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°°ÛÛ° play yer tunes ÛÛÛ
proudly presents
ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
Bruce Springsteen - The Essential
ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
Artist: Bruce Springsteen
Album: The Essential
Company: n/a
ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
Ripper : team pyt Supplier : team pyt
Genre : Rock Style : Rock
Rel. Date : 11/10/2003 Streetdate : 11/10/2003
Quality : 192kbps / 44.1kHz / Full Stereo
Grabber : EAC Encoder : lame
Songs : 42 Playtime : CD1: 76:16 CD2: 77:
Size : 276,2 MB
Url : n/a
Type : Album Source : CDDA
Language : English
ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ Release Notes ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
Thought fans might like to read the article by Jon Landau
that helped to start the 30 year career of The Boss, enjoy!
Growing Young with Rock and Roll
By Jon Landau
The Real Paper, May 22, 1974
It's four in the morning and raining. I'm 27 today, feeling
old, listening to my records, and remembering that things
were diffferent a decade ago. In 1964, I was a freshman at
Brandeis University, playing guitar and banjo five hours a
day, listening to records most of the rest of the time,
jamming with friends during the late-night hours, working out
the harmonies to Beach Boys' and Beatles' songs.
Real Paper soul writer Russell Gersten was my best friend and
we would run through the 45s everyday: Dionne Warwick's "Walk
On By" and "Anyone Who Had A Heart," the Drifters' "Up On the
Roof," Jackie Ross' "Selfish One," the Marvellettes' "Too
Many Fish in the Sea," and the one that no one ever forgets,
Martha Reeves and the Vandellas' "Heat Wave." Later that year
a special woman named Tamar turned me onto Wilson Pickett's
"Midnight Hour" and Otis Redding's "Respect," and then came
the soul. Meanwhile, I still went to bed to the sounds of the
Byrds' "Mr. Tambourine Man" and later "Younger than
Yesterday," still one of my favorite good-night albums. I
woke up to Having a Rave-Up with the Yardbirds instead of
coffee. And for a change of pace, there was always bluegrass:
The Stanley Brothers, Bill Monroe, and Jimmy Martin.
Through college, I consumed sound as if it were the staff of
life. Others enjoyed drugs, school, travel, adventure. I just
liked music: listening to it, playing it, talking about it.
If some followed the inspiration of acid, or Zen, or dropping
out, I followed the spirit of rock'n'roll.
Individual songs often achieved the status of sacraments. One
September, I was driving through Waltham looking for a new
apartment when the sound on the car radio stunned me. I
pulled over to the side of the road, turned it up, demanded
silence of my friends and two minutes and fifty-six second
later knew that God had spoken to me through the Four Tops'
"Reach Out, I'll Be There," a record that I will cherish for
as long as [I] live.
During those often lonely years, music was my constant
companion and the search for the new record was like a search
for a new friend and new revelation. "Mystic Eyes" open mine
to whole new vistas in white rock and roll and there were
days when I couldn't go to sleep without hearing it a dozen
times.s
Whether it was a neurotic and manic approach to music, or
just a religious one, or both, I don't really care. I only
know that, then, as now, I'm grateful to the artists who gave
the experience to me and hope that I can always respond to
them.
The records were, of course, only part of it. In '65 and '66
I played in a band, the Jellyroll, that never made it. At the
time I concluded that I was too much of a perfectionist to
work with the other band members; in the end I realized I was
too much of an autocrat, unable to relate to other people
enough to share music with them.
Realizing that I wasn't destined to play in a band, I
gravitated to rock criticism. Starting with a few wretched
pieces in Broadside and then some amateurish but convincing
reviews in the earliest Crawdaddy, I at least found a
substitute outlet for my desire to express myself about rock:
If I couldn't cope with playing, I may have done better
writing about it.
