A little publicity....

Stoneham writer contributes to book on ‘The Boss’

The Stoneham Sun

November 11 2009

By Vladimir Shvorin/Correspondent

Stoneham - Jeff Blout of Stoneham has been listening to Bruce Springsteen since he was a 13-year-old begging his parents to attend a show. Though he didn’t see “The Boss” that night, he made it to many other concerts, and his loyalty, along with his writing, has been showcased in a new book about Springsteen titled “The Light in Darkness.”

“When I first heard about the book, I was unsure on what I was going to write about,” explained Blout. “My parents didn’t let me go to the concert because I was too young. And that’s exactly what I decided to write about because it was a unique angle. At the time, I was just living vicariously and longing to see Springsteen.”

Focusing on the 1978 “Darkness on the Edge of Town” album and tour, the new book from Lawrence Kirsch Communications includes 200 fan photos, original stories and firsthand accounts. All of the content was produced and penned by Springsteen’s followers, leaving no doubt as to how the idea behind the book came about.

“I wanted this book to serve as a souvenir of sorts because of all of the fantastic [Springsteen] concerts and records that I’ve experienced,” explained Lawrence Kirsch, the book’s publisher. “After about 30 years of seeing shows and meeting unbelievable fans in many different cities, I felt that we needed a touchstone so we can say, ‘This is what Bruce does for us, this is what he stands for and this is what he’s all about.’ And it all began when I requested fans to submit their stories for the book.”

For the uninitiated, Bruce Springsteen’s cult-like following may seem startling. His loyal fans, who have been following him across the country since he began touring decades ago, are equally loyal to each other as they are to Springsteen. According to Kirsch, that weighed heavily on his decision to compile “The Light in Darkness.”

“This book was a very community-minded project,” said Kirsch. “I tried to get as many people involved with it as possible. I received many submissions, but we couldn’t publish them all. My feeling is that, every one of the stories that we published was representative of many peoples’ experiences. I questioned whether I’d be able to do a book like this about any other musician or brand of music.”

Blout, who also had an article published in Newsweek magazine, was eager to participate in a project so close to his heart. The rest of the experience, he told, was made simple by Kirsch.

“This is the first story on Springsteen that I’ve ever submitted anywhere,” he said. “Working with Lawrence was a pleasure. I got in touch with Lawrence through [a mutual friend] who’s been to more than 150 shows. And he’s known Lawrence for years. After introducing me, Lawrence let me circumvent the online submission form and make my entry as long as I wanted. The experience was fantastic. It was seamless to work with Lawrence.”

As for a future collaboration, Kirsch and Blout both seem to agree that a fan’s work is never done.

“I’m sure Lawrence has something cooking,” Blout said. “But I’m sure he’s also busy promoting this book right now.”

http://www.wickedlocal.com/stoneham/fun/entertainment/x809130174/Stoneham-writer-contributes-to-book-on-The-Boss

My New Friends

Meet Grady (left) and Virgil

The Light In Darkness

A new book from Lawrence Kirsch Communications focuses on Bruce Springsteen's Darkness on the Edge of Town album, tour, and legacy.

from the website...

Bruce Springsteen's Darkness on the Edge of Town broke new ground for The Boss in 1978. A counterpoint to the operatic elegance of Born to Run, the album was an angry, raw record that burst forth after a three-year hiatus.

Because of its darker tones, some might call Darkness a difficult album, but despite this, it's a cherished gem for many.

Collecting stories and photos from hundreds of fans, The Light in Darkness celebrates this classic record, allowing readers to revisit the excitement of that moment when the needle found the grooves in that first cut and the thundering power of "Badlands" shook across the hi-fi for the very first time. Or the uninitiated, but soon-to-be-converted teenager, brought along by friends and finding salvation at one of the legendary three-plus hour concerts - shows that embodied all the manic fury of a revival meeting.

My thoughts:
The Content: The Light in Darkness is a spectacular addition to the Springsteen print library. The chronological presentation provides seamless narrative flow and the photos – including the pre-show shots from Winterland and Augusta and the marquee and ticket stub shots – are just phenomenal. The book is the ultimate retrospective tour program. A rock and roll time capsule. If you haven’t already done it, order yourself a copy, put on those ‘78 radio broadcasts, and immerse yourself in one of rock’s greatest bands during a seminal season.

