1st Anniversary (and on the inexpressible)

The first thing I remember of that day is me in the subway seeing a guy with my same Bruce tee on (at that time I had only the Hard Rock Signature Series Tee, you know, the black one with the orange guitar and his signature). I smiled to myself, thinking about Springsteenians finally showing themselves. Later it was Guatti and me, waiting at the tram stop, and a guy approached us saying “You going to the stadium, ain’t you?”, and Guatti, to me (I sporting my tee): “Yeah, there’s something revealing in you…”.

Then the tram arrived. It was some 20 minutes trip, and with each stop it filled with more and more fans—something familiar but bewildering at the same time. What dazzled me most was the spectacular amount of grown-ups – I remember clearly a man who could have been in his… well, way into his fifties at least, grizzled hair and proper Bruce tee and cap – which of course I immediately realized makes perfect sense, given that Bruce himself is no boy anymore; but on the spot I wouldn’t have imagined a rock concert could attract people almost the age of my parents.

But anyway.

We got to the stadium finally—and man, it was huge (first time in San Siro too, by the way)! It was already about 7.30 pm and it was really full. Seeing all those people was thrilling. We met Guatti’s friends who were already there, found our seats, and chatted while looking around.

It is my most heartfelt desire that the person who wrote this banner be male, because I want to marry him. The other remarkable banner we saw missed an “n”—and, though I didn’t know it was a song title at the time, still it had me rolling over the seat.

At 8.30 pm the sky was still clear, and I was on a hype. The ticket said 9.00 pm, but I knew he would start half an hour before because of some noise complaints by residents. So… it was NOW! And I couldn’t wait. You know that feeling, don’t you? Like that Petit Prince abused quote on the kid and the fox. Well, I was about half mad. Recorded music was played back while waiting, and at the end of each song I hoped it would stop so that Bruce could come out.

And then, after much waiting and hoping, he does.

Now, as you can see, we were pretty much apart. I could see him about the size of an ant—but still, it was HIM, and he was DOWN THERE, and he REALLY EXISTED. I had just the time to realize the enormity of these notions, when Max started drumming a song I didn’t know.

“Ciao Milano!”—crowd roar,—“Fa abbastanza caldo?”—crowd roar,—“Fa abbastanza caldo?”—crowd roar,—“Ci scalderemo ancora di più!”.

And it was Summertime Blues. After that, again, “Andiamo Milano!” led the way to Out in the street. From then on, for three full hours (three full hours and yes, he turns sixty this year) it was mass insanity—people singing along, clapping, screaming, dancing, roaring. I contributed all the way – I think I never danced more except at my grad party – and at the end I went out the stadium in a sweat, knees trembling and a harsh thirst.

In between about 8.45 pm, when it started, and 11.45 pm, when it ended, it’s been an ever-growing climax: as songs went by and I realized they were MANY, an argument began in the back of my head between the tiny voice of rationality, wondering when was he going to stop and murmuring that he HAD to, some time or other, and the exultant voice of irrationality that, for the whole time, kept reason in chains (it wasn’t that hard, anyway).

Writing a complete report of how it was, could be at the same time almost simple, and unbearably difficult. Apart from my natural slow writing, for which I claim no excuse, you should know that in the immediately following days, I did write down something; but I never finished. Two, three, four days after it, my memory still flourished with things to remember, to write, to say, to tell people—but then, when jotted down, they all sounded a long long shopping list of adjectives and song titles, complete each with a detailed analysis of what that particular wording or chord meant to me. Which, yes, might be liberating and useful to myself, but I suppose substantially boring to everyone else.

(And no, don’t pretend you’re interested in everything I say, because I know you are not).

Not that I didn’t want to have my take at telling my story. I still do.

It’s exactly a story that I want to tell. Not an annotated setlist, not a description of the complete spectrum of human emotions. Which means, among other things, cutting.

But hell. It is damn hard.

You’d wanna say everything, so that people can taste, or at least imagine, how you felt in that particular moment, because of that particular thing he sung, or did, or said. But then you cannot simply write it down, because every single moment should be properly explained, and if done with words it would require some zillion pages.

You’d wanna say how proud and honored you felt when he climbed up the stage, grabbed the mike and spoke your language, when his “Milano Milano Milano Milano” at one point seemed to melt into a raucous “Vi amo vi amo vi amo vi amo”, when he stressed the word “Italians” in his immigrant song.

You’d wanna describe the thrill through your spine as you felt songs even before they began, and the awe in meeting the ones you didn’t know. You’d wanna explain how it was possible for you to hear the songs you loved on two tracks at the same time in your mind: the one your ears captured, and the one your memory let surface after years not listening to them. (… I guess this requires neurosciences or something like that. It was crazy, really).

You’d wanna tell how much you laughed at his gags, when you saw him run through the audience shaking hands, kissing girls, dancing, touching and being touched, sliding, jumping and running through the whole stage. Your fit of laugh when you saw him roll on the stage while playing his guitar during Rosalita, and your speechlessness when you saw somebody beating the rhythm on his knee while he sang I’m on fire.

The first song of his that got under your skin, sung along by a whole jumping stadium and making your heart full. Racing, and you positively wanting to strangle all those assholes clapping right as Roy’s solo began—that solo you worshipped from the very first time.

And then Bobby Jean, Last to die, Spirit, Badlands and the whole stadium o-o-o-oo-oohing for five full minutes after the song was over, and stopping only when an encore was assured. See how easily it all comes down to a list? Music’s evocativeness is such that after experiencing it you are left speechless when asked to word what you… what you what? What you felt? What you experienced? What you imagined? What you thought?

As for me, I think I could spend infinite time telling how it happened that I started listening to music, that I started listening to Bruce, and all that pretty details that make anecdotes. But when it comes to what it means, well, that’s hard, confused and, worst, always in progress.

One thing right now is clear to me, though. It took just a harmonica and a long, full blow to understand. You know, the first notes to that song called The Promised Land.

On that, I felt like home.

[Coming next—on writing a foreign vs. your own language]