Spring In My Step

September 2, 1981.

The first major mistake of my life.

Not the only mistake.

Not by far.

Just the first.

That was the night I turned down a chance to see Bruce Springsteen in concert at the San Diego Sports Arena.

I was 14 years old.

And I had never seen a Bruce show before.

He was on the last leg of the tour that was promoting The River 8-track tape.

I was at a friend’s house that afternoon, about ten minutes from the arena.

Unfortunately the rest of the details are a little fuzzy.

But the bottom line is part of our group went to the concert.

And the rest of us stayed at home.

I’m sure we did something really fun.

Like watch Laverne & Shirley.

Or play Pong.

But what I didn’t do is see Bruce.

Or the E Street Band.

It took me three years, one month and 29 days to realize what a giant mistake that was.

But thankfully on the night of October 31, 1984, I lost my Springsteen virginity.

That night my friend Phil and I had front row seats in the loge section at the L.A. Sports Arena.

And for four plus hours we were hypnotized.

I don’t know if that specific concert is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

But to Phil and I, it is THE best concert of all-time.

According to the trusty internet, the show started with High School Confidential, a cover of the Jerry Lee Lewis song.

And it ended several hours later with a cover of Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

Somewhere in the middle Bruce actually played some of his own songs.

Now by 1984 I had already been to a bunch of concerts.

Everything from Stevie Wonder to Poco.

Heart to Styx.

But it wasn’t until that night that I found out I had never seen a show before.

By that point I was familiar with some of Bruce’s music.

But after that show I became a SUPER fan.

28 years later I own pretty much everything he has done.

And pathetically I know most of the words to most of the songs.

I can’t count on both hands the number of Bruce concerts I have since attended.

I would guess it is somewhere in the high teens.

And I don’t plan on stopping there.

My most recent trip into the swamps of Jersey took place last Sunday.

In New Orleans.

For only the second time ever the 62-year-old Bruce was performing at the 43-year-old New Orleans Jazz Festival.

The first time was in 2006.

That year Bruce put on a heart-wrenching post-Katrina performance that they are still talking about today.

Now Bruce wasn’t the only reason I decided to go to the Big Easy last weekend.

But it sure was some nice icing on the cake.

At Jazz Fest, they have like ten stages.

Playing music all day, from 11a-7p.

My friend Mark and I dabbled in the little stages, but by Sunday afternoon at 4:30 there was only one place to be.

50,000 others had the same idea.

The main stage venue was absolutely packed.

90% Bruce fans.

10% others, who didn’t have the strength to leave the fairgrounds after a day of drinking in the hot sun.

But when Bruce took the stage, everybody was paying attention.

Even people that weren’t there.

And to help those who couldn’t make it, I decided to push my limits of technology.

Tweeting out the list of songs.

Live.

As they happened.

Two nights earlier I learned of this new phenomenon, as I monitored the show from Los Angeles.

Courtesy of @Variety_StuartL.

Like any good promoter, I notified the twitter world that afternoon that I would be doing this.

And within minutes I had a whole bunch of new followers.

I mean friends.

Like @girltrueheart.

And @nancpl.

And @stephensurefire.

And at least a dozen more.

Not Ashton Kutcher territory, but not bad for a mom-and-pop blogger with a funny moniker.

My friend Mark didn’t share in my enthusiasm.

Harassing me every time I tweeted during the concert.

Saying I should be focused on the show, instead of these people I didn’t even know.

But to me, it was just a way of paying it forward.

From the first note of Badlands at 4:42pm.

To the last note of Tenth Avenue Freeze Out.

Two hours and 32 minutes later.

I tweeted.

31 times.  Posting 605 words.

And loving every second of it.

By the end of the show, my iPhone was out of battery.

And so was I.

Just like every Bruce show I had ever attended.

Geaux Big or Geaux Home

The Bucket List.

Not just a movie I never saw.

But a lifestyle.

According to urbandictionary.com, a bucket list is:

A list of things to do before you die.  Comes from the term "kicked the bucket".

I’ve never spent the time to create such a list, but there are definitely a few things that I’ve always wanted to do.

Like go to New Orleans.

A place that features two of my favorite things.

Music and food.

Not necessarily in that order.

Well this weekend, I’m going to get that chance.

You see I got a call about a month ago from a friend.

A friend who has mastered the art of living his life.

In Los Angeles.

And New York.

France.

Prague and Iceland.

And this weekend in New Orleans.

Instead of saying “someday.”

He says today.

In full disclosure, he is single.

And without kids.

So if he wants to go somewhere, he goes.

Without hesitation.

To a married guy, like me, that grass sometimes looks greener.

And for a single guy, like him, I’m sure he’d give it all up in a second.

But for this weekend we will both be living on the same street.

Bourbon Street.

I got the free pass to go.

Not a “hall pass”.

Just a free pass.

And thanks to a bunch of leftover airline miles, I got a free plane ticket too.

As someone who is on the lip of turning the big 4-5, this was one opportunity I just couldn’t let pass.

Not to mention we are going to be in the bayou for the annual New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival.

Or I should say, THE New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival.

A festival that’s been running since 1970.

Now that first year it was more of a get together than a festival.

With an estimated 350 ticket-buyers.

Let’s just say it has grown from there.

In fact, in 2001, the total attendance for the two-week event was more than 650,000 people.

Including 160 grand in just one day.

The festival is held at the New Orleans Fairground Race Course.

With ten different stages.

All going at the same time.

Acts performing from 11 in the AM.

To seven in the PM.

Something like 70 bands a day.

For seven days.

That’s like 9,000 bands.

And sure, most of them you’ve never heard of.

Me neither.

