In the current New Yorker, David Remnick profiles Bruce Springsteen, the closest thing to a pop-star hero of mine. Naturally, I devoured every word. The affecting thing is the way the article brings into view, sort of, the daily life of a zillionaire celebrity who, no matter how many houses he has, is obliged to go home and try to sleep in the oversized master bedroom of one of them. The stuff that's for sale is just not that great. And there is this:
As Springsteen sees it, the creative talent has always been nurtured by the darker currents of his psyche, and wealth is no guarantee of bliss. "I'm thirty years in analysis!" he said.
Turns out his analyst explained to him why he kept driving by the house he grew up in. One wonders what else he got from the 30 years of fee-for-service. The people in his songs just have another beer. Anyway, Remnick has been posting links to Springsteen in concert, many of them from the early days. Here. Here. And here.
