Springsteen on American Idol?

There are wars and rumors of wars. There is famine. There is strife. An energy crisis looms. But the surest sign yet of the end times is this: A Springsteen song was sung on American Idol.

On May 16th, leading contestant Taylor Hicks sang Dancing in the Dark - making him the first contestant in the show's five seasons to sing the music of the boss. Hicks thanked Clive Davis for personally appealing to Springsteen for permission to use the song, making the performance possible.

I buried my face in my hands and wept openly.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not an American Idol basher. Sure it's sometimes mean, often bad and frequently shameful in it's drawn-out dramatics. Certainly, it is not a show that will deliver musicians of Springsteen's caliber. But I understand that not all situations call for a genius like Springsteen, an artist who leads and inspires people to improve themselves.

There is room in the world, I would hope, for poets like Springsteen and also for people who just belt out songs suitable for the prom. Why not? You have to play something at the prom!

I even watch American Idol regularly, something that began for me soon after discovering in the middle of the second season - quite by accident - that the sound of Clay Aiken's voice was the only thing that would soothe my colicky baby. I don't understand it. You don't understand it. No one understands it. It is just one of those mysteries of the universe. But it's true. I have witnesses.

My son is no longer colicky, but I continue watching because I developed some sort of Pavlovian response. The opening credits roll and I feel a deep sense of calm, the sort of calm that only a parent of a child who just quit crying can feel. It's a guilty pleasure. What can I say?

But I thought I could keep this separate from my more serious and respectable Springsteen obsession. My husband and I would joke about it sometimes. "When are they going to have Springsteen week on American Idol?" And we'd laugh at the absurdity of the idea! As if Springsteen would agree to let his songs be butchered in such a way!

Who's laughing now?

Well, fair enough. I suppose that Springsteen is as vulnerable to personal appeals from respected old codgers as everyone else. And he certainly doesn't need my permission to do what he wants. And how judgemental can I be, given that I'm the proud author of a book in which a minor European princess uses Springsteen lyrics to plot her career moves. (Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle has gotten great reviews. Check them out!)

And if there had to be a Springsten song on American Idol, Dancing in the Dark was as good as any. It's the closest thing to a "prom" song that Springsteen has, right down to the expressed dissatisfaction with appearance.

I felt, surprisingly okay about it -- until Simon Cowell critiqued Hicks' performance by saying it was a pale imitation of the original and the audience actually booed. They were booing the suggestion that Taylor Hicks was not Bruce Springsteen! Let me go lie down!

But then I remembered something. I was a young teen when "Born in the USA" came out. True Bruce Fans didn't like the album. They thought it was too commercial. They thought he had sold out. But I was a silly young thing that didn't even really know who Springsteen was. I didn't care about any of that. I just watched "Dancing in the Dark" on Friday Night Videos and I thought it was sort of fun and that Bruce was sort of cute. So I bought the album. And I listened to songs that were about more important things than not being satisfied with your appearance. And then I bought his other albums and they opened up a new world for me. I suppose you could say they changed my life.

And maybe that will happen again now. Out there in a troubled nation are 13-year-old girls who have never heard Nebraska or Darkness on the Edge of the Town. But will like the song that Hicks sang and give some Springsteen a try. And maybe it will change their life too.

And viewed that way, the sound of Springsteen on American Idol isn't a sign of the end, but of some kind of beginning!

Oh, to have royal penmanship!

They say, of course, that growing older is just one long realization that your parents were right. About everything.

I have not, by this standard, gotten completely old. I still think my dad was wrong, for example, about not letting me drive myself to a Springsteen concert half a state away a few weeks after getting a driver's license. (No, I would not let my own child do this. I'm not sure I'd let my own child drive across town at that point, but that is neither here nor there.)

I have, however, begun to realize they were right about quite a lot. Not the least of which is this: I should have worked more on my penmanship.

I am a handwriting disaster. I hold my writing instrument in a peculiar way. (Once when interviewing an educator, she noticed my grip and said: "Your first grade teacher should be fired." I found that to be a bit harsh.) But my grip isn't really the whole problem. I'm not sure what the whole problem is. I can't draw either, for what that's worth. Perhaps it's a fine motor issue? Maybe someone should study me!

