A live full-band version exists, too, and it is just as good.

Actually, I never really possessed this record until I was much older.  It was always at my grandparents’ house, where I could listen to it on visits.  And since I visited so often, and since I loved Sesame Street so much, I have heard this album more times than I could ever count.  Of course, I got older, and though I never forgot that this record existed, I only thought of it occasionally.  Then, a couple years ago, my grandmother gave it to me as a Christmas present.

As you can see from the cover, the Sesame Street Book and Record “contains [a] 24 page illustrated book”, and a “full color poster [is] included”.  Most of that stuff is long gone from my copy.  I have three or four pages from the book inside the gatefold jacket, and the vinyl album itself isn’t even in a sleeve.  Naturally, the disc is in fairly bad shape, with plenty of pops, and a couple skips on side two.

But, aside from the magical nostalgic quality, what I can appreciate about this record even as an adult are the songs.  They’re clever, sweet, and performed in a surprisingly unadorned style when compared to what is popular today.  The little kids sound like little kids, and not children mimicking Aretha Franklin.  Susan’s a little bit soulful on “I’ve Got Two” and “Nearly Missed”, and the backing band gets pretty funky in “Up and Down”, but you never forget that it’s a record for children.  “What Are Kids Called”, “Somebody Come and Play”, and “J-Jump” are especially sweet.  “Number 5″, “I Love Trash”, and “Rubber Duckie” are lots of fun, and “Green” is a quality song.  I seem to recall “People in Your Neighborhood” being a favorite.

I don’t know if I would have admitted it at the time, but the Sesame Street Book and Record was my favorite album until I was a teenager.

So, as I sat with my father on a blanket under the open sky last Saturday night, watching Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band play “Racing in the Street”, I felt like things couldn’t get better.

Sure, it looked like the sky might open up any time and unleash a raging storm.   But aside from a few sprinkles here and there, the weather held out.  And, sure, I was a little worried about how bad our view would be way back on the lawn, but that actually turned out great, too.  And, if $56 per ticket seems expensive, we did get three solid hours–twenty-seven songs–of rock.

Miriam and I met my dad at my Uncle Tom’s apartment in Tampa.  It could not have been more conveniently located.  We ate an early dinner at Longhorn Steakhouse, which was enjoyable and new to me.  We made it to the Florida State Fairgrounds before six o’clock, but they didn’t open the gate for a little while after that.  We weren’t too far back in the line at the gate, but there were still enough people that I was slightly nervous about getting a decent spot on the lawn.  Plus, while were were standing there, the sky, which had spent the earlier part of the day raining, then the afternoon threatening more, began doing just that.  It didn’t last, though, and by the time we reached the grass we were hopeful.  Though there was a mad dash for the closest seats on the lawn, we managed to find a great spot.

As I expected, “Badlands” opened the show, but for the next two songs I was nervous.  Springsteen’s voice was shot.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t sing in tune; he couldn’t sing.  I honestly expected him to call the show off.  But he drank some sort of hot beverage, saying, “I’ll be better in a few songs”. Sure enough, he was.  By the time he got to “Seeds” his voice was strong.  In the request portion of the show, which has become a fixture of the last couple tours, Bruce grabbed just about every sign from the pit.  I saw some fools asking for “Ramrod” and “I’m a Rocker”.  Fools.  I did see someone after my own heart requesting “Drive All Night”, though, of course, we didn’t get it.  What we did get was “Growing Up”, requested by a child in the front row, “All or Nothing at All” which has only been played six times ever, and “Jole Blon” which hasn’t been played since 1981.  So, we did okay, especially considering that a few nights later he played “Ramrod”.

I was hoping to hear some classic songs I had not yet heard live, and I got them, including, in the encore, “Rosalita”.  After “American Land”, I figured the show was over.  But the crowd was so frantic that he busted out “Bobby Jean” and “Dancing in the Dark”, then, finally, “Hungry Heart”.  The place was out of control, and I didn’t think he would try and top it, so we grabbed our blanket and were making our way out when the noise got even louder.  Something was happening on stage that we couldn’t see.  Then we heard Bruce grab the mic and say, “I guess we forgot one”, before the opening strains of “Thunder Road”.  It was incredible.

Still, in a show which included so many highlights (including an enthusiastic version of–of all things–Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times Come Again No More”, which, as you know, is my personal anthem), perhaps the best single performance of the night was an astonishing version of “Johnny 99″.  It turned into a rollicking railroad reel with dueling guitar solos and showboating.  It was thrilling.

Nevertheless, ages and ages hence, when I think back on that night, I’ll most fondly remember hearing “Racing in the Street” while seated on a blanket with my father under the open sky.