But in those days, I didn't see myself as a critic -- the
writing was just another extension of an all-encompassing
obsession. It carried over to my love for live music, which I
cared for even more than the records. I went to the Club 47
three times a week and then hunted down the rock shows --
which weren't so easy to find because they weren't all
conveniently located at downtown theatres. I flipped for the
Animals' two-hour show at Rindge Tech; the Rolling Stones,
not just at Boston Garden, where they did the best half hour
rock'n'roll set I had ever seen, but at Lynn Football
Stadium, where they started a riot; Mitch Ryder and the
Detroit Wheels overcoming the worst of performing conditions
at Watpole Skating Rink; and the Beatles at Suffolk Down,
plainly audible, beatiful to look at, and confirmation that
we -- and I -- existed as a special body of people who
understood the power and the flory of rock'n'roll.
I lived those days with a sense of anticipation. I worked in
Briggs & Briggs a few summers and would know when the next
albums were coming. The disappointment when the new Stones
was a day late, the exhilaration when Another Side of Bob
Dylan showed up a week early. The thrill of turning on WBZ
and hearing some strange sound, both beautiful and horrible,
but that demanded to be heard again; it turned out to be
"You've Lost That Loving Feeling," a record that stands just
behind "Reach Out I'll Be There" as means of musical
catharsis.
My temperament being what it is, I often enjoyed hating as
much as loving. That San Francisco shit corrupted the purity
of the rock that I lvoed and I could have led a crusade
against it. The Moby G[CENSORED] moved me, but those songs about
White Rabbits and hippie love made me laugh when they didn't
make me sick. I found more rock'n'roll in the dubbed-in
hysteria on the Rolling Stones Got Live if You Want It than
on most San Francisco albums combined.
For every moment I remember there are a dozen I've forgotten,
but I feel like they are with me on a night like this, a
permanent part of my consciousness, a feeling lost on my mind
but never on my soul. And then there are those individual
experiences so transcendent that I can remember them as if
they happened yesterday: Sam and Dave at the Soul Together at
Madison Square Garden in 1967: every gesture, every movement,
the order of the songs. I would give anything to hear them
sing "When Something's Wrong with My Baby" just the way they
did it that night.
The obsessions with Otis Redding, Jerry Butler, and B.B. King
came a little bit later; each occupied six months of my time,
while I digested every nuance of every album. Like the Byrds,
I turn to them today and still find, when I least expect it,
something new, something deeply flet, something that speaks
to me.s
As I left college in 1969 and went into record production I
started exhausting my seemingly insatiable appetite. I felt
no less intensely than before about certain artists; I just
felt that way about fewer of them. I not only became more
discriminating but more indifferent. I found it especially
hard to listen to new faces. I had accumulated enough musical
experience to fall back on when I needed its companionship
but during this period in my life I found I needed music less
and people, whom I spend too much of my life ignoring, much
more.
Today I listen to music with a certain measure of detachment.
I'm a professional and I make my living commenting on it.
There are months when I hate it, going through the routine
just as a shoe salesman goes through his. I follow films with
the passion that music once held for me. But in my own
moments of greatest need, I never give up the search for
sounds that can answer every impulse, consume all emotion,
cleanse and purify -- all things that we have no right to
expect from even the greatest works of art but which we can
occasionally derive from them.
Still, today, if I hear a record I like it is no longer a
signal for me to seek out every other that the artist has
made. I take them as they come, love them, and leave them.
Some have stuck -- a few that come quickly to mind are Neil
Young's After the Goldrush, Stevie Wonder's Innervisions, Van
Morrison's Tupelo Honey, James Taylor's records, Valerie
Simpson's Exposed, Randy Newman's Sail Away, Exile on Main
Street, Ry Cooder's records, and, very specially, the last
three albums of Joni Mitchell -- but many more slip through
the mind, making much fainter impressions than their
counterparts of a decade ago.
But tonight there is someone I can write of the way I used to
write, without reservations of any kind. Last Thursday, at
the Harvard Square theatre, I saw my rock'n'roll past flash
before my eyes. And I saw something else: I saw rock and roll
future and its name is Bruce Springsteen. And on a night when
I needed to feel young, he made me feel like I was hearing
music for the very first time.
When his two-hour set ended I could only think, can anyone
really be this good; can anyone say this much to me, can
rock'n'roll still speak with this kind of power and glory?
