Rock and roll has always cared who is at the very top right now - a Democrat or a Republican.
Rock and roll was born from those roots that, perhaps, are older than the very meaning of the names of American political parties.
It has always been that way.
And rock and roll has always had its ambassadors to the world.
His messenger angels.
And first of all, they went to those on whose humps America itself and the eternal American dream rests - to blue collars, to rednecks who have elevated their simplicity and proximity to the earth into a cult, into a furious opposition of the "understandable life" to the incomprehensible amusements of all kinds of celestials from the north.
From the center.
From everywhere, where they sincerely believe that bread grows on trees - in the form of baguettes, right in bags - raise your hands and pick it up.
Rock and roll was and is simple.
Of course, his kings were distinguished by some pomp and a penchant for theatrical shows.
But these are the rules of style, this is the original way - tom-toms in the night, banjos in the "schooners" of the prairie, Cadillacs that look like alien ships, microphones that look like alien Cadillacs.
Grease, diamonds, coca, flare, vinyl ...
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Meanwhile, the titans of ancient rock in rags, frayed jeans, and tattered cowboy shirts look best and most harmonious.
And greasy Stetsons, dashingly pushed to the back of their heads.
Flesh from the flesh of the earth, heated by the southern sun.
Children of cotton and tears.
Children of “great and equal opportunities”.
This is rock and roll.
He doesn't care who's at the top right now.
In 1974, the still unknown Bruce Springsteen released his third album, Born to Run.
And blows them up America.
At the top of his voice, spitting out his lungs with a light and charming smile of a doomed person.
In the day we sweat it out in the streets of a runaway American dream
At night we ride through mansions of glory in suicide machines
Sprung from cages out on Highway 9,
Chrome wheeled, fuel injected and steppin 'out over the line
Baby this town rips the bones from your back
It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap
We gotta get out while we're young
'Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run ...
And America takes sweet poison - Bruce is on the covers of Time and Newsweek, criticism breaks out in a joyful chorus, so, they say, a new old hero has appeared, not from hard, not from progressive, just like Dylan, but it's better, just like you and me ( ha-ha), but still can sing and compose!
The bitterness of Springsteen's lyrics doesn't bother anyone at all.
Of those who sing his praises.
Those to whom his texts are addressed, wipe the sweat with their sleeves and go on to themselves - to the tractor or to the machine.
Pathos?
Never.
You know, this is such a dark gift of show business - even the most desperate cry for help can and can sell it, wrapped in a pleasant wrapper that melts in your mouth ...
In 1984, the well-known Bruce (already almost omnipotent) released the seventh studio album into the world - Born in the USA, which blew up both the brains and the very foundations of the musical world.
After all, 30 million copies, seven of the 12 songs are singles, and all of them hit the top ten all-American sales charts.
This album, or rather, it is a message to the world, became platinum ten times in a row, in the wake of the incredible success Springsteen toured the States and Europe for two years in a row, literally without regaining consciousness.
Then, as it should be according to the laws of the genre, he returned home, divorced his wife, married his backing vocalist and seemed to calm down.
It seems to be like.
And what, my dears, is the title song about?
Don't you remember?
Born down in a dead man's town
The first kick I took was when I hit the ground
End up like a dog that's been beat too much
Till you spend half your life just covering up
Born in the USA
Born in the USA ...
More or less like this.
Almost everything with the same bitterness.
And again the delight of the publishers.
And again the silent wiping of sweat with the same dirty sleeve ...
America.
Various presidents.
Different years of government.
Various historical collisions.
And all the same rock lyrics.
All the same rock and roll, sad to the point of being stupid, telling about everyday life.
Those who walk.
Towards the great American dream.
A winding and slippery road.
Over time, Bruce settled down.
Hit a violent democracy.
Supported Obama and Hillary.
Didn't support Trump.
But in the eighties he fought against apartheid.
And you know, although Bruce (almost almighty) has released many albums since then, he had nothing to blow up American society for the third time.
It happens - you speak from the heart, even if no one knows you, but you are heard.
And then ... Then everyone knows you.
And you speak from the mind.
Correct, in general, correct things (it would seem), but those who have a habit of wiping sweat with their sleeves stop hearing you.
Springsteen is modern, the latest model - a tireless fighter for the rights of all and every minority, with particular fury fighting for the support of same-sex marriage.
Is this good or bad?
For whom?
For what?
Rock and roll doesn't care.
It is ancient, as mentioned above, of all this senseless PR bustle, ancient in its roots.
Another thing is that those who still continue to wipe the sweat with their sleeves (excuse my persistence) are probably somewhat surprised at how the faithful successor to the cause of the first kings of the south is slowly but surely drifting towards senseless near-political vanity ... And about democracy.
Behind all this mega-show, rock and roll is blurred, becomes the sound background of parties, turns into salon music.
And it's not scary that the aging star is still straining in the speakers, as if it were the eighties now.
You can make the sound quieter.
And the picture is nicer.
And absolutely no problem.
And there is no need to wipe sweat from your face with your sleeve
This is also dangerous.
And unhygienic.
The highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive
Everybody's out on the run tonight, but there's no place left to hide
Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness
I'll love you with all the madness in my soul
Someday, girl, I don't know when we're gonna get to that place
Where we really want to go and we'll walk in the sun
But till then tramps like us baby we were born to run ...
The author's point of view may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.