet’s, or Catherine the Great and
Secretariat’s. It begins with a guitar and saxophone swoop into utter ecstasy that I’m
listening to as compulsively as ever I did to the song closest to its music, Van
Morrison’s “Wild Night.”
Bruce loves Rosie, but Rosie’s parents don’t love him; he’s nothing but rock ‘n’ roll
trash as far as they’re concerned. “Now I know your mama don’t like me ’cause I play
in a rock ‘n’ roll band, and I know your daddy don’t like me, but he never did
understand…And your papa says he knows I don’t have any money,” he taunts,
mocking eternal parental misgivings, just the way Chuck Berry did in “You Never Can
Tell.” But Springsteen has it in him to make the story even more magical, certainly
more contemporary. “Tell your daddy this is his last chance,” he exclaims, pulling his
best lines from nowhere, “To get his daughter in a fine romance. ‘Cause the record
company, osie, just gave me a big advance.” And proceeds to crack up his car in a
Jersey swamp.
There’s no tale anywhere in rock. at the moment and certainly nothing on the radio
today, which can come close to matching it. There’s hardly a performer anywhere
who can make you so joyous when he comes out with the gestures that belong to a
movie star and the voice that belongs to an amalgam of Wilson Pickett and Morrison.
“This is music,” a friend of mine said at the Bottom Line, “that can make you care
again.”
Which is what I want to do, and what Springsteen offers that no one else does. Elliott
Murphy and the Dolls, as much as I love them, are doomsayers; Springsteen just
comes out and acts like nothing’s changed, or if it has, he doesn’t care very much,
anyway. Wouldn’t it be a pleasure to hear this stuff on the highway? Might up the
accident rate, of course, but then, that is what the best music has always done: it is a
little like drowning. If your entire life does not flash before your eyes, all the best
parts of it do, or all the most special ones.
And whether Springsteen is joking about being “Born To Lose,” which he wasn’t, or
celebrating Manhattan in “New York City Serenade,” with a passion that can bring
tears to your eyes, or blasting onto the stage with “Then I Kissed Her,” or doing his “E
Street Shuffle,” those moments are so special, you know that next time they’ll be part
of the drowning experiences that total immersion in great music brings.
“Walk tall,” he demands, “or don’t walk at all.” Springsteen struts, because he knows,
as if he were 6’6″ instead of as short as me, that he’s as big as anybody who ever took
a stage. I’d trade everything else I’ve heard this year for the evenings I spent with him.
He has everything, the past, the present and the future. For once in your life, do
touch that dial— Springsteen will touch you back. And when you’re rockin’ your
baby, that’s just what you need, just like it is when there ain’t no baby to rock. The
music on the radio is like Springsteen’s “Spirit In The Night,” and you grab that spirit
every chance you get. This is the best chance of all.
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DREAM WHATEVER YOU WANT – VOL 2

Secondo volume della raccolta Dream Whatever You Want. Ovviamente il bootleg è dedicato a The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle.

Essendo spezzoni la qualità audio e video varia da canzone a canzone.


1- E Street Shuffle – 20/11/2009
1st Mariner Arena, Baltimore, MD
2- 4th July Asbury Park (Sandy) – 08/10/2009
Giants Stadium, East Rutherford, NJ
3- Kitty’s Back P J 29/04/2009
The Spectrum, Philadelphia, PA
4- Wild Billy’s Circus Story P 07/11/2009
Madison Square Garden, New York City
5- Incident on 57th Street P 23/05/2009
Izod Center, East Rutherford, NJ
6- Gonna Fly Now P 19/10/2009
The Spectrum, Philadelphia, PA
7- Rosalita (Come Out Tonight) (w/Curt Ramm) – 19/10/2009
The Spectrum, Philadelphia, PA
8- New York City Serenade P 07/11/2009
Madison Square Garden, New York City

BONUS

9- Kitty’s Back – 23/05/2009
Izod Center, East Rutherford, NJ
10- Rosalita (Come Out Tonight) – J 21/05/2009
Izod Center, East Rutherford, NJ
11- Thundercrack P 29/04/2009
The Spectrum, Philadelphia, PA
12- Seaside Bar Song P 13/10/2009
The Spectrum, Philadelphia, PA 

Qualche esempio lo potete trovare qui e qui.


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IL MEGLIO DI FEBBRAIO 2010

Anche febbraio è finito purtroppo. Da questo mese ci saranno diverse novità nell’organizzazione settimanale dei post che pubblicherò con una media di 4 o 5 per settimana.

