Standing onstage in a black T-shirt and jeans, Bruce Springsteen waxes poetic about his earliest days in Freehold, NJ. He speaks of growing up next to the school St. Rose of Lima and breathing in the coffee smell that wafted in from the Nescafe plant. He cracks jokes about being Born To Run but now living only a few miles from his childhood home.
As he tells tale after tale of his working-class Jersey roots, I can see every slight wrinkle on his face. If I know anything about music, I can report which string he’s plucking on his guitar during a bluesy version of “Born in the USA.” I’m even pretty close to mapping out any recent dental work the Boss had.
I’m that close.
NetflixAnd I’m not bragging about my awesome seats to his musical memoir at the Walter Kerr Theatre.
This is the Netflix special that debuts on Sunday, after the final curtain falls on his spectacularly popular — and expensive — Broadway run.
The show — which essentially cuts the audience from the equation — is so intimate, it’s like I was sitting on hologram Springsteen’s lap.
My first Boss concert was on Aug. 31, 1985. I was 7. Since then, I’ve spent so much money for his concert tickets, I feel like I deserve my name on a brick in his Colts Neck, NJ, driveway. When he hit the Great White Way, I was excited to be able to see a stripped-down Springsteen. But at $850, I balked. I was still stinging from the five shows I sprung for during his 2016 “The River” tour. It was way more than I could even entertain spending. So I made peace with my eternal FOMO.
This fanatic would have to sit this one out — or would I?
Watching him on-screen (two performances were filmed in July for the Netflix show) was still transformative. Listening to him talk about Freehold sent me back to my own childhood, albeit in a different era. I grew up only a town away. I played hoops at St. Rose of Lima. (They had the worst basketball court ever. As a kid, I always wondered why Springsteen just didn’t buy them a nice wood floor.) I would get chills when “My Hometown” happened to come on the radio just as I was pulling into Freehold’s borders. His Jersey was and is my Jersey, and therefore, this autobiographical show is just a little more poignant for a fan like me.
While nothing can replace having the ticket stub, this is a gift to us poor Jersey schmucks who are still Working on a Dream.