One one hand, Rock Band strikes me as the height of poserdom – another example of the artificial replacing the real in our society.  We don’t play tennis or go bowling anymore; we play Wii Fit.  We don’t play guitar; we play Guitar Hero.  John Lennon and Paul McCartney were introduced to one another on the afternoon of July 6, 1957.  Had the two merely played guitar-shaped pieces of plastic in their bedrooms instead of real guitars, popular music would be quite different today.  When the Beatles played the Ed Sullivan Show seven years later, an army of American boys were inspired to pick up their own guitars, start rock bands, and write the rock songs that defined an era.  What if today’s kids are picking up game controllers instead of real instruments?  Wither music?

On the other hand, a segment I heard on the radio last night raised a point I might have otherwise never considered.  A caller to On Point said that he treasures the quality time he has spent playing Rock Band with his children, and that it has helped him feel more connected with them.  They get to know his music, and he gets to know their music.  This got me thinking: what if the millions of parents who felt so upset by rock music in 1964 had instead been able to share the experience with their children?  After all, shaggy hair and suggestive hand-holding talk wasn’t really what bothered parents about the Beatles.  The Beatles were the physical embodiment of the growing divide separating the World War II generation from their kids.

The Beatles are popular enough, and certainly not at risk of being forgotten, even by kids today.  So I don’t think all this hoopla is about introducing a new generation to Lennon-McCartney.  I think, rather, that it might actually be about bonding.  Video games have divided parents and children for more than twenty years.  If Beatles Rock Band can bring them together, things really will have come full circle.

I know that, and I do my best.  I just learned that the E Street Band has added a Tampa date this fall, and I will be there no matter what.  But, even if the band played six straight days in Tampa, I’d have to go to each show, because you don’t know when it’s going to happen.  What do I mean by “it”?   Let’s review some history.

During the 1978 Darkness tour, Springsteen began inserting a long, improvised interlude into “Backstreets” following the last verse.  The sequence generally featured Bruce singing over Roy Bittan’s piano, telling a story about a girl he used to meet in an abandoned car in an open field on the edge of town.  “Baby, I remember you”, was how he generally began the interlude which came to be known as “Sad Eyes”.  As the Darkness tour progressed, the “Sad Eyes” interlude became more elaborate, until one night he sang, “back then I swore I’d drive all night”.  Roy Bittan, at that point, was playing a I-IV-V progression.  When The River appeared two years later, “Drive All Night” was the second to last track on the Side Two of the second disc, just before “Wreck on the Highway”.  “Drive All Night” is over eight minutes long, and was played at only a handful of shows on the River tour, and seldom heard after.  That brings us to July 21, 2009 in Torino.

From backstreets.com:

When the band broke into “Raise Your Hand” to let Bruce collect signs for requests, three identical, sealed and numbered envelopes reached the stage. Inside, the first one says “Drive All Night.” Bruce shakes his head; “naah, too difficult and long,” he seems to say, while the crowd dives into visible desperation. Envelope 2, the paper inside says “Drive All Night” once again. The trick is almost revealed, so when Bruce opens envelope 3 everybody is screaming—and needless to say, marked in black is “Drive All Night”—and a collective dream comes true. In a show really close to perfection (every musical ingredient is there, almost every Bruce topic woven through the setlist), “Drive All Night” is a brilliant example of how the art and magic of Bruce Springsteen not only lies in what the audience usually gets, but resides as well in what it may not get. A majestic song like that might stay unrevealed in an envelope that Bruce may not pluck nor open. This is why you should always be there, every time he plays, if you can.

At the show I saw in 2008, a handwritten poster requesting “Drive All Night” went unfulfilled.  I can’t complain, since I got “Jungleland” instead (in a show which also included “Turn, Turn, Turn” with Roger McGuinn).  But if I could hear “Drive All Night” live this fall, I’d be a happy man.

As you can see on the autograph setlists, Springsteen leaves a few open slots for audience requests.  The most recent trend has been to request covers.  The E Street Band is as good as any bar band, and it’s fascinating to see what kind of tunes people ask for.  Yes, there are some unusual ones, like “London Calling”, “I’m Bad, I’m Nationwide”, and “My Generation”.  But there are others that make a lot of sense, like “Pretty Woman”, “Louie, Louie”, and “Mountain of Love”.  Last week in Bern, he grabbed a fan’s sign, and played “I Fought the Law”.  Watch the video, and notice how well the band pulls this one out.  Bruce takes the sign, calls out a key, and continues to give cues (“Bridge!” or “I think there’s a solo!”) when appropriate.  Max even remembers the “six gun” fill.  It’s pretty good for being a request.