Lawrence Kirsch: On a personal note, I’m sure all contributors will agree, it was a pleasure to collaborate with Lawrence Kirsch (My coming of age essay – “Itching for Something to Start” appears on pages 104 - 105). The attention to detail, the painstaking organization of such an abundance of material is no small task. The finished product shows no outward signs of struggle, but anyone who’s been involved in the editorial and publishing quagmire knows that what Lawrence has accomplished with his two books on Bruce is pretty special and required hours of contemplation and devotion. I am proud to be a small part of this history.

In my opinion, For You (Kirsch's previous book on Springsteen) and The Light in Darkness are among the top five Springsteen books ever.

Order your copy here...
http://www.thelightindarkness.com/order/

Here's my contribution to The Light in Darkness

Itching For Something to Start

“What’s the name of your record?” the teacher asked.
“Piece de Resistance,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows and nodded approvingly. Looking back, I suppose she was anticipating French opera.

It was 1979, and as a 14 year-old high school freshman, I thought a music appreciation class would bolster my growing fascination with rock music. I was wrong. We spent most of the term listening to Air Supply songs while our teacher unveiled cleverly camouflaged orchestral flourishes embedded within the compositions. For the final class, however, we got to bring in our favorite records, play a few cuts, and explain what they meant to us.

I placed the needle on side 5 of the three-record set and watched as the other twelve students grimaced and shook their heads.

So much for appreciation.

In 1978, my parents decided I would have to wait another year before going to my first concert, so I lived vicariously through the live albums of the era. The Stones’ Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out, Seger’s Live Bullet, The J Geils Band’s Blow Your Face Out, and The Who’s Live at Leeds. I’d sit for hours, headphones on, creating a virtual rock and roll festival in my head while flipping through the pages of Creem, Hit Parader, and Rolling Stone.

But there was one soundtrack missing; Bruce Springsteen didn’t have a live album, ironic since of all things said and written about Bruce, the one most often repeated was, “Wait until you see him live.”

Well, I had no choice. I had to wait.

I was into Bruce. My older brother had Born to Run on 8-track and I listened to it often; but, because it had been released before I began buying records, its impact, while significant, was not enough to separate Bruce from the other bands I was a fan of. There’s no substitute for being a teenager and living through the anticipation and arrival of a new album; the moment of discovery; the hope and possibility that it may change you.

If I remember correctly, “Prove it All Night” was on the airwaves before Darkness on the Edge of Town was released. I was a fidgety kid with a short attention span, the type of student who read a paragraph six times without comprehension, but everything slowed down when I heard Bruce whispering to his unnamed lover during the song’s bridge. I was accustomed to frustrated authority figures talking at me with raised voices, telling me what to do, what to think. And here was this subdued, hopeful voice laying it on the line over a bass drum heartbeat like a ghost in my speakers saying, this is what I want you to wear, what I want you to do, I can’t make you go, but I think it’s important. Then, as the song faded out, Bruce’s anguished moans told me that the outcome was still in doubt. And that was the beauty in it; he was inviting me to draw my own conclusions. There was a longing for connection that, as a self-conscious 13 year-old, I found both overwhelming and reassuring.

I bought the album the day it was released and memorized the lyrics in two nights. I had never committed anything so lengthy to memory before. Some of the older kids were catching shows as the band made its way around New England visiting various college campuses and small theaters. I envied them in their concert tee-shirts as they told stories of Bruce jumping on the piano or venturing out into the audience.

As summer drew to a close, Boston radio station WBCN announced they would broadcast Bruce’s September 19 show from Passaic, New Jersey. I lined up a pair of TDK cassettes in front of my brother’s Nikko stereo and prepared to capture the moment.

Things rolled along smoothly until about 80 minutes into the show when, just after “Jungleland,” Bruce addressed the crowd. “We’re gonna take a twenty minute break and we’ll be back to do another set for ya.”

I made two major show-taper mistakes that night; First, I learned it takes more than two 60-minute cassettes to capture an entire Springsteen show, and second, if you edit out crowd noise and storytelling in an effort to cram the music onto those tapes, you end up with the musical equivalent of a widescreen motion picture reformatted for television; still worth watching, but a far cry from the panoramic scope the director intended.