Intanto ecco la classifica dei cinque post più letti del mese scorso:

  1. Scattered like dry leaves: bootleg del concerto di Springsteen del 28 agosto 1981;
  2. The bigman’s last dance: ultimo concerto del tour di Working on a dream;
  3. Point Blank: video; 
  4. The complete MUSE shows: i famosi concerti del 1979 con il debutto di The River;
  5. Ahmanson Theatre: bootleg DVD del 1973.

Siete d’accordo con questa lista?  Qual’ è la vostra “top 5”?

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STOCKHOLM 2nd DREAM NIGHT 05.06.2009 CC 933-935

Seconda serata nella gelida Stoccolma per Bruce Springsteen e la E-street e nostra seconda tappa del tour di Working on a dream.

Il bootleg della prima serata lo potete trovare qui , mentre qui potete trovare il racconto di Larry sulla nostra trasferta.

La scaletta:

Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band
5 June 2009 Stockholm Second Dream Nignt CC933-934-935
Stockholm Stadion / Stockholm, SWE

Idas Sommarvisa (Nils solo)
Downbound Train
Badlands
My Lucky Day
Candy’s Room
Outlaw Pete
Darlington County
Working on a Dream
Seeds
Johnny 99
Youngstown
Good Lovin’
Hungry Heart
Growin’ Up
Thunder Road
Queen of the Supermarket
Waitin’ on a Sunny Day
The Promised Land
Lost in the Flood
Radio Nowhere
Lonesome Day
The Rising
Born to Run
* * *
Hard Times
Tenth Avenue Freeze-out
Land of Hope and Dreams
American Land
Glory Days
Detroit Medley/Land of 1000 Dances
Dancing in the Dark

I bonus del terzo cd:

Mountain of Love     – August 19 / Comcast Theatre / Hartford, CT
Sh La La             – August 19 / Comcast Theatre / Hartford, CT
All or Nothing At all- September 12 / Ford Amphitheatre / Tampa, FL
Jole Blon            – September 12 / Ford Amphitheatre / Tampa, FL
So Young and in Love – November 3 / Time Warner Arena / Charlotte, NC
Then She Kissed Me   – September 13 / Bank Atlantic Center / Ft. Lauderdale, FL

Venerdi prossimo il bootleg della terza serata.

BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN’S LONGEST SEASON by Robert Duncan

Articolo del 1977 quello di questa settimana. Ho ancora diversi articoli ma più lunghi ancora; pensavo quindi di pubblicarli a puntate, che ne dite?

Buona lettura.

BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN’S LONGEST SEASON
BY ROBERT DUNCAN
The big news the week of October 20, 1975 was a rock star and a kid who ran into
President Ford’s limo in Hartford.
Quick. What were their names? “Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes,” Andy
Warhol once said. I don’t think James Falamites would argue with that.
Through a misjudgment on the part of Hartford police and the Secret Service,
Falamites was cleared to pass through a Hartford intersection and when he struck the
President’s passing limo, he gained his 15 minutes of fame. Newspapers, magazines
and news shows across the country ran this teenager’s story and later in the month,
he was introduced on Howard Cosell’s ill-fated Saturday Night Live show (not to be
confused with NBC’s Saturday Night).
I don’t think the rock star would argue, either. The week of October 20, 1975 he was
out on a moderately successful tour of the Midwest when, in a quirk almost
unprecedented in periodical publishing, he appeared as the cover subject on the
nation’s two biggest weekly news magazines, Time and Newsweek, simultaneously. It
was a similar misjudgment to that of the Hartford police and the Secret Service. The
news weeklies were tossing around words like “superstar” and “hit single” and
“regeneration of rock” in relation to this virtual unknown. Naturally, the rock press
had preceded them with even more lavish praise. When the ink settled, however, it
may have also been just Bruce Springsteen’s 15 minutes.
In the 18 months since the press’ premature ejaculation, Springsteen’s career has
followed a strangely familiar script. Actually, there are two or three plots progressing
here.
Most visible of the plots, and maybe most familiar to the show biz fans, has been his
legal battle with what some may term his “rapacious” manager. The gist of it is, or so
the reports go: he is not making very much money (relatively speaking) and his
manager is. While at the same time, his manager is trying to tell him exactly what to
do—up to forbidding him to ener a studio with friend/producer Jon Landau to
record. Of course, this means that the follow-up to the muchvaunted Born To Run is
way overdue, and Columbia Records (who is also involved in litigation) is extremely
anxious. Worse, the public presumably is forgetting— cover stories of a year and a
half ago or no, just like they did with what’s-his-name who smashed up Ford’s limo.
The second of the plots here is that Springsteen is, even at this moment, out touring
the country—specifically, the Midwest again—just as he has been on and off since all
the hoopla hit the fan. In other words, he is leading the typical life of any upper
mediumly successful rock ‘n’ roller.
But the punchline, what all rock soap opera fans are dying to know is: WHAT WILL
HAPPEN TO BRUCE Springsteen? Is a quarter of an hour in the spotlight long
enough—or perhaps too long—for the kid from Asbury Park?
I can only argue as an unrepentant fan of Springsteen and tell what I’ve seen and
heard over the past 18 months.
To backtrack: I interviewed Springsteen in Detroit where I was working for CREEM
back in October of ’75. The Time/ Newsweek covers had yet happened. I had seen
him only the week before in Ann Arbor and thought, while he talked too much
onstage, shuffled about a lot like some sort of Jersey citybilly, the show was
ultimately too slick. I’d expected true grit from the hype, and had never stopped to
think that Born To Run was about as far from true grit as a symphony orchestra. I
also never thought about the fact that the last thing an honest-togoodness true grit
person wanted to appear as onstage was an honest-togoodness true grit person. When
you come from a background as mundane as Springsteen does, you don’t celebrate
it—you celebrate release from it. You go for the larger than life. He wasn’t going to be
the bus driver’s son, he would be James Dean or Marlon Brando. While Springsteen
often wore a T-shirt and leather jacket, they were Brando’s and Dean’s wardrobe,
strictly a Hollywood version of true grit.
Something like that.
Anyway, the point is, I went to see Springsteen a week later in Detroit proper to give
him a second chance. He had shaken the cold by then that made him sniff like a
junkie throughout his set in Ann Arbor, and he and his powerhouse band gave a great
rock ‘n’ roll show. Afterwards, I was supposed to meet him, and over the
protestations of an overprotective publicist (you know who you are), Springsteen
invited me along to dinner with him and Miami Steve and one or two other of the
band members. We seemed to be getting along great: loosened up (I’d like to think)
by two beers (Remember? He doesn’t drink or take drugs, Time told us), Springsteen
spun some terrific stories about the agony of recording Born To Run, real tearjerkers
about not being able to finish the damn thing and every night going back to his
girlfriend at the hotel and almost crying. Great stuff.
I fell in love.
When Springsteen jumps on the roof of his publicist’s car, I later report in my article
about the romance (“Bruce Springsteen Is Not God And Doesn’t Want to Be,” CREEM,
January ’76—get it now!), I laugh. It’s the kind of wanton nonsense I expect from
Rock ‘n’ Roll Kings. And furthermore, I climbed aboard the Springsteen publicity
bandwagon. (Next stop: backlash.) About the same time as the interview, Bom To Run
made it to number one on the charts, even—despite what Time and Newsweek might
have you believe about the title cut—without a hit single. Which is a big step towards
fulfilling all the media’s proclamations of “superstar” (Newsweek). Though, as it has
become readily apparent to me from talking to him, Springsteen could care less. He’d
like to make money, sure, and be comfortable, but this hype and this superstar
nonsense is too much. (In the spring of last year, before his first performance in
London, he is caught tearing down some “Future of Rock ‘n’ Roll” posters in the lobby
of the hall.)
But my conversion is further confirmed when, a month and a half after our talk in
Detroit, I’m walking down New York’s fabled Eighth Street one evening and I’m
accosted—in a friendly sort of way—by this collegiate-looking beard in a pinstriped
shirt and pea coat who initially I take to be some long-forgotten asshole from high
school. Only when I catch the glint of a little gold post in his ear do I put together the
sinuous sleaze and the face.
“Springsteen!” I shout, in surprise and embarrassment. And he keeps going on,
friendly as ever, shuffling back and forth in the cold, one hand in his pocket, the
other arm around Karen Darvin, his slender, shy, redheaded girlfriend. I presumed
that he was pleased with me for one reason.
“So you read the article?” I say.
