In this legendary mid-70s essay I finally reveal the true story of how The Boss was discovered.
WE ROCK PUNDITS, critics and reviewers, Rockwells of good taste, O'Neills of moral fervor, are in reality no better than the average slob on the street, nose pressed up against the windowpanes of status.
We have our own highly-defined Continental League where we vie in the standings for points, key by-lines, new discoveries, lead quotes. Each of us reads the daily papers to keep tabs on the opposition. Each scans the monthlies nervously, afraid of missing a shift in the national musical mood. The competition is fierce and deadly. At times sly and subtle, it is often hidden in the guise of camaraderie.
Let me take you back to the summer of '74, to the Bottom Line, New York's famed hot spot and hangout, where the group known as Kansas was being showcased before the press and trade over cocktails, convivial chatter, and free food.
I arrived early, nodding and smiling at familiar faces as I moved toward the free food. Halfway there I spotted a face too familiar to ignore: Bruce Springsteen, then as yet a budding superstar, a year away from the hoopla and the simultaneous covers of Time and Newsweek which are now media legend.
Springsteen and I went all the way back. I was, in fact, one of the prime contenders for the title of "The Man Who Discovered Bruce Springsteen," along with three or four other prominent journalists – each convinced his case was at least as good as mine.
"Hey, Bruce!" we said to each other, almost in unison, as I slid into the last vacant seat at his table, next to him and across from his manager, a photographer and the photographer's girlfriend from Ohio. Taking this seat I was aware of my honored status. Not every pundit was invited to sit at the arm of a budding superstar – and I was at his arm, his mouth was less than a foot from my ear. I was in position, through judiciously disarming tactics, to elicit virtually a column's worth of spicy quotes, perhaps to scoop the entire music press on some unsavory scandal heretofore unknown to even avid Springsteenophiles.
If I maneuvered it right, perhaps I could get the photog to snap one of me and Springsteen together, which I could paste into my scrapbook, alongside the one of myself and Martin Mull. I even saw the caption: Bruce and Bruce – Two Rising Stars!
At which point, who should saunter by but another contender for "The Man Who Discovered Bruce Springsteen" title. (In the tradition of post-Watergate morality and candor, I shall refer to him as Deep Craw.)
Now the history of my rivalry with Deep Craw for the B.S. trophy (Bruce Springsteen, that is) was already probably legend in the industry. Although I was one of the first to view the Asbury kid when he opened for David Bromberg one dismal evening in Boston in January, 1973, Deep Craw ran a cover story in his magazine on the boy a full month before my ecstatic review hit the stands.
During the long lull before Bruce's second album, Deep Craw could be heard on the street, claiming to have written the liner notes for it. But when the album appeared, no liner notes could be found. (God, was I relieved!) Instead it was I who came up with the plum, the Sunday Times review of that album, which offered written notice to the world that I (as well as, of course, Springsteen) had arrived.
Then the capperoo. When Rolling Stone ran the Springsteen ad, there was my name under the huge lead blurb. Below it, definitely in second place, came Deep Craw's quote, no less ecstatic, no less huge, but obviously outgunned. Perhaps Deep Craw had been there first, but clearly I was the one to watch.
At the Bottom Line, Deep Craw luckily could not fit next to Bruce and had to settle for a seat way at the far end of the table, squeezed in behind the photographer's girlfriend. I chuckled as I leaned over and whispered a joke for Springsteen's private benefit.
At which point Don Kirshner appeared on the horizon. Kirshner was the man who had signed Kansas to his label. He and I went part of the way back, so I had to momentarily leave the table to score a point with Donnie. When I returned I found that Deep Craw had swiped my seat! Blinded by self-pity, I stumbled into his seat, from which obscure outpost I sat through Kansas' set – chagrined, dumbfounded, alone.
When the set ended, suddenly the then-president of Columbia Records, the late Goddard Lieberson, spied Springsteen and joined the table in a hail of hearty greetings. Room was made for the prez to sit down across from Bruce – right next to Deep Craw – while I was edged out even further from the action, forced to mutely watch as the table rapidly became the focal point of the entire Bottom Line, with photogs circling, groupies gaping, Lieberson, Deep Craw and Springsteen sharing racy stories and secret handshakes. (It should have been me in that seat, getting my mug in the Trades, nuzzling up to the president and the superstar!)
Ever since then a certain Deep Craw has been going around town thinking he had the last laugh on me. Well, I'd just like to mention something if he's reading this (and I know he is): I have recently been in touch with a very high source at Columbia, who has confirmed to me exclusively that Bruce Springsteen's latest album will be out shortly. Although I have yet to hear the LP, I would like to go on record right now as having this to say about it: "I've seen Bruce Springsteen's future... and his middle name is rock 'n' roll!"
Eat your hearts out, all you runners-up.