So, not only was I born a year too late to see the Darkness on the Edge of Town tour, I blew my opportunity to own a document that would hold me over until the next tour. Or, so I thought.

The following spring, bootleg recordings began appearing like fine jewelry in the display case at my local record store. I knew about bootlegs; shady characters covertly taping concerts, reproducing them - often in horrendous quality - and selling them for outrageous money on the black market. A forbidden antidote for the musically obsessed – undeniably enticing.

Among the items behind the glass was a tan colored box with a mimeographed photo of a well-dressed Bruce Springsteen. Piece de Resistance was the title and I recognized it immediately as the Passaic show from the previous September.

“Can I see the Springsteen bootleg?”

The clerk eyed me warily copping a beat-it-kid attitude like a pusher on a corner. Perhaps it was the $20 - secured with a double advance on my allowance - that convinced him I was a serious prospect. Minutes later, I was out the door with the package under my arm. The fact there was no receipt underscored the buyer-beware aspect of bootleg culture; regardless of the quality, I would be broke for the next two weeks. It seemed worth the gamble, and I applied righteous indignation to justify purchasing an unauthorized recording of my hero; It’s Bruce’s fault, I told myself, for not releasing what I wanted, what I needed.

The LPs were not labeled, so I memorized the grooves that bracketed each song; the short passage on side 4 was “Candy’s Room”; the back to back epics on side 2, “Prove it all Night” (with guitar intro) and “Racing in the Street.” The older songs sounded new and the Darkness songs resonated with vintage appeal. There was an earnestness in Bruce’s voice and an urgency in the E Street Band’s playing that had eluded me during my desecrated taping of the show months earlier. I marveled at the pacing and energy; the show was like a high-stakes sporting event with no stoppage in play. The quality was decent - a repressing of a repressing I would learn years later - but the content was extraordinary.

Until the day I brought them to school, the records did not leave my turntable.

“Why do you like this record?” the teacher asked, as “Not Fade Away” segued into “She’s the One.”

Standing before a group was torture for me, so I rehearsed a speech. Life-changing. Awe-inspiring. I wanted my classmates to understand what I felt. But when I looked into their disinterested eyes, my need for approval was replaced with rebellious fortitude. By rejecting Bruce, they were invalidating my convictions. Suddenly, I was no longer shy.

“Well,” I said, looking out at my peers, “ for one thing, it’s illegal to own it, but mostly, because you people don’t get it.” It was like telling them I had robbed a bank, but they would never know what the money was for.

They made their choices and they’ll never know...

I may have missed the Darkness on the Edge of Town tour, but it didn’t miss me. The album, the voice, the notions of what the future held as I literally came of age stand as a demarcation point where Bruce separated from the pack, and so did I.

Lessons learned.

Class dismissed.

A Life Lesson Learned at the Stop & Shop

(As first appeared in Newsweek 10/15/2007)
I was obsessive about managing my time, until a small act of kindness slowed me down.

It's noon on a Wednesday; I've got plenty to do, but I need to pick up a few things at the grocery store first. I have determined that it will take 30 minutes to complete the errand. I pride myself on efficiency, and will do everything in my power to meet my goal. You see, I live with this absurd notion that it is possible for me to "own" my time.

I get out of my car and glide through the Stop & Shop's sliding doors. I tuck my sunglasses into my jacket pocket, and scoop up a shopping basket without breaking stride. While my eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting, I notice a frustrated man struggling to separate two shopping carts that have been wedged together. Good luck, pal.

I stop by the deli first, the only potential speed bump in my meticulously choreographed routine. There are a few people ahead of me, but with two employees slicing away behind the counter, this shouldn't take long. I draw a number, wait my turn, approve the thickness of the initial slice of turkey, and decline the invitation to sample it. I'm moving away from the counter as the clerk hands over my half-pound package; I reach back and collect it as if it were a relay-race baton and scurry off in the opposite direction.

I'm making good time: no need to check my watch—my internal clock is unfailingly accurate.I'm coasting along on cruise control, heading for the pet aisle, when I notice an elderly couple looking at laundry detergent at the end of the aisle, their cart obstructing access. They shuffle coupons while looking back and forth between their shopping list and the merchandise. I stop a few feet behind them and begin shifting foot to foot. They're comparing the merits of Tide versus Wisk while computing some complex mathematical formula involving sale prices, triple-value coupons and fluid ounces. They decide against the detergent. I watch them as they walk off, completely oblivious to me. Unbelievable.

