A night in the front row

Notes from December 2, 2002, Bruce Springsteen concert in Atlanta, Ga.

I have never seen pocket watches melt in the desert, but Monday night I experienced the surreal. Because suddenly in the middle of a blowing, chilly wasteland, there were guitars. They were loud and brawling to hold this stage, this scene together. Heaving down on one side of them were drums and a booming saxophone. Lifitng up on the other side and smoothing with desperation were a piano, an organ and violin. The tumult, the synesthetic stew demanded, where does it end and where does it begin again? Struggling for an answer, the guitars dripped sweat. I swear I saw it.

Somewhere on the edges of this appearance, there may have been more passive things. T-shirts and beer for sale on the horizontal rim and wealthy-containing boxes running way up the vertical. I have been told too that there were 20,000 other people in the general vicinity. I do not call such a statement a lie, but I cannot claim to have seen them. When one is the front row of a Bruce Springsteen concert, the world condenses and dramatically increases in speed. I can claim nothing for the experience except the experiencing.

Our story begins...

I got the floor seat back in September as a bit of a backlash. For my last Springsteen show, I sat at the far end of the arena. For the one before that one, I sat in the second-to-last row. This time, it was going to be floor or nothing. When you're on the floor -- general admission, standing room only -- you can determine your own destiny. If you want to be in the front, if you're hungry enough, you can get there. I worked to get a floor seat that day in September because I thought I had a shot.

Fast-forwarding, I worked this past weekend to make the shot. Got my name on the general admission clipboard -- #17 to enter the floor -- and worked to keep that number by making all the line check-in times. It was cold out there, but life's got to be cold before it gets warm. That's true for the people who care, at least.

When 6:30 rolled around Monday night, the line entered the arena. It was hard to believe there was going to be a concert there that night. The instruments were on stage, but the only people around were the security guards and us, the beginning of the line. We kept walking and walking across the floor, and suddenly, surprisingly, we were at the stage. I was in the front row, halfway between Steve Van Zandt and Patti Scialfa's mic stands. It was too much. I turned around, sat down and leaned back against the stage's four-foot wall. It was too much. I didn't stand up and turn around until the roadies began laying out the setlists, the last step before showtime.

Minutes later, the lights went down and here they came. The legendary E Street Band. Lord almighty, they were short. Even the Big Man, Clarence Clemons, looked like a fireplug. But the effect was only as they exited the tunnel. They stepped to the front of the stage, and they were so big I felt too close. Were we really allowed to stand so near? Was it legal? I expected a giant hand to grab my collar and drag me back through the crowd and toss me out the door. A good toss, too -- the head-over-heels, rolling-down-the-sidewalk kind.

I was glad I got to stay when Van Zandt stood himself in front of us. Once known as "Miami Steve" and now as "Little Steven," Van Zandt plays Silvio Dante on the The Sopranos and was recently described in the New York Times as typically looking like a "gypsy pirate." The man is legally sane, but our nation's mental health system is very flawed. Standing two yards to his right, at center stage, was Bruce Springsteen.

What I remember...

The rest of the night was a blur. I kept trying to take it all in, but the memory's persistence is a long run away from completeness or accuracy. It's just brief parts of life, with some distortion and lots of darkness all around. I remember guitars. And a saxophone. There was definitely a saxophone. I remember pounding my hands on the stage; they're still sore two days later. I remember the crowd around me rocking up and down in time to the beat. I remember Little Steven looking at me like I was the crazy one.

"The Rising" into "Lonesome Day" into "The Ties That Bind" into "Night" into "Empty Sky" into "You're Missing" into "Waitin' on a Sunny Day" into "No Surrender" into "Worlds Apart" into "Badlands" into "She's the One" into "Mary's Place" into "Countin' on a Miracle" into "Thunder Road" into "Into the Fire" into break into "Where the Bands Are" into "Glory Days" into "Born to Run" into break into "My City of Ruin" into "Born in the U.S.A." into "Land of Hope and Dreams" into "Dancing in the Dark" into end.

I had brought a Santa Claus hat in my pocket to see if he would Come to Town, but Bruce looked worn and maybe 22 songs was enough for him that night. It was enough for me. By the show's close, I had seen rock star and human being, both from a distance closer than I'd ever dreamed. This guy, after all, he was the guy I called my rock and roll superhero.

During one of the early songs -- I can't remember which one -- he stood right in front of me, on the edge of the stage. He leaned over and looked straight down. There was only me below him, and as other folks were grabbing his outstretched hands, I hoped he saw where he was looking and noticed that I was a fan.

Near the end of the show, on a darkened stage, an organ rumbled and in an instant there was the massive thump of a drum and spotlights burst on white behind the stage. The song was "Born in the U.S.A.," but I didn't notice it until a few beats later. The tumult had considered itself and refused to answer. Burned in my eyes was the silhouette of rock and roll.