“No,” he responded quizzically. “What? Where?” I tell him and we depart. He heads
for the nearby newsstand. Did I say humble? Friendly? No pretentions whatsoever? I
mean, this guy has been on the covers of Time and Newsweek.
My love grows.
Back in Detroit, three or four months later, I’m elated to find that Springsteen will be
playing Lansing, about an hour and a half away. But, as it turns out, I’m unable to go
to the concert because I have to work that night. I send along a note with friends that
reads: “Go back to Jersey.” The next day the phone message on my desk reads “B.S.
called, wouldn’t leave his name,” and included a Cleveland phone number. I called. I
didn’t recognize the voice that answered, maybe because I don’t believe that you call
phone numbers and get rock stars instead of an endless stream of rock Nubians.
Indeed, the “regeneration of rock” himself has answered his phone, and is trying to
convince me to catch the show there the next night.
The next day Springsteen and I and Peter Laughner are cruising Cleveland in
Laughner’s marginal automobile (B.S. has foregone the CBS rental car), with the
oldies station on per Springsteen’s request. In the meantime, Bruce elaborates on that
great and largely unexamined group of musicians in rock ‘n’ roll known as Frat Bands,
who include, among others, Hot Nuts and the Kingsmen (“Louie, Louie”), with special
notice to the Swinging Medallions. Man, that was a band! (They did “Double Shot of
My Baby’s Love.”)
The concert, as expected, creased the roof—I mean, what do you expect from a
Swinging Medallions fan—and Springsteen
added a new unfinished ballad called “Frankie.” There’s a brief postconcert
party—brief, because these guys do it all onstage—then Bruce Springsteen and the E
Street Band are off in their bus, about which—well, the bus is one notch above the
worst leaky Trailways you’ve ever been on, not something your average “Superstar”
travels in (Johnny Rodriguez moves around in a fivebedroom, TV, stereo, bar, motelonwheels),
more along the lines of a bus the Swinging Medallions might have used.
In Wallingford, Connecticut, one of those adorable New England towns outside of New
Haven, they have an institution called the Choate School. It’s a fine prep school that
boasts among its alumni John Kennedy and Robert Frost, but basically, like all prep
schools, it’s a 24-hour live-in day care center for the teenage children of the wealthy.
It’s May now, and I have just moved to New York from Detroit, when the phone rings
one Friday, and a publicist friend at Columbia asks if I want to see Springsteen in
Connecticut.
“Where?” I inquired.
“Choate,” comes the unusual answer. Which takes me somewhat aback. The adorably
quaint New Englandy Choate is just not my idea of a booking for Asbury Park’s first
cover boy. As it turns out, there are extraordinary motives at work.
John Hammond has asked Bruce to do the show.
John Hammond is retiring from Columbia after some 30 years as an A8R man (aka
talent scout). John Hammond is the man who got recording contracts for Billie
Holliday, Benny Goodman, Aretha Franklin, and Bob Dylan. In other words, this paper
is too light to hold the reputation of Hammond and the respect accorded him in the
music business. To top it off, John Hammond is an incredibly amiable polite person.
And to top all that off, John also signed Bruce Springsteen to Columbia. (He told
Newsweek for the cover story: “The kid absolutely knocked me out. I only hear
somebody good every 10 years, and not only is Bruce the best, he was a lot better
than Dylan when I first heard him.”) In other words, were Bruce Springsteen the
coldest-hearted bastard on the face of the earth, if John Hammond asked him for a
favor for his (Hammond’s) old school, he would do it, no questions asked.
In the past 18 months I’ve seen Springsteen perform about 18 times, in all imaginable
circumstances. I’ve seen him perform in New York, Detroit and Cleveland in halls for
the money. I saw him do a few numbers at the Crawdaddy 1 0th anniversary party,
and absolutely rivet the crowd. But I have never seen him, before or since, play like
he did at Choate. And it certainly wasn’t the audience—they loved him but expressed
their love primarily by sitting in their seats, clapping their hands and wiping ketchup
off their ties. Granted the Asbury gig with Southside was for love and fun, but it was
Johnny’s show, so Bruce laid off. When, after two and a half hours a totally
exhausted, sweat-drenched Springsteen crashed into “Rosalita,” it was clear that he
wasn’t getting paid. “This one’s for John Hammond,” he said. That’s all. The fact that
this may have been one of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll shows of all time ever is the
purest tribute one could pay to Springsteen. He did it for love.
STOP.
The attitude was I can do rock ‘n’ roll like a motherfucker and this is how I do it.
Thank-you-John Hammond-for-know ing-that. He never let up. At the end, if you
knew him, you’d realize that here was a man capable of a chilling generosity to an
audience and an art form. The man is fucking rock ‘n’ roll.
Which is why he’s not the rock ‘n’ roll savior. Because more than anything these days,
rock ‘n’ roll is run like a sausage factory. Give us the three-minute sausage and smile,
you bastards. While no one mourns the stinking hippies, and their 45-minute jumbled
jams or the psychedelic posters, the three-minute sausage is not what it’s about,
either. It’s about diabolical abandonment and humor. It’s about wanting to rip your
shoes in half, it’s so good. Listen to “Born To Run.” It’s about that. It’s about crazy.
It’s about not writing stories about guys like Bruce Springsteen. Which is why the
motherfucker took me so long.
I’ll tell you what I think about Bruce. He’s a road musician now, like he should be.
Like he essentially wants to be. He’s a working stiff in rock ‘n’ roll. Nothing
highfalutin. No analysis. No cover stories. No tell-me-what-you-meant.
I’ll tell you what will happen to him. No matter the outcome of all this bullshit
litigation, he will continue on the road. He will continue to write songs and he will be
pretty fucking healthy and happy— because he doesn’t take drugs or crap, he takes
rock ‘n’ roll. And someday all the legal crap will be over (if it isn’t by the time you
read this). And someday he’ll make the best rock ‘n’ roll album of all time. It may not
be the next one or the one after, but someday. He can wait. I can wait. We have no
choice. This man is the first rock ‘n’ roll musician I’ve ever met or read about or
heard about or anything that could be a rock ‘n’ roll musician the rest of his life and
still come up with something great when he’s 70. This guy is a student (OK, I know),
but most of all he’s a lover. With a giant rock ‘n’ roll dick.—