I did at some point realize, perhaps in high school, that really cool, lovely, pretty girls -- the popular ones -- have neat handwriting, completely unlike what I do. I write sort of like a guy. A sloppy guy. A guy who's not trying. A guy who is scribbling. I made some effort to shape up then. But it was too late. Or I didn't make enough effort. Or something.

Years of taking notes as a reporter only made things worse. My scribbles turned to scrawls. I could read my own work -- although sometimes only barely. I lived in fear that some day, in real life, my editor would do what Lou Grant always did on television. He would tell me to give my notes to someone else and let that person write the story. What a laugh that would be! All my failings would be exposed. The notes would be passed around and people would try to guess what language they were in.

About three years ago, I left daily reporting and my handwriting improved a little. I was able to write more slowly. I was able to drop some bad habits. But when my book came out last month, I encountered again this problem. See, people kindly asked me to SIGN their book. It's a writer's dream -- to get a book published and then have people ask them to sign it. I was thrilled! Until I actually held the book in my hands and held a pen and started to write!

I held this lovely book, which this nice person has purchased, and which represents a lifetime of storytelling development, and I contemplated actually writing my name in it.

My signature, you see, remains bad. It has been resistant to the improvements I made in general writing. When you sign your name, after all, you don't think about it. The motions learned in 3rd grade -- or whenever you learned cursive -- just come automatically.

An autographed book is supposed to be a treasured thing -- a keepsake, a collectors item. Generations from now people will go through their grandparents bookshelves and get rid of almost everything -- but an autographed book? THAT will be a keeper.

Except, I fear, in my case.

Could I actually be making the book LESS valuable by signing it? "Gee, look at this," I imagine someone saying, "A third grader scribbled in it!"

So yes, my father was quite right. I should have worked more on penmanship. And to all the people who were kind enough to have me sign their book, I apologize. I really do!

My top five Springsteen concerts

1) The Ghost of Tom Joad tour – Palace Theater, Louisville, Ky., 11/20/96 – Seeing Springsteen play solo in a small theater felt like winning the lottery. One of the most memorable moments was when he played a haunting, slow, almost unrecognizable acoustic version of Born in the U.S.A. I’ve heard that many times since, but that was the first time I heard it that way and I liked the way it make it impossible to misinterpret the lyrics. After the concert, Springsteen crept quietly back on stage for the diehard few that knew to wait for him. People were still filing out of the auditorium behind us, not realizing that the star had come back out, holding his finger to his lips to make sure that no one gave him away by calling out. He talked to fans and signed autographs and I remember noticing how people kept addressing him as “Mr. Springsteen.” In a society that barely used “Mr.” for the president any more, I thought that said a lot about what he has meant to people over the years. If I ever got close enough to speak to him, I’d call him Mr. Springsteen too.

2) World Tour with the E Street Band, Alltel Arena, Little Rock, AR, 3/14/2000 – Given that my family is from Arkansas, I always loved the song Mary Queen of Arkansas and am thrilled to say that I’m one of only a few thousand people who’ve heard it live in the last quarter of a century. He played it on this night for the first time in over 25 years. The night further stands out for being the time I got his autograph and Clarence Clemons’. We stood with a group of fans at a back entrance of the arena. Clemons came out and posed for pictures and signed autographs and, later, just as we were about to give up, a white van pulled out – a door slid open and Springsteen himself was sitting next the door. He only signed three items – and one of them was my CD cover. (My husband is tall and was able to thrust the cover into the van.)

3) World Tour with the E Street Band November 9, 1999 Milwaukee, WI – The band was back together and seeing that was amazing. And seeing Springsteen jump around on the stage, leaping from the top of pianos and so forth, was simply inspiring. The man is in better shape than he was 50 years ago. (In fact, that is one of the things that struck me when watching the recently released Born to Run concert DVD – Springsteen has probably gained 40 pounds in the past 30 years and IT’S ALL MUSCLE.

