I’ve heard at least a dozen times that smell is the sense most closely associated with memory, but it’s hard to imagine anything invoking memory more than music. As soon as I saw Bruce’s silhouette when he walked on the stage last night, I was back in Amy’s living room seeing the Born in the USA album cover for the very first time. And then I was driving home from my cruddy summer job with the windows rolled down, singing “Born to Run” as loud as my lungs could belt it. It’s been more years than I can count on my fingers since either one of those things happened, but my heart tells me it was yesterday. I’m pretty sure Bruce didn’t realize how many years had passed either, because I can’t imagine anyone who’s only months shy of 60 working the stage for three hours the way he did.
If someone asked me who my favorite musician was, I’m not sure Springsteen would come to mind. But every note and word last night brought me back to places and times that I never want to forget. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that anyone who signs up to move every six months is decidedly Born to Run.
