Sunday, March 8, 2015

"Hungry Heart" (Bruce Springsteen)

I've always respected Bruce Springsteen.  I hear the blue collar poetry of an album like Born to Run or even Born in the U.S.A., and it makes me realize how intelligent and important to American music he is.
But I have a really hard time getting into (most of) his music.  His bordering-on-Broadway productions, like "Thunder Road" or "Jungleland," or stripped-to-the-bone numbers, like the title track from 1982's Nebraska, just never resonated with me.  And that has always frustrated me.  Because when I consider his musical pedigree, it's all stuff I like: Phil Spector, Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie...  I think he loses me when things take a turn for the Bernstein.  (I just prefer my leather jackets and knife fights without the choreography, I guess.)
In fact, I've often wondered what Springsteen's populist lyrics would sound like in the context of punk.
Speaking of, the one Springsteen song that I really love has a punk rock connection.  In 1979, Springsteen saw The Ramones play his hometown of Asbury Park, NJ, and met frontman Joey Ramone after the show.  Ramone asked him to write a song for The Ramones, and Springsteen came up with "Hungry Heart."  But when Springsteen's manager, Jon Landau, heard the composition, he convinced him to keep it for his next album, 1980's The River.  Pretty good advice, considering it was Springsteen's first Top 5 single.
Anyway, there's no risk of anyone confusing "Hungry Heart" for The Ramones.  The feel is very 1960s "Wall of Sound," which creates the perfect backdrop for Springsteen's portrait of a guy who is torn between wanting to settle down and wanting to roam.  
Musically, it walks a fine line between elation and frustration for three taut minutes with its insistent piano, soaring soul organ, and thundering, reverb-y drums.  And then there's Springsteen's fervent vocal, which seems as indebted to Ronnie Spector on "Be My Baby" as it does Roy Orbison on "Running Scared."  
In short, it's dramatic and stirring with a hefty helping of melancholy.  It's the stuff of French art films, set in working-class America.





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