Dear Wayne,
We are from different generations, you and I. I’m just that little bit younger and, as a result, cannot count myself as part of the ‘Springsteen Generation’. Whereas you claim you were ‘born to run’, in contrast, having grown up in the 1980s I am ‘born to RUN DMC.’ This means that I am committed both to keeping it real and to kicking it old school style. Word up. And because I am a member of the hip-hop generation, allow me to give it to you straight. I like Bruce Springsteen. I even have a couple of his albums. I understand completely that people draw their inspiration from the most unlikely of sources and if I had you pegged more as a ‘Popcorn’ by Hot Butter kind of guy, then allow me to be the first to admit I was wrong.
Dear Wayne,
We are from different generations, you and I. I’m just that little bit younger and, as a result, cannot count myself as part of the ‘Springsteen Generation’. Whereas you claim you were ‘born to run’, in contrast, having grown up in the 1980s I am ‘born to RUN DMC.’ This means that I am committed both to keeping it real and to kicking it old school style. Word up. And because I am a member of the hip-hop generation, allow me to give it to you straight. I like Bruce Springsteen. I even have a couple of his albums. I understand completely that people draw their inspiration from the most unlikely of sources and if I had you pegged more as a ‘Popcorn’ by Hot Butter kind of guy, then allow me to be the first to admit I was wrong.
But ‘Born to Run’ as your soundtrack to Whitlam’s dismissal? Please, Wayne, tell me that you’ve listened to the lyrics. Bruce’s timeless ode is a yearning piece of melodrama about getting the hell out of wherever it is you are. It wasn’t about running for office. It’s about running away. It is – to be precise – about putting the foot to the floor and tearing off in the opposite direction without so much as a backwards glance at the town you’re leaving behind. At its heart, the song is something of a monumental kiss-off.
Let’s be honest: as far as metaphors go, ‘Born to Run’ is one big traffic accident, with image piled up on image, hopelessly confusing the listener until they are left begging for the saxophone solo to kick in. So twisted is the metaphorical wreck, that you’d need the Jaws of Life to have any hope of extracting anything resembling meaning. It starts off simply enough, as the tale of two star-crossed lovers plotting their escape from home into the broader world before things start to get a little weird in verse number two. Suddenly, a simple paean to skip town metamorphoses into an invitation to strap your hands around Bruce’s ‘engine’. Eeuwwww! Suddenly, Bruce himself is now some kind of car. As to precisely what make and model is left to the imagination, save that we know he has ‘velvet rims’. Perhaps, Wayne, you think of Bruce as some kind of classic American muscle car like a Mustang. Whatever the make, there’s a good chance that he would have qualified under the ‘Cash for Clunkers’ scheme.
But it gets even worse. After a first verse that’s all about cars, and second verse in which our hero turns into a car, the protagonists are ultimately forced to flee on foot. It’s right there in the title – Born to Run. Talk about a let-down! Whether Bruce’s engine isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be or whether the vehicle in question is modelled on the one that Fred Flintstone used to tear around Bedrock in is anybody’s guess. How far they get, how long they have to wait for roadside assistance and whether they’re within striking distance of a train are questions that never receive the benefit of an answer. That’s because the song isn’t really about the words, Wayne. It’s about the glorious and unholy noise that the E-Street band makes as their friend indulges in his pre-emptive Transformer Optimus Prime fantasy of one day turning into a car. It’s the band that really makes the song.
I don’t begrudge you the right to love Bruce Springsteen. But to rely on the Boss to complain about rich people is, of itself, a bit rich. Particularly if your chief complaint is their ability to obtain a disproportionately large megaphone with which to distort the national debate. That you did so in magazine form and then in a televised lecture is so spectacular an irony that it’s difficult to know where to begin. That this has escaped you suggests that there’s not nearly enough irony in your diet. Indeed, I would dare to suggest that you’re suffering a serious irony deficiency. As great as Bruce is, for a solid dose of irony I would suggest you switch to Frank Zappa. Come to think of it, shouldn’t this nation’s economic spokesperson be promoting home-grown music rather than something from overseas? Maybe a blast of Lobby Lloyde and the Coloured Balls or little bit of Sherbert? Buy local, Wayne.
If you were truly taking your inspiration from New Jersey’s finest, you wouldn’t release an essay – you’d release an album. Not under your own name but under some kind of stage name. I’d suggest ‘Swan Lake’. As a tribute to your electorate, the opening track could be a take on the old Kinks song, ‘Pictures of Lilley’. From there, you’d want to take it up a notch and do a version of The Beatles’ ‘Taxman’. Warming to your topic, you could then sink the boots in on track three with a rendition of the Painters and Dockers’ classic, ‘Die Yuppie Die’. As I see it, the album would have a mid-70s progressive rock feel. Craig Emerson would, obviously, love to help out. And because every band needs creative friction, you should probably ask Clive Palmer to join too. Together, as Emerson, Swan Lake and Palmer, your version of ‘Fanfare for the Common Man’ would take the charts by storm.
It is, perhaps, too much to hope for. Whilst I suppose we should be grateful that the budget papers don’t come affixed with a picture of the ministerial backside, replete with red rag hanging from the back denim pocket, I’d still prefer it if you released a single instead. Perhaps I’m showing my hip-hop credentials, where conflict was routinely settled through a rap battle or a break dancing competition. Not by way of an essay. Then again, perhaps that’s just one more difference between you and I. Word up.