The line of fans—approximately 1,000 of them—stretches to Border Cafe, snakes around the corner of Mass. Ave. and Church St., blows past CVS, winds through the door of the Harvard Square Coop, and twists in loops up the store’s massive staircase. In a stuffy corner on the third floor, this yellow brick road of humans arrives at the feet of the wizard himself: Bruce Springsteen, music’s patron saint of grit and soul, who’s still rocking and rolling after four decades atop the charts.
Undeterred by an early wakeup on a Monday, the select few at the front of the line appear downright giddy as they await Springsteen’s entrance on Oct. 10. “My husband says this is like meeting the Pope,” one woman gushes to her companion.
“It’s much better,” the friend replies.
Atop one of the nearby bookshelves, a placard reads “Cultural Studies.” But the hubbub unfolding in the corner—a promotional event for Springsteen’s new memoir, “Born to Run”—provides far more of an education about culture than the tomes on the bookshelf ever could. As fan after fan approaches Springsteen, who’s donning a black leather jacket and grey scarf, the scene becomes a fascinating microcosm of celebrity idolatry and the society that sustains it. Springsteen will never remember the throngs of people for whom this Monday is a lifetime highlight. Listeners can develop intimate yet one-sided relationships with a stranger they know only through the radio. The exalted can seem so very regular standing in a bookstore instead of a stadium; the regular can feel downright exalted standing in the presence of a man to whom they owe a great deal of happiness.
In the zigzagging line to reach The Boss, fans contemplate what to say to this musician who has spoken so powerfully to them. Brian Marcus—a longtime fan drawn to Springsteen in part because he shares the musician’s Asbury Park, N.J., roots—made the trek to Cambridge from New York. His plan for the meet-and-greet is simple: “Thank him for the music.” (In Marcus’s case, that’s quite a bit of music—he has attended upwards of 50 Springsteen concerts.)
Arlington resident Mitzy Pallotta used to jam to Springsteen’s songs with her high school pals in the 1970s, when they “kind of became our theme songs.” Four decades and 11 concerts later, Pallotta intends to tell Springsteen, “Thanks for all the great music and memories.”
Others are less confident about their messages for the star. For Amy Slicer, Springsteen is a generational heirloom—passed along from her father to her, from her to her son Colin. “We’re so nervous. We don’t know what to say [to him],” Slicer laughs, waiting with Colin on the ground floor of the Coop. “We want a hug and a high five and [to] tell him we love him.” Riana Odin, an Emerson graduate from Connecticut, agrees: “I can’t even think of anything. I’m a writer and I have no words.” Odin is one of many who describes this opportunity in hyperbolic terms. “This was number one on my bucket list,” she says. “I honestly didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to meet him, and I’ve always pictured myself fainting when I do.”
In front of a blow-up backdrop of the memoir’s cover, these folks all have their chance to thank or hug or faint. As Springsteen poses for photos, flashing a pleasant if not exuberant smile in each snap, fans manage to personalize their brief moments by his side: One guy shows him a tattoo. The most audacious women plant kisses on his cheek. A burly man declares “I love ya, Bruce” before pulling him in for an unsolicited hug. Some admirers show off their t-shirts, bearing standards like “Occupy E Street” and “Keep Calm and Love Bruce Springsteen.” A lady reminds him that they met at a wedding, when her cousin married his cousin. A two-year-old flashes a “Springsteen for President” button; he hoists her into the air for the picture.
Springsteen elicits a stunning degree of loyalty among his followers. Dave Porter, who has crisscrossed the Atlantic to watch Springsteen play in Ireland and England, credits the star’s easy relatability as the force that has compelled him to attend 35 concerts. “Every part of my life—Bruce has been there,” Porter praises. “Getting married. Having kids. Seeing kids off to college. Everything.”
For Odin, Springsteen’s appeal stems from the magic of his music, the down-to-earth charm of the unapologetic anthems he preaches. She recalls the first time she heard him in fifth grade: “I just remember being in my dad’s car, and 'Born to Run' was playing, and [I was] just thinking that this was the best song I’d ever heard in my short life of 10 years.” She has gone to surprising measures to hear that tune up close, once sneaking past eight security guards at Fenway Park to nab a better spot in the pit of a concert.
To his devotees, Springsteen is the energy of “Born in the USA” and “Dancing in the Dark” and “Rosalita” and all those hits that made listeners love. He is the poignancy of “Glory Days”—the little guy who hit it big but keeps returning to his roots. He is the tenacity of his most recent tour, jamming for four hours at age 67 in front of sold-out crowds. He is the inevitability of his ascendancy to the heights of music and the constancy of his stay there.
All the way back by Border Cafe, Glenn Gardner, a South Shore local, settles in for a long wait. He has the distinct honor—the distinct nuisance—of calling himself the very last person in line. But Gardner does not mind; he has the day off from work for Columbus Day. A calm tableau in a buzzy line, he cracks open his brand-new copy of "Born to Run" and begins to read the first page, the wind ruffling through the pages as the line inches forward. Two hours stand between Gardner and Springsteen, but The Boss is worth waiting for, and his fans are in it for the long haul.