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IL BOSS E L’ ITALIANA – 7^ PARTE

Qualche commento? Idee su come finirà il racconto di Sharonlacorta?

Capitolo III

Nora fece il numero. Dall’altra parte udì il segnale della linea libera. Dopo un secondo una voce femminile, senza salutarla, le disse:
“No, dico, cosa stavi aspettando?!”
“Ciao tesoro”
“Tesoro?! Tesoro una pippa! Allora? Racconta com’è stato!!!”
“Beh Giulia… Giulia… Giulia. E’ andata oltre qualsiasi più rosea aspettativa…”
“Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Lo sapevo, mannaggia!!”
“L’ho incontrato”
“COOSAA??”
“Al party post concerto. L’ho incontrato”
“Ohsssignoresvegliamichestosognandooooo!!!!!!! Com’è? Com’è????”
“L’ho incontrato. L’ho portato a cena. L’ho riaccompagnato in albergo”
“Tu hai fatto… COSA? Aspetta, cosa stai per dirmi, Festi?”
“Giulia, ho peccato”
“Non ci credo”
“Sì. Ho peccato ed è stato il peccato carnale più appassionante della mia vita”
“Sei pentita? Se sì, è giusto così. Se no, pentiti ma solo dopo avermi raccontato TUTTO…”
“Dell’atto in se stesso? Neanche per sogno. Delle implicazioni future? Sono terrorizzata”
“IMPLICAZIONI FUTURE?? Quando cazzo torni a Milano??? Tu ed io dobbiamo fare un discorsetto!”
“E’ ripartito, ma vuole che ci rincontriamo. Vuole organizzare la… gestione dei miei bimbi: io con loro nove mesi qui e gli altri negli States, con lui”
“Festi, svegliati. E smetti per un secondo di ragionare con la gnocca e usa la testa. Te l’ha messo per iscritto che ti richiamerà? Che ti verrà a trovare? Che ti pagherà un biglietto per andarlo a trovare? Non credo proprio. Quindi torna sulla terra, vai dal prete, confessati e torna dalla tua famiglia”
“Ho parlato con Alessandro ieri. Inizia a fare le valigie nel fine settimana: torna dai suoi”
“No, no, no… Dico ma non vi sembra affrettato?? Ma gli hai parlato di Bruce?”
“Non esattamente. Gli ho detto che… ho avuto un’avventura e che secondo me è il segnale e la conferma che le cose tra noi non vanno”
“Madonnina. Però Nora… sei fuori di testa. Se non fosse stato per Bruce, avresti continuato ‘seduta’ sulla tua condizione di moglie infelice e madre strinata. Sono un po’ delusa, se devo essere sincera”
“Immaginavo che lo saresti stata. Ma io ti rispetto. Sei la mia amica, la mia migliore amica e a te non ho mai nascosto nulla. Non avrei mai potuto, non potrei. Mi sento… una schifezza”
“Emmenomale” Giulia fece un lungo sospiro.
“Racconta. Com’è stato?”
“E’ un uomo fantastico. Il modo in cui parla, si muove, ti guarda, ti tocca…”
“Alt! Vedi di non entrare in quei particolari che io m’imbarazzo”
“No, no… – sorrise Nora – non lo farei. Però… sul generico ci sto: fa l’amore in un modo… fantastico”
“L’hai già detto”
“Non è vero”
“Che è fantastico l’hai già detto”
“Noiosa…”
“Continua…”
“La voce, Giulia… la voce, anche quando parla… normalmente o a letto… è fantastica”
“Dagli! Rinnova gli aggettivi, altrimenti ti metto giù il telefono”
“Vuoi un difetto?”
“Scommetto che ha le doppie punte…”
“Ha le mani piccole…”
“Per suonar la chitarra vanno benissimo”
“Oh!! Anche per molte altre cose…”
“Smettila!! Se continui così sarà costretta a venirti a trovare..”
“Mi pare un’ottima idea”
“Quando vengo?”

