Bruce Springsteen has kept me company for decades

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I only remember a few of the Christmas presents I received during the 18 years of my childhood. There were two Madame Alexander dolls, a t-shirt that said, “Here Comes Trouble” and a unicycle I never did learn how to ride.

And then there was the compilation album: “Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band Live/1975-1985.” It was 40 songs, recorded in various clubs, concert halls and stadiums over 10 years. If you played it from beginning to end, which I did — ad nauseam — it lasted 3 hours and 30 minutes. My Aunt Ann, who was single and cool, bought it for me. The five cassette tapes were packaged in a plastic case that squeaked when you opened it and crunched when you closed it, and included a 31-page booklet of lyrics and photographs. My life was never the same.

I have no idea where or when I first heard of Bruce Springsteen. Or what made me ask for that album in December 1986. I was a 14-year-old ninth grader who had just moved to Queens, New York, from Washington state. By that time, Springsteen was a rock ’n’ roll god with a bad boy reputation. I was an earnest, over-achieving teenage girl who played by the rules and was rewarded by the system. He had a difficult relationship with his father. My dad was (and still is) a prince — a supportive, demonstrative man who never misses an opportunity to tell you he loves you. Springsteen was a hometown hero, synonymous with New Jersey. I was a nomadic army brat. But Springsteen has said he always felt like he was on the outside, looking in. And that was exactly how I felt.

I heard echoes of my own struggles in his lyrics. His stories spoke to my love of fairness and righteousness and my concerns about American meritocracy not living up to its promises. (Have I mentioned that I was rather earnest?) He knew that we are all sinners who are just doing the best we can. It was a kind of grace, a benediction that I wasn’t getting from the Catholic church, and I was all in.

Everyone has their favorite Springsteen song. I’m predictable. “Born to Run” and “Thunder Road” have always been among my favorites. But the rest of my personal Top 10 list is a revolving roster, depending on what’s going on in my life and the wider world. I loved “The River” as a young adult thinking about irrevocable decisions; I played “The Rising” on repeat in the early aughts; and “If I Should Fall Behind” speaks to me in midlife.

Still, I don’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of Springsteen’s discography. I can’t recognize every song from the first few chords. And I’ve only seen him in concert a handful of times. (My friend Steven, on the other hand, has seen him perform live 148 times.)

I realize now that I like to keep my idols at a certain arm’s length. And the more I love them, the more distance I create. I’ve never made a pilgrimage to Asbury Park or wrestled with rumors of his infidelity head on. I call him Springsteen instead of Bruce, which feels too intimate, too familiar. I think this is because I realize even rockstars — or perhaps especially rockstars — are flawed human vessels for bold, beautiful ideas and I have a hard enough time reckoning with my own flaws.

The live shows I've seen were all incredible. But what I adore most about Springsteen are his lyrics, his words. “Listen to this,” I said more than once to the patient boyfriend who became my husband after pausing “Thunder Road” to make sure he was paying attention:

The screen door slams, Mary's dress sways

Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays

“There are no adjectives!” I explained. “He does all of that with nouns and verbs!”

And that isn’t the only trick Springsteen has up his sleeve. Here’s how his greatest magic trick works. To paraphrase him: Before a show or before you listen to a song, there is nothing. Just an empty space. But you arrive at that moment or that place. And he does, too. And together you create something, an “us”. Together you manifest something that wasn’t there before, you create something new out of thin air.

It’s that “us” that makes me love Springsteen. Magic, indeed.

On Wednesday night, I got to see “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere” at the Virginia Film Festival. And it felt like Christmas morning all over again.

To prepare for the role of Springsteen, Jeremy Allen White listened to Springsteen read the 18-hour-long recording of his autobiography, “Born to Run” over and over. “That was on in the house all the time,” said White. “When I’d go for a run, when I’m going for a walk, when I’m making dinner. It was helpful to have his voice with me all the time.”

I can relate. I’ve nursed three babies, washed thousands of dishes and run hundreds of miles with Springsteen whispering in my ear. I am so damn grateful for his company.