But isn’t that half the fun?

The main stage is where they put all of the acts that don’t quite full under the category of “jazz”.

Let’s call them the ringers.

Like this Friday night, the headlining group will be The Beach Boys.

I’m not sure I’d call Help Me Rhonda a jazz song.

But work with me.

Saturday night is Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

And Sunday the weekend will close with The Boss.

Bruce Springsteen.

And the E Street Band.

This will be Bruce’s second appearance at this festival.

The first time was 2006.

A year after Katrina.

Keith Spera, a newspaper columnist who covers music for a city that breathes music, called that performance:

“The best, and certainly most emotional, musical experience of my life.”

That’s why they call him The Boss.

Every stage has a different name.

The Blues Tent.

The Jazz & Heritage Stage.

The Gospel Tent.

The Congo Square Stage.

The Sheraton New Orleans Fais Do-Do Stage.

Yes, corporate sponsorship.

Hey, momma’s gotta eat.

And eating is a big part of this shindig too.

Or so I am told.

We’ve all been to these giant food festivals where you wait in line... forever.

And you end up spending way too much on way too little.

Rumor has it this festival is different.

I’m sure it won’t be cheap.

But according to my sources, the food is amazing.

And really bad for you too.

Fried this.

And fried that.

Spicy here.

Spicy there.

Everything I love.

I’ve always said I would try anything once.

Well, this is my chance.

Apparently one of the Louisiana delicacies is a crawfish.

More crustacean than fish.

But this little baby lobster lookin’ fella is a must get on this trip.

I’ve been told you gotta suck the head out of the crawfish to enjoy the abdominal fat juices.

There’s gotta be a better way to say that.

But 650,000 people can’t be wrong.

Right?

Thanks to the good folks at Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, we’ve got plenty of food to try away from the festival too.

Like Katie’s.

A place that shutdown in 2005.

Literally.

Seven feet of hurricane water washed through this restaurant, closing it down for nearly five years.

But in March of 2010, Katie’s re-opened.

And today they’re doing better than ever.

Why not, have you seen “The Barge”?

An entire french loaf, stuffed with shrimp, catfish and oysters.

All fried.

Duh!

It’s like a Po Boy on deep fried steroids.

The menu says it serves 2-4.

We’ll see about that.

If that doesn’t work, there’s always  Katie's “Boudreaux”.

That’s a pizza.

Topped with Cochon de Lait (smoked cajun pork), roasted garlic, spinach, onions and garlic butter cream reduction.

Sounds healthy.

Sounds amazing.

I better leave my skinny jeans at home.


In my bucket.

Big Man, Big Loss

October 31, 1984.

The greatest night of my life.

I was 17.

And for four hours that night, I was in heaven.

I didn’t know it when I got there.

I didn’t know much when I got there.

But when I left.

My life was changed.

Forever.

I had become a man.

Thanks to Bruce Springsteen.

And the E Street Band.

At the LA Sports Arena.

It was my first Bruce show.

I had a chance to see Bruce in concert in 1981.

When I was 14.

But I passed.

Young and stupid.

I really didn’t know much about Bruce in 1981.

In fact, I didn’t know much about him until 1983.

That’s the year I walked into my 11th Grade English Class.

And on the first day, we learned about poetry.

My teacher handed us two pieces of paper.

On one sheet was a poem titled “Jungleland.”

On the other was a poem titled “Born to Run.”

I was well aware of Born to Run before he handed me the paper.

But I didn’t know the words.

Sure I would sing the song.

When I heard it on the radio.

But other than the first line or two.

The rest was mumbles.

I had no idea what the song said.

And I certainly had no idea what it meant.

To so many people.

After we were done reading the words on the paper.

My teacher brought out his cassette player.

And played us the poem in its natural form.

A song.

I had heard Born to Run before.

Many times before.

But never had I actually HEARD the song before.

The words.

The meaning.

It was incredible.

Jungleland was a different story for me.

I knew nothing about it.

I don’t think I had ever listened to a nine minute song before.

In its entirety.

But that day we did.

All nine minutes.

And 38 seconds.

From the opening keystrokes on the piano.

This was like no song I had ever heard.

It took me to a place I had never been.

And I didn’t want to leave.

The passion with which Bruce sang was unmatched by any artist I listened to at the time.

Or since.

And the music surrounding the lyrics was the definition of perfection.

About four minutes in, we heard something you don’t hear in a rock n’ roll song.

A sax solo.

Not just any sax solo.

This was the “Big Man.”

Clarence Clemons.

At the time that didn’t mean much to me.

I had no idea who Clarence was.

I had barely heard of the E Street Band.

But I realized quickly this was no ordinary band.

And Clemons was no ordinary sax player.

But listening to the music was one thing.

Seeing it in person was something else.

I have been blessed to see a lot of concerts.

Literally hundreds of them.

Many great ones.

Many not-so great.

But there is no concert like a Bruce Springsteen concert.

I knew that the first time I saw him.

October 31, 1984.

Back then he was playing four hours.

Every night.

But Bruce is 61 now.

And he is clearly slowing down.

His show I saw last year was “only” three hours.

But every night he gives you everything he’s got.

And so does his band.

A band that has pianos and guitars.

Keyboards and drums.

And the signature sax.

The sax of the big man.

6-foot-4 big.

250 pounds big.

The chemistry between Bruce and his band is special.

The chemistry between Bruce and Clarence.

Is perfect.

Was perfect.

Clarence died yesterday.

After a massive stroke.

For millions of Bruce fans around the world.

This is the day that the music died.

Bruce and Clarence were friends.

They were colleagues.

They were band mates.

They were what made me love music.

And poetry too.