Those who know Bruce Springsteen as a sententious septuagenarian who vacations with Masters of the Universe and shills for corporate-progressives who deplore the people who populate his canonical songs cannot understand what he meant, once upon a time, to dreamy boys from small towns and outer boroughs.
We may not have courted “Puerto Rican Janes” or known the difference between “a Hurst on the floor” and Thurston Moore, but Springsteen wove the seemingly quotidian lives of his friends and family into parables and ring-of-truth vignettes. Like the Beach Boys, Bruce made myth of the sand (or asphalt) under his feet. And contra his detractors, I don’t think it was all a con.
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