My father was a police officer in the town of Fairfax, a suburb in Marin County. As I understand it, being a police officer was all that he ever wanted. For a family of West Texas poor folk, a city job and steady check, a house in Oak Manor and a young family was having the world by the tail. Fairfax and San Rafael were a bit sleepier then than they are now, which is to say that they were positively comatose. Aside from the occasional noise complaint from a young upstart band in the area ( that would go on to be known as the Grateful Dead) and a speeding ticket here and there, it seemed like our relations may have been the cause of dad's workload most days. Uncle Jerry wrapped his car around a redwood doing over one hundred miles an hour, his wife leapt from the roof of the Jack Tarr hotel while on acid and the eldest foster brother had stolen the christmas tree from the local country club after promising my mom she would have the prettiest Christmas tree anyone ever saw.
That was all a life that I never knew. Dad was injured on the job before I was born and took an early retirement. He may have never recovered fully from not being able to be police. He still carries his badge in an oversized leather wallet. By the time my sister and I were born in 1970, we were Sonoma County people, living on the river. Dad made all the right decisions and worked hard- driving trucks up on the Alaskan pipeline, buying small lots of vacation property when he could. He started tending bar when I was about ten. By then, Julie and I felt pretty comfortable. We owned a campground on the river. Mom had a shiny new convertible. We were a million miles away from my dad's west Texas childhood, having birthday parties with a hundred guests and getting a new in-ground swimming pool built in the backyard. Dad seemed to have cash. It all seemed pretty under control. Mom never had to work although she would choose to begin political consulting around 1982 as Reagan's America was still in its honeymoon stage. That was the same year that my sister and I were taken from the local public school system and enrolled in a small private school in town.
Dad spent every night posted up behind the bar at the Trophy Room. The Trophy Room was owned by a low profile Greek real estate investor and had come to be second most popular dive bar in town, behind only The Wagon Wheel. In the early 80's, when the Hell's Angels were still a regular presence in town, The Trophy Room became their default chapter house. Rumor has it that Sonny Barger's private release party was held there. You would never know it from my dad. He never spoke of work and he didn't cotton to answering questions about anything. One morning dad walked out to breakfast and his face was swollen and bloodied. He said that the car trunk had closed on him. We were young but not so young as to believe that. I was a little scared for him but he seemed fine. Over the next few days, a parade of unsavory looking characters, bikers and former foster children of my parents arrived in town for an impromptu reunion of friends. I would learn twenty years later that it was no reunion. It was a reckoning. I still don't know why someone jumped my dad outside the Trophy Room. And I don't know who did. But I know that on that weekend, I would have rather been anyone else on earth.
The nature of dad's clientele sometimes had a trickle down benefit to my sister and I. Someone might have been a bit short on their tab but had a couple of tickets for the upcoming Johnny Cash show or passes for the MLB All Star game in Oakland. Dad shared these spoils with us all evenly but when it came to music tickets, it was his youngest son that he favored- I saw Johnny and June, Townes, George Jones, Willie Nelson, The Beach Boys, Hank Jr and others. The best part was that you never knew when you were going to catch one of these breaks. Dad would pull up to the front of school to pick us ip and say " you want to go see Johnny Cash tonight?" and off you went.
By 1985, Dad was living in a studio apartment in town and we weren't seeing him as much. I was just starting to really develop a taste for what I liked in music. I naturally gravitated to the new wave that most of the kids my age were listening to. Dad and mom had gotten me into the best boys school in town and those kids didn't care about Johnny Cash. They cared about Frankie Goes to Hollywood, General Public, The Thompson Twins, Bourgeois Tagg and in the most exclusive circles bands like X, REM were making noise. I needed to BE one of those kids, so that was what I was listening to. I didn't think that my dad noticed. But he must have. Because one day I met my mom after school to go home and my sister wasn't there. When I asked where she was, mom said " your father is taking her to see Bruce somebody" in Oakland tonight.
Bruce somebody. My sister-whom I love with every fiber of my soul- did not own a cassette tape. She did not listen to music. To this day, I think that her favorite song is Breakfast at Tiffany. I was appalled at the oversight by my dad and later began to wonder whether I had fallen out of favor. I waited up for Julie to get home that night. When she did, you could see in her eyes that something magical had happened. That was worth noting. But what was jaw dropping was to hear my father talk about the show. He showed the sort of deference to Bruce Springsteen that was normally reserved for the kind of tough guys that you see in movies- the one armed ditch digger who worked 10 hours a day to feed his family, the football player who finished a full game with a broken leg. D. Carver doesn't stand in awe. This is the same man who, upon meeting a young Elvis Presley told his brother " he is a nice kid but he ain't Jerry Lee". It takes a lot to turn his head. I knew that I had missed something epic.
Nearly 25 years later, I was all set to settle the score. I had tickets to see Bruce and the band in Ft Lauderdale. I had flown to Nashville the day before for a job interview but had ensured that I would make it back to town in plenty of time to make the show. As I sat in the Nashville airport reading, nodding off and waiting, I saw Bruce's picture on the airport television. I stood up and walked closer to the screen. Danny Federici had passed away. The E Street Band was no longer whole. From a selfish perspective, I realized that I was not going to have my day in Mecca as planned. Like all fans, I mourned his loss. Then, Bruce announced the make up date- for a day when I had to be in Kentucky for work. The Boss eluded me again.
When Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band announced their tour dates for this year, the first thing I did was launch my ical to see what my schedule would be while he was in Ft Lauderdale. Turned out, I would not need to look at all. I knew instantly because it was the same weekend as the make up date had been years earlier and once again, I was going to be in Kentucky. I think that I resigned myself to not ever seeing my second favorite band of all time....ever. It stung but I am a lucky guy in so many other ways, I could live with it.
Then something awesome happened. I didn't have to go to Kentucky. I immediately went to look for a ticket and they were still selling General Admission. I bought one while humming " I've got a golden ticket" to myself. I called my wife who was in Kentucky and she said ' get me a ticket too.I'll be there." I was back at ticket master in seconds, got another ticket and today, straight from her flight in Ft Lauderdale, we will be waiting for wristbands and praying to really make this count and get into the pit.
My dad called me yesterday. He said he had been getting his affairs in order and wanted to know if there was anything in particular that I wanted. It had to be Kismet. The only thing that I can even think of that my dad didn't already give me was the chance to commune with The Boss and his band. And now, I had it. So, I told him I loved him and we made small talk about family fights and raising kids. I spent thirty years waiting to see Bruce Springsteen and in a few hours that wait will be over. It's beyond a bucket list. It's a list of its own. Last night, I laid in bed and thought about what songs I hoped to hear. Before I knew it, almost two hours had passed. It doesn't matter what he plays...just that he does.
In a time when the music industry is in upheaval over digital distribution, massive media communication conglomerates and spoon fed kiddie rock on the Disney Channels, how many other musicians could inspire that reaction? Somehow just knowing that he exists and does what he does makes me a little more comfortable that the music is gonna be alright. Like my dad, it may not always get to be what it WANTS to be but it will continue and evolve. As my friend Daryl Brothers says " the rock gods will always take care of their own". Indeed Brother Daryl. Indeed.
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