Erano le quattro del pomeriggio e il cielo volgeva già al blu scuro. Per il giorno successivo era prevista un’altra forte nevicata, ma in quel momento l’aria era limpida e freddissima e presto la volta nera sarebbe stata piena di stelle.
Sull’erta salita che portava a casa di Nora c’erano grandi mucchi di neve, ai lati della strada. Lei era sul portico, la figura scura che si stagliava contro le finestre illuminate del soggiorno, le braccia conserte, stretta nel suo corpo avvolto da un mega maglione dal filato grosso. Sbuffava vapore e, non vedendo nessuno, iniziò a incamminarsi giù dalla discesa. In quel momento intravvide il SUV nero fare capolino da dietro la curva. Segnalò di lasciare l’auto nello spiazzo lì vicino. Il passeggero sul sedile anteriore aprì la portiera e Nora vide che era lui. Si fermò un attimo a parlare con l’autista – lo stesso dell’altra volta – poi scese. Dietro di lui, in uscita dalla parte del sedile posteriore, un altro passeggero, magro e alto.
Bruce s’incamminò per la salita, quella sua andatura leggermente caracollante. Era avvolto in un giaccone pesante, ma sotto la divisa era la solita: jeans e stivali. L’altra persona gli si accostò: Nora ebbe l’impressione che fosse piuttosto giovane.
Chinook, il suo cane, arrivò di corsa, dopo aver attraversato tutto il giardino ed iniziò a saltarle intorno. Nora lo invitò a star buono e lo portò verso il portico.
Bruce si fermò, a pochi centimetri da lei. Nora, leggermente intirizzita e spettinata, lo guardava con un sorriso tenero. La abbracciò stretta e stettero così, per qualche minuto.
Bruce, con gli occhi chiusi, le mormorò:
“Quanto mi sei mancata…”
Poi si staccò da lei, e con un gesto di accoglienza fece avvicinare l’altra persona.
“Mi sono permesso di portare mio figlio Evan con me, Evan questa è Nora”
Il ragazzo strinse la mano della donna, un sorriso rigido gli ruppe il viso.
“Venite dentro, ho preparato tè e cioccolata. Ha fatto molto freddo oggi ma stanotte e domani nevicherà quindi… andrà meglio”
Nora li condusse dentro casa. Chinook intuì chi, oltre a Nora, poteva dargli retta e iniziò ad annusare Evan, scodinzolando. Evan, lievemente timoroso, gli accarezzò la testona bianca.
“E’ bellissimo… “
“Ti ringrazio… Chinook è un cane estremamente espansivo… ma è buono. Ci tengo sempre a dirlo, perché grande com’è incute sempre un certo timore”
“Come hai detto che si chiama?” chiese il ragazzo.
“Chinook”
“E’ il nome di un popolo di Nativi Americani…” fece Bruce.
“Di stanza nella zona di Seattle. Chinook è un cane abituato al freddo, è un Siberian Husky. Per questo gli ho dato il nome di un popolo che viveva al nord”

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