The Gunpowder River is bluer than ever. I’ve been reading how the skies over LA and NYC have been less smoggy since the Great Lockdown. But, I have to say, the Gunpowder, a notoriously muddy river that has carried brown sediment from upstream development as long as we have been here, is suddenly blue like the lower Chesapeake down around Pax River. There might be something to this interruption of industry.
And, the local small creatures seem to have a clue. The squirrels are positively gamboling in the road. The birds are deep-staring until we throw out a few of the increasingly precious peanuts. The trailblazing groundhog doesn’t seem to notice the cosmic stress and keeps barreling through the front yard on his (or her) beaten path.
We had a marvelous musical sojourn last night. If you have Amazon video, then you should have a channel called Qello. We ignored it for a long time. I mean, what the heck is a Qello? But it’s full of music. And last night we stumbled upon Bruce Springsteen Live at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1975. Personally, I stopped following Bruce around the time of Born in the USA. He had cut his hair, started working out, danced on stage, all the famous pop star things; so I dropped him like that old girlfriend who was perfectly nice until she discovered she was cute. But those first three albums from ‘73-’75, which I had been lucky and discerning enough to get into in real time, were masterpieces, and he was a whole new thing. A ballsy, noisy Dylan. An enthralling storyteller who not only rocked, but produced beautiful, intricate rock. Through Bruce, I could envision a busy, scary, sexy life that was far more interesting than my soft, suburban existence. This show was by that Bruce, the raw, pre-superstar Bruce and his merry band of stellar musicians. They pulled heavily from their latest LP at the time, Born to Run, but all the classics were there from The Wild, the Innocent and Greetings from Asbury Park. As an encore he performed a slow, solo rendition of For You that was heartbreaking.
And back to the band for a moment. These young guys bought into a concept called Bruce. Before he was The Boss, before Bruuuuuuce, before the redhead, he was this street guy with brilliant songs in his head and a unique sense of sound. The music he made was far from commerical pop. They were never going to crash the charts with hit singles. But they enjoyed the act and the ride and most are still with him. Max, Danny, the late Clarence, and the second genius behind it all, Miami Steve (now Little Steven) van Zandt. They remind me of my softball buddies. Back around the same time as this concert, a bunch of childhood and school friends created a slow-pitch softball team. We were never going to win championships. It was a lark, a hobby; a chance to play outside, have a few laughs, and drink beer. That team became a family, and after 45 years of adventures, wives, children, grandkids and careers, we’re still together. That’s magic.
(Speaking of magic, do a little reading about the early intersecting of Bruce, Steven, and Southside Johnny. Man, that was some neighborhood.)
Oh, back to the Gunpowder where we started. That beautiful river out there is off limits because our Governor, and most of his peers, have banned recreational boating. We fail to see the logic. Is there a better way to social distance than in the middle of a body of water? Maryland has eight gazillion miles of shoreline plus the world-class Chesapeake Bay and we’re all in dry dock. Could it possibly be because boats, like golf, tennis, and premium beer, are viewed as rich peoples’ endeavors? (I wish.)
Mrs. F and her friends have been discussing and are in agreement: Get people out of the house! Governors, please open the golf courses, marinas, and tennis courts. We need some air.
Rebellion is brewing. Told you right up front.