For many people, I suppose, music is an evolving art, and what suits the taste is what is new and “relevant”.  I am not one of those people.  I don’t dispute that music evolves.  On the contrary, I have made it my profession to know how music has changed over time, and what those slow, incremental changes sound like.  But I don’t care what is current or popular.  Indeed, my favorite piece of music of all time was first presented in 1721, and my favorite piece of popular music was written over thirty years ago.  Music, to me, needn’t be modern.  It needn’t even be relevant to my own experience.  But sometimes it is both, and those are happy occasions.  Bombadil’s new album, Tarpits and Canyonlands, is such a record.

Tarpits and Canyonlands explores one major theme: marriage.  It isn’t difficult to imagine how the band arrived at this concept.  The members all seem to be around the age when marriage is the thing to do.  At their Gainesville show this spring, there was a handwritten note on the electric piano which read, “Just Married”.  I am no longer a newlywed, which makes this album especially relevant, since one question prominently asked is, “What lies beyond the honeymoon?”

That clip is from later in the song, but in it you hear Bombadil employ a classic musical device, by bringing back the main musical motif of the song, heard here in the first verse:

And what lies far, far beyond the honeymoon, after decades of being married to the same person?  “What would you say of marriage after…I hurt your dream job offer because I was scared?”  What if “I broke your confidence with a lover that was in my past?”  What if “the nursery rhyme stork never brought a baby to you?”  This is marriage:

The messages in the lyrics are often serious, and even downright melancholy, when the music itself beguiles you into feeling more cheerful.  An up-tempo number with hand-clapping and a catchy piano riff reminds you of your “Sad Birthday”:

And even when you get a message from home, “they forgot to say ‘happy birthday’”.

The album’s most powerful lyric comes from a song called “So Many Ways to Die”.  I am wont to avoid a song with such a sinister title, but a more apt name might have been “So Many Ways to Stay Alive”, since the tune asks us to examine the way we look at our own bleak circumstances and find something positive.  “So many ways to think how differently we interpret the brink between the side of life worth living and the point at which you’re better off to sink”:

I hope you’ll forgive that I made a small edit in the clip above, because I wanted you to hear the second chorus, where the singer rises an octave from where he sang the first chorus.  I really appreciate the extra energy, and the strain in the voice seems honest and appropriate to me.  It’s my favorite moment in the whole album.

I don’t mean to suggest that Tarpits and Canyonlands is all unhappy, all the time.  “Oto the Bear”, and “Kuala Lumpur”, both of which they played at their Gainesville show, are jaunty and fun to sing along with.  “Laurita” is a Spanish-language song with a catchy tune and an adorable arrangement, complete with a change in rhythm – a frequent musical device on this album.

Tarpits and Canyonlands describes marriage as a pyramid.  That may not be instructive, and, indeed, it leaves more questions than answers.  But so do the Pyramids, and, sometimes, so does marriage.  And, though I don’t expect any album to last 4,000 years, I do anticipate that this record will remain a rich and rewarding document well beyond the honeymoon.

Nobody born after 1984 can appreciate how big a star he was.  No pop culture figure can ever match the Beatles and Elvis for sheer overwhelming fame.  But if you lived during the early 1980s, Michael Jackson was the star.  When I was little, every kid had Thriller, and listened to it over and over again.  A new Michael Jackson video on MTV generated tremendous interest.  Kids at my school wore leather jackets with tons of zippers and tried to moon walk.  He was ultra-famous.

But, of course, he could never duplicate the success of Thriller.  Even if he continued to sell well through the rest of the 1980s, everyone compared his later work to Thriller or Off the Wall, and the comparisons were never favorable.  Combine that with his increasingly erratic behavior and freakish appearance, and before long Michael Jackson seemed like a sad carnival act.  While he had once been the one everyone wanted to emulate, he wound up being tabloid fodder.  A lot of it he brought on himself.  Some of it may have been unfair.  But, by the mid-1990s you could have queried a hundred Americans and not found anyone who’d claim to be a Michael Jackson fan.  “Thriller was good”, they’d say, “but that guy’s messed up”.

We live in a different age.  Everything is incredibly segmented now.  There isn’t just one MTV anymore to claim the attention of the young.  The 1980s saw the rise of some remarkable superstars, but the conditions that created those stars don’t exist any more.  Set aside the sham marriages, plastic surgery, baby-dangling, accusations of molestation, and all the other bizarre and disturbing behavior and rumors, and think back to the years 1983-1985.  There was nobody bigger than Michael Jackson.  And no athlete, movie star or singer will probably ever be that famous again.