And then I felt the sores on my thighs where I had been
pounding my hands in time for the entire concert and knew
that the answer was yes.
Springsteen does it all. He is a rock'n'roll punk, a Latin
street poet, a ballet dancer, an actor, a joker, bar band
leader, hot-shit rhythm guitar player, extraordinary singer,
and a truly great rock'n'roll composer. He leads a band like
he has been doing it forever. I racked my brains but simply
can't think of a white artist who does so many things so
superbly. There is no one I would rather watch on a stage
today. He opened with his fabulous party record "The E Street
Shuffle" -- but he slowed it down so graphically that it
seemed a new song and it worked as well as the old. He took
his overpowering story of a suicide, "For You," and sang it
with just piano accompaniment and a voice that rang out to
the very last row of the Harvard Square theatre. He did three
new songs, all of them street trash rockers, one even with a
"Telstar" guitar introduction and an Eddie Cochran rhythm
pattern. We missed hearing his "Four Winds Blow," done to a
fare-thee-well at his sensational week-long gig at Charley's
but "Rosalita" never sounded better and "Kitty's Back," one
of the great contemporary shuffles, rocked me out of my
chair, as I personally led the crowd to its feet and kept
them there.
Bruce Springsteen is a wonder to look at. Skinny, dressed
like a reject from Sha Na Na, he parades in front of his
all-star rhythm band like a cross between Chuck Berry, early
Bob Dylan, and Marlon Brando. Every gesture, every syllable
adds something to his ultimate goal -- to liberate our spirit
while he liberates his by baring his soul through his music.
Many try, few succeed, none more than he today.
It's five o'clock now -- I write columns like this as fast as
I can for fear I'll chicken out -- and I'm listening to
"Kitty's Back." I do feel old but the record and my memory of
the concert has made me feel a little younger. I still feel
the spirit and it still moves me.
I bought a new home this week and upstairs in the bedroom is
a sleeping beauty who understands only too well what I try to
do with my records and typewriter. About rock'n'roll, the
Lovin' Spoonful once sang, "I'll tell you about the magic
that will free your soul/But it's like trying to tell a
stranger about rock'n'roll." Last Thursday, I remembered that
the magic still exists and as long as I write about rock, my
mission is to tell a stranger about it -- just as long as I
remember that I'm the stranger I'm writing for.
ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ Tracklist ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ
CD1
01.Blinded by the Light [05:04]
02.For You [04:40]
03.Spirit in the Night [05:00]
04.4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy) [05:37]
05.Rosalita [07:04]
06.Thunder Road [04:51]
07.Born to Run [04:33]
08.Jungleland [09:36]
09.Badlands [04:04]
10.Darkness on the Edge of Town [04:31]
11.The Promised Land [04:31]
12.The River [05:00]
13.Hungry Heart [03:20]
14.Nebraska [04:29]
15.Atlantic City [03:56]
CD2
01.Born in the U.S.A. [04:42]
02.Glory Days [04:17]
03.Dancing in the Dark [04:03]
04.Tunnel of Love [05:12]
05.Brilliant Disguise [04:15]
06.Human Touch [06:31]
07.Living Proof [04:48]
08.Lucky Town [03:28]
09.Streets of Philadelphia [03:18]
10.The Ghost of Tom Joad [04:23]
11.The Rising [04:49]
12.Mary's Place [06:01]
13.Lonesome Day [04:07]
14.American Skin (41 Shots) [07:52]
15.Land of Hope and Dreams [09:22]
CD3
01.From Small Things (Big Things One Day Come) [02:42]
02.The Big Payback [01:58]
03.Held Up Without A Gun (Live) [01:21]
04.Trapped (Live) [05:10]
05.None But the Brave [05:35]
06.Missing [05:04]
07.Lift Me Up [05:16]
08.Viva Las Vegas [03:10]
09.County Fair [04:51]
10.Code of Silence (Live) [04:33]
11.Dead Man Walkin' [02:43]
12.Countin on A Miracle (Acoustic) [05:00]
-------
200:47 min
276,2 MB
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