Ghost Story
By: Terry Barr
Tags: The Riff, Bruce Springsteen, Concerts, Alabama, Music

I saw Bruce Springsteen live for the first time on his “Chicken Scratch” tour. The date was April 30, 1976; the venue, Boutwell Auditorium in Birmingham, Alabama. Springsteen was between his Born to Run tour and the release in 1978 of his follow-up record, Darkness on the Edge of Town. He had reached national fame in 1975, appearing on the covers of both Newsweek and Time. He was being compared to Dylan.

And before 1975, though he had released two albums already prior to Born to Run, and though I considered myself up on current music and relatively hip for a Birmingham boy, I had never heard of or listened to Bruce until “Born to Run” hit the singles charts.

I remember a couple of college friends trying to clue me in, telling me how his second album, The Wild, the Innocent, and the E-Street Shuffle, was a piece of art, especially its cornerstone song, “Rosalita.” I remember listening to my friends and thinking,

“Well, maybe so, but he’s no Gregg Allman or Neil Young.”

And to be fair to me, Springsteen indeed is neither of these artists, and only like them in his earthier moments, and in theirs. Clearly, all three live to rock, and while a person can surely rank them if he or she pleases, what’s the point of doing so?

Further to my point, what was the point of denigrating the one in favor of the others?

But that’s nineteen for you. Being the coolest is all that seems to matter, but cool is a terribly elusive thing. For instance, some of us — no names mentioned — could find “Thunder Road” as much of a knockout as…”I’m Not in Love” (!0cc fans, give me a shout now).

I remember the day in my Oral Interpretation class when a student named Millie Rushing brought in that copy of Time.

“Check this out,” she cried, and all of a sudden, it seemed that we would collectively interpret this age as one to be dominated by Bruce and the E-Streeters.

I walked out of class, straight down to The House of Serendipity — my college town’s one record store — and immediately grabbed Born to Run. I assumed everyone else would, too.

Of course, many across the USA did. But in my quaint town and really all across Alabama, the tide still turned for Lynyrd Skynyrd (even post-plane crash), The Dixie Dregs, and god forbid, Styx. Taste is taste.

There were pockets of Springsteen fans in my midst, of course, but I didn’t know any of them then.

Which made it more difficult on me when his concert tour announced the April 30th Birmingham date. In those days, I didn’t care for venturing out alone, either to movies, to bars, and certainly not to rock concerts. I had too many friends who would see any show at the drop of a hat, it seemed. And there were so many shows in the Birmingham-Tuscaloosa area, that I couldn’t afford to see all that I wanted, which is why I missed Tull, Procol Harum, Yes, and…the Stones (help me lord).

I add here that, just as one could theoretically buy an ounce of pot for $15 in those days, the same one could see any of the names I’ve already mentioned for roughly $5.00 a ticket then, too.

I know. Movies in the 1930’s cost a nickel.

Still, five fucking dollars to see Springsteen.

I was certain of getting a date; it was a Friday night in late spring. Our college classes were over, exams looming, but who among us would decide to pass on Bruce in favoring of brushing up on 19th Century American authors on a Friday evening?

I wish I knew what all my favorite women and men were up to that evening, but all of them passed, turned me down cold.

My God, Sandye Weaver, why?

And maybe I thought I was too cool to ask my brother, who was almost sixteen then. But I had taken him to Clapton, Gregg Allman, and America already. Was he too busy, too? He’ll likely answer below and let me know what a mistake I made. But I already know. I’ve known for forty-four years now.

Maybe you can believe this, but one of the big reasons I couldn’t find anyone to go with me that night was that no one in the Greater Birmingham area much cared about Springsteen, or maybe even me and my, by now, free ticket.

Because when I got to the arena — and I always arrived early — there were hardly 500 people there. I mean, I, or anyone else, could get as close to the stage — since this was “stadium seating” — as we wanted. I forget who the first act was that night, and maybe there was no one opening at all. But by 8:30, when Bruce and the band hit the stage, our crowd had finally reached its critical mass.

I’d say, 2500 people.

Boutwell Auditorium seated at least 6000, and with the standing floor room, surely several hundred others.

I found my two college friends, Austin and Doug, whom truth be told, I didn’t know that well. But we all stood together, shouting and singing, and passing the assortment of joints we brought. Though I felt embarrassed for my home area, I forgot about it for the three hours the band played.

Such an incredible show: “Rosalita” made Doug almost hold my hand, and if you’ve never heard “Jungleland” live, I will personally escort you anywhere you want to go just so you have that shot at what a rock and roll epic sounds like in person.

But I know many of you have heard this song or your own personal anthemic variations.

So here’s to you, Austin and Doug, wherever you may be — my first Springsteen pals, even though we really never hung together before or after that show.

I see us together at the end, walking out of the hall, toward our separate and distinct cars.