The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Tramps like us, baby, we were born to meet Springsteen
So I’m talking with Bruce Springsteen Friday morning and …
Wait, let’s stop right there. That sentence was four decades in the making. For me, the idea of talking to Bruce Springsteen is crazy high-end bucket list stuff.
But there I was, sharing a moment of his undivided attention. It only lasted 10 seconds, as I took my turn stepping up to him at an event where you receive a signed book of his in Kennesaw. But those 10 seconds will last the rest of my life.
Much as I dreamed about meeting him, I fretted over it.
What am I going to say? What am I going to do? What am I going to wear, I asked my editor at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Shannon McCaffrey.
“You’re like a girl going to the prom,” she shot back.
I have a terrible record of screwing up when meeting celebrities. I say something out of bounds. Or I somehow insult them. Or they look at me like I’m an insect that has begun speaking.
When I met Springsteen’s former saxophonist Clarence Clemens years ago, I ticked him off. A friend of mine and I had heard Springsteen was staying at the Four Seasons Hotel in Atlanta, and we staked out the bar there. Yes, we stalked Springsteen.
He didn’t show but we did say hello to Clarence. That was fine, till I went back 20 minutes later and interrupted him cooing with a woman to ask for an autograph.
“Now you’re pushing it,” he told me. He has since passed away. When I met Billy Joel, I think I frightened him. I had breathlessly elbowed my way through a crowd and rushed up to greet him. He looked at my onrushing self as if I were an assassin.
After I bought my ticket to Springsteen’s book event at 2nd & Charles, I had two weeks to prepare. I figured I had to take a two-pronged approach: Gush a little praise and ask him something to get him talking.
Given my track record, I made a list of things I shouldn’t say to Bruce.
No. 1: Bruce, do you want to hear my impression of you?
At the bookstore
By the time I arrived at the bookstore Friday morning, the line was already snaking around the building and into the parking lot. They had sold 1,200 tickets. These were Springsteen people, my tribe, wearing their old concert T-shirts and buttons and talking about their first shows and favorite songs.
Wendy McClanahan, in a wheelchair, had come from Tampa. She was so excited she stammered as she spoke about meeting the man she first saw at the Bottom
Line in the ’70s, when, as she said, “I fell in love with his behind, his tushy.”
Not far away stood Gerard “40 years and 40 shows” Capane, a 59-year-old maintenance man from Lilburn. His house is a museum of Springsteen posters and memorabilia, including the ticket from his first Bruce show in Pennsylvania in 1977. He showed me pictures.
“I’m a tramp,” he said after coming inside after waiting in the cold, his ears bright red. He was referring, of course, to the Springsteen line “Tramps like us, baby we were born to run.”
As for me, two weeks of obsessing had left me with a tasteful-yet-relaxed wardrobe choice and pat speech designed to spur an amazing bromance that would lead Bruce to invite me for coffee, followed by years of playing acoustic guitars together and eventually him recording my songs and meeting my mother.
Believe me, I was not alone with such dreams. There was the guy using his smartphone camera to check his hair before he approached The Boss. And another guy who crafted an entire letter he wanted to read to Bruce. Devout fans. Let me say this, Springsteen didn’t have to do these meet-and-greet book events around the country. His autobiography is on the bestseller list, and he’s already about as rich as they come. I think he did this for the fans. He’s always had an incredible relationship with his audience. Now he is allowing thousands of regular Joes and Janes to actually meet him and get an autograph, something most never expected.
I shook his hand
I myself came prepared. The day took on mythic proportions. I drove carefully to the store, not wanting to crash and die before meeting him. I clipped my fingernails to make sure my handshake would be just right. I rehearsed my little speech to my wife Linda, who loved the line where I say that Bruce’s songs were like a GPS for my life, giving me direction.
Then, after waiting a bit, I walked up, smiled and shook his hand.
“I’m writing a story about meeting you for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution,” I stammered out.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said in that rough-hewn Jersey voice. The best description I’ve heard of Bruce’s voice was that, when he sings, it sounds like a big wounded bear. Then came the big finish. I said, “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
He responded with something I’ll carry forever. “God bless,” he said. That’s right, he blessed me.
He blessed me.