4) The Rising Tour, Dec. 17, 2002, Indianapolis, IN Conseco Fieldhouse – This was a moving concert for me, for reasons that are both national and personal. The national part is obvious. The Rising was widely acclaimed for it’s treatment of 9/11 themes and seeing Springsteen perform these songs live was one of those moments when I’ve been sure he is a prophet. Personally, this was just a few months after my son was born. I was still nursing, still getting up several times a night with him. I was beginning to feel a little, well, haggard. And this was the first time he and I were not in the same city – though it was only for a few hours. I missed him terribly and raced home to watch him sleep, but it had also felt good to be a little like my old self again.

5) Devils and Dust tour, May 11, 2005, Chicago, Ill, Rosemont Theatre – Once again, this was Springsteen alone on a stage. I won the lottery again. The theatre was bigger this time and so the mood wasn’t exactly the same, but it was a surreal event with Springsteen playing the pump organ at one point and the banjo at another. As at the earlier solo concert I saw, Springsteen talked more than he does when playing with a band. Among other things, he made the point that you’re defined by the sacrifices you make. I don’t even remember what his point was when he said, but it’s a comment that my husband and I have referred back to often in the past year as we’ve discussed how what we WANT to do, is often a little different than what we think is best for our family. We try, at least, to make the sacrifices that we’ll be proud of later.

My favorite Springsteen albums!

Picking my five favorite Springsteen songs for the back of my novel was a painful exercise. But picking my five favorite albums is relatively easy. After all, there are fewer to chose from!

So here are my favorite Springsteen albums. At least, they're my favorites today. If you're a Springsteen fan, feel free to disagree and make your own list. And if you're new to Springsteen -- you lucky dog! You get to discover all these albums for the first time!

1) Born to Run -- It's a classic. It's timeless. It's the definition of rock music. It's the best album ever. What can I say?

2) Darkness on the Edge of Town -- This is a grittier, meaner album but one that is, ultimately optimistic. "It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive," after all.

3) Nebraska -- It's not the most obvious Springsteen album to play on a road trip, but check it out on a long drive -- especially a long drive at night. It captures the essence of bleary-eyed driving -- not to mention serial killers, dead dogs, used cars and faith.

4) Tunnel of Love -- This would be one of more controversial choices, certainly. But Tunnel of Love has a jaunty, happy feeling to it -- even when it is painting less than ideal portraits of American marriage and family life. I like that.

5) The Ghost of Tom Joad -- It's like the Grapes of Wrath set to music! Seriously, it stands out to me because it was the first signal, to me at least, that Springsteen -- always gifted when writing about people and ways of life that he knew well -- could also write in a compelling and emotional way about the problems of people he did not know. Be they dust bowl victims or illegal aliens working in meth labs.

Do I get Springsteen?

A natural worry for any first time novelist – at least for any worry-wart first time novelist like myself – is that people will assume that any remark made in the book, by any character, actually reflects the opinion of the author.

After all, the author wrote it right? It must reflect her opinion in some way!

Of particular concern to me is what people will assume about my understanding of Bruce Springsteen lyrics. Will they think I believe the song Cover Me is truly about sun protection? Could I really believe that the album Greetings from Asbury Park is all about vacation planning? Do I think Springsteen cares what color ball gown a princess wears? Surely not.

I guess, however, that I do worry that people will underestimate my appreciation of Springsteen. They will think that because I’m writing about silly, spoiled people and their silly, spoiled reactions to his song, that I think the songs are truly trivial or at least easily misinterpreted.

I do not. I have been known to describe Springsteen as a modern day “prophet.” And while I hesitate to actually put such lofty praise in writing, I do think he has an amazing ability to sum up our nations problems and throw them back at us in moving and meaningful way. When he sang “Devils and Dust” at the Grammies, I was touched again by his summing up of a fairly complicated position on the Iraq war – one that doesn’t demonize anyone or any political position. But simply asks some tough questions. “What if what you do to survive kills the things you love?” What indeed?

When I was a small town high school student with dreams that went beyond the county line, Springsteen spoke to me with his songs about moving on to new places to find a promised land. Of course, kids finding meaning in rock songs is nothing new. But what is different, I think, is that when I listen to those songs now – older, happier, in something that very much resembles the promised land I was looking for, the songs still speak to me. To some extent, they speak to me by simply reminding me how far I’ve come. But it’s more impressive that they speak to me in other ways. There are the political statements and the economic statements, of course. But there is also this: The things he wrote when he was in his early 20s about growing older, still seem right when you’re in your extremely late 30s and growing older. How did he know? And does that qualify him as a prophet?