After picking up a carton of litter-box liners, I head to the dairy section and toss a couple of containers of yogurt into my basket without slowing down. I realize I'm still on schedule when, up ahead, I see the elderly couple stalled out in front of the dairy chest. Here we go again. The man has most of his upper torso in the cooler; he's passing half-gallon containers of milk to the woman. She squints, shakes her head, and hands them back to him. They're checking expiration dates. I can see the exact brand of milk I want, but I can't get to it. Finally, the man hands the woman an acceptable selection. She makes a mark on her list, and they slip away without acknowledging me. Clueless.

I pick up a six-pack of Powerade on my way to the checkout area. I search the lighted signs for an express lane and don't see one. A regular lane is open to my right. As I prepare to unload my basket, I find that the lane is not unoccupied. The elderly couple had been camouflaged by the candy and magazine racks. I'd probably laugh if this were happening to someone else. The woman is rechecking each item against her list as the man places them on the conveyer belt. I lean back and inspect the other checkout lines to see if there is a better option. The woman looks at me, then at my basket, and whispers something to the man. He turns around and, in a gentle, friendly voice, says, "Hey, why don't you go ahead of us? You've only got a few things." His carefree manner catches me off guard. He sounds as if he's got all the time in the world, and he's offering me a little piece of it. I feel the sort of shame that comes when someone does something nice for you after you've said something nasty behind his back.

"That's OK," I say, trying to match his casual tone. "I'm in no hurry."

"You sure?" he asks.

"Yes. Thank you."I look down at my shoes; I feel self-conscious and petty.

The man loads the last of their items on the belt and places a divider behind their order. I thank him. He nods and smiles. The woman is watching the checkout girl to make sure no mistakes are made. I have an urge to go forward and bag their groceries for them. Their time is precious, too—more precious than mine.

I pull into my driveway and check the clock on my dash: 12:35. I missed my goal by five minutes. I know that the five minutes were well spent observing the kind elderly couple in front of me after they had offered me their place in line. Five minutes: a small price to pay for discovering that only those who are giving of their time have ever owned it in the first place.

Torn and Frayed

The life and death of a great pair of blue jeans


Rrrriiiipppp. It’s an awful sound. More like surround sound - one rip in front, one in back. I’m alone at the ATM vestibule a few blocks from my house. It’s late afternoon and the bank is closed. I’ve just knelt down to retrieve my fumbled wallet, but the tearing sound jolts me like a stun gun. My eyes close tightly as I wince, not in pain, but, in painful recognition that I’m about to experience something unpleasant. I work up the courage to open my eyes and assess the damage.

Looking down, I release the breath I’ve been holding as my eyes focus on my left knee. And that’s exactly what I see - my bare left knee visible through a gaping seam to seam chasm where a small tear had once been. I reach around back to discover the stylish slit below my right hip has spread open at right angles leaving the pocket hanging free like an open tent flap. My favorite pair of dungarees are finished.

I rise to my feet, wallet in hand. My once perfectly contoured jeans hang shapelessly from my hips like a war-torn battle flag. The ATM machine is prompting for a pin number. Behind the words I see my dusky reflection and wonder how much would I pay for another pair of jeans like the ones that have just died.

The thought takes me back to the beginning...

Trying on pants is a lot like going fishing. You chose a promising location in hopes of going home with a keeper, knowing full well that, despite your best efforts, there’s a good chance you’ll wind up going home empty handed.

I entered the Bob’s store on Route One with guarded optimism. The jeans were displayed floor to ceiling on shelves organized by brand, size and style. Stone-washed, boot-cut, relaxed-fit, button-down, straight-leg, low-rise. Most were folded neatly, labels facing out, while others lay strewn about like discarded buffet samples. I zeroed in on the Lee straight-legged variety, gathered the store-allowed maximum six pairs, and headed for the fitting room.