What's true?

The recent controversy about James Frey's book A Million Little Pieces has prompted tons of interesting commentary on the nature of "truth" in a memoir and the ethical obligations of authors and publishers.

But it strikes me that James Frey's problem is almost exactly the opposite of the awkward problem facing novelists. He wrote a supposedly true story that people have doubts about. Novelists write fiction, meanwhile, but people somehow still believe it is true!

I once sat through a conversation among several aspiring novelists that illustrates this. One of the women in the group had written a story in which the main character's husband played guitar. The man sitting next to her thought a technical aspect of the guitar playing was described wrong and he turned to the author's husband, who was also in the group, and asked if it were correct. We all turned to look expectantly at the husband. Remember we were all writers. We understood the concept of fiction. And yet, we turned to her husband to see how he answered this.

"I don't play the guitar," the husband said.

The writer blushed and apologized and we all cringed for realizing that we had -- for a moment -- assumed that the husband in the book was the same as the husband in real life.

It's a hard impulse to overcome. When the cover of my book first started circulating among friends, I was surprised that people asked why the woman on the cover was wearing jeans with high heels. "You never wear jeans and high heels," people said. Well, no, I don't. But I'm not Princess Isabella of Bisbania either. The woman on the book is.

For a first novelist like myself, this is a somewhat terrifying phenomenon. No one could possibly think that my story of a minor European princess is about me. That is what I tell myself. But then I reread a passage about a battle between the princess and the queen and I wonder if my own mother-in-law will think that I'm talking about her. Later, as I think about the man who haunts the princess on sleepless nights, I realize I gave him dark hair. But my husband's hair is light. Will this mean that every dark-haired boyfriend from my past will assume that he haunts me on sleepless nights. (The answer to any ex-boyfriends reading this is: Sorry, but no. If I can't sleep, I'm usually haunted by things like: "Did I lock the front door? Did I give the cat her insulin shot? Is it just me or is Simon Cowell even ruder this year?"

The truth is, of course, that there are aspects of the Princess that I share. (Fine, fly-away hair that is hard to control.) But there is a little piece of me in every single character in my book -- both the men and the women, the young and the old, the good and the bad. But my mother-in-law is very nice. And I don't think about ex-boyfriends late at night. And I will never, ever wear high heels with blue jeans. And that's the truth.

Happy New Year

Bonne Année!

The main characters in my book, Princess Izzy and the E Street Shuffle, have some issues with Paris. They are constantly rolling their eyes and complaining about all things French.

But you must understand, these are not Americans making some sort of geopolitical comment while eating their freedom fries. No, no, these are the citizens and residents of a tiny European country that sits in the shadow of France, one that is united by its hatred of Paris, a hatred that only the truly envious can understand. What’s wrong with Bisbanian fries after all? Why couldn’t the world be wild about those?

My own trip to Paris in 1998 was an absolute delight and I was happy to find that the people were very gracious to my husband and I, though our halting, phrase-book French was inadequate, laughable and in one case, fortuitous.

We were eating breakfast at a lovely café, when I timidly attempted to order a caffe latte. The waitress smiled and in a pleasing mix of French/English and the international symbol of chilly – the shiver – asked if I wanted it served hot or cold.

Relieved that she was not angry at me for my inability to speak French, I said “hot’ and gave her a big smile. Moments later, she served me a steaming cup of ... milk. I realized then, I had left out one of the most important words (and most important ingredients) in the caffe latte – the caffe.

I quickly surmised that there was no polite way to ask for her to correct my own mistake and vowed to make do.

I was pleased to discover that steamed milk is actually quite good. And it turns out it is actually available in places much closer to home – exotic, French places and, you know, places like Starbucks.

My new year’s resolution is to drink more steamed milk – often called a steamer. According to Starbucks’ website, a tall steamed non-fat milk with a sugar free syrup has 130 calories, no fat, 13 grams of protein and 40 percent of your daily requirement of calcium. And it’s warm in your hand and smooth on your throat just like coffee.

But watch out for the tempting offer of whipped cream on top. That messes with the good nutritional vibe.

But then again, French women don’t get fat. (Or so I’ve heard.)