The first five pairs were quickly jettisoned to the reject pile for various imperfections and deficiencies. I was starting to feel guilty about the work I was creating for the re-stock clerk, when it occurred to me that the pants I’d just pulled on, pair number six, felt pretty good. I checked the mirror. They looked good, too; perfect inseam; snug, comfortable waistband with shirt both tucked and untucked. I sat on the mini-bench in my tiny cubicle; leaning back to simulate contentment, and forward to portray intensity. Satisfied, I put on my shoes and drew back the privacy curtain for the next battery of tests.

Outside the cubicle were several full-length mirrors. I walked back and forth observing the pants from every angle. The denim flexed comfortably with each step while the cuffs settled over my shoe tops like loose fitting bracelets. There were no visible weaknesses. I removed the jeans and set them apart from the throw-back pile.

At $24.99, the pants seemed a bargain, but I held on to the sales slip; the trial wasn’t quite finished.

At home, I stripped the tags and tossed the pants in the washing machine. The label said pre-shrunk, but I had to be sure. Besides, I couldn’t help wondering about the personal hygiene of those who may have tried on my jeans before I did.

The tumble through the laundry was a success. The pants maintained their resolute form. All that remained was a three-day break-in period during which, I washed them again, and only wore them around the house.

The next three years played like one long blue jeans commercial.


Whether it was a concert, sporting event, or hike in the woods, my best dungarees were a constant amenity. I saw Springsteen, The Stones, and Pearl Jam in them. I wore them to Fenway Park, Gillette Stadium and Madison Square Garden. I was wearing them when The Patriots won their last two Super Bowls and when The Red Sox defeated The Yankees in game seven. I wore them on a few first dates, and, through no fault of the pants, one second date. When in flight, I wore them on the plane, never subjecting them to confinement in a suitcase or luggage compartment. I fished the bass ponds of southern Maine at twilight in those pants and thought nothing of wearing them several days in a row. Every invitation was opened with hopes that the occasion called for casual dress. They were durable, comfortable, remarkable.

Toward the end of our third year together, I noticed the pants were beginning to show signs of erosion. The knees were chafing, and a few loose threads had begun to break free. Of course, frayed threads suggest a certain sense of style for a blue jeans wearer, the way a few premature gray hairs bestow an air of sophistication upon a younger man. But like gray hairs, abraded threads multiply, and soon what was fashionable and cool turns decrepit and old. My favorite pair of dungarees were beginning to wither.

Pants were invented for one reason; to cover the lower half of our bodies. Once unable to carry out this function, they are of no use to anyone (cut-offs are not useful). And if you’re like me, when you find a pair that both look and feel good while fulfilling their purpose, you’ll do just about anything to avoid parting with them.

I began altering some fundamental behaviors. I paid closer attention to what I ate so as not to put any undue burden on the already compromised construction. I adjusted my gait, slightly shortening my stride to decrease stress brought on by stretching and pulling. The jeans even got special treatment in the washing machine, spinning solo through gentle cycles.

The days of cautiousness proved futile, however, as my dungarees continued to deteriorate. My closet contained several pairs of pants, but I passed them over like a chef with a favorite carving knife. And today, I stand in the entryway to a bank, my once magnificent pants in ruin; a product of my own denial.

Money in hand, I turn toward the door. There’s a woman approaching. She’s dressed professionally in an ice-blue business suit, ATM card out ready to swipe her way into the vestibule. I open the door as she arrives stepping back to let her pass and to conceal my exposed underwear. She smiles and thanks me, but the smile evaporates when she sees my tattered pants. Annoyed, and still stung by the sudden sense of loss, I open my mouth to say something. But what can I say? How could she ever understand? I walk away as the door clicks shut behind me, no longer concerned about what has been exposed.

At home, I hold the pants up turning them around for final measure. An autopsy won’t be necessary. The fatal wounds, the cause of death, are obvious.

The postmortem complete, I throw on some sweats and carry the pants outside where I toss them into the garbage. A faded pant leg hooks the rim of the trash can then slides downward disappearing like a hand pried from a cliff.

Back inside, I fan the dungarees in my closet. They feel stiff and resentful like a column of cold shoulders. I can’t blame them, having been cooped up and neglected for so long. I step back and close the door thinking maybe we’ll all feel better tomorrow. They’re probably just nervous, one of them’s going to have a really tough act to follow.