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It’s said that Bach wrote the Goldberg Variations to help a nobleman with insomnia get to sleep. I can’t imagine a more counterproductive sleep aid. This music makes the heart flutter, the toes flex, the mind fly, the diaphragm speed up until one is breathless, the eyes well with tears of ecstasy, the whole soul come alive and wide awake. If I could bring only ten recordings to the fabled desert island, one would be the Goldberg Variations, and I wouldn’t dare listen to it right before bed.
(Sorry for the misfire. An earlier version meant to be saved as a draft got published instead.)
The San Francisco Chronicle poses a fun question: given that some bands took a while to hit their stride, which are the bands that didn’t? What are some great debut albums?
I don’t know their answers, but I’d love to know yours: whose debut albums blew your mind?
Suzanne Vega. Every song is so good.
The Roches. Ditto.
GP, Gram Parsons. He’d done a lot of recording already, but this album is more exciting than anything he did with the Byrds or Flying Burrito Brothers, in my opinion.
Talking Heads: 77. It’s not even my favorite Talking Heads album–Remain in Light and Little Creatures are particular favorites of mine, probably because I listened to them constantly during high school–but it’s a hell of a debut.
Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ, Bruce Springsteen. Again, immediately topped by The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle . . . but “Blinded by the Light”! “For You”! First album!
Horses, Patti Smith. Her utter confidence as a singer is even more amazing when you realize this was her first album and “Gloria” was her way of introducing herself to listeners. She just gets right out there and in your face.
Over to you. Remind me of the 20 great debut albums I’ve forgotten.
I’d been braced for Pete Seeger’s passing for years, but I was still very sad several weeks ago when the news came that he had died, at age 94. I was a little stunned when, within 24 hours, a stern warning came over social media from a colleague: if we sang too many Pete Seeger songs in church that Sunday, we’d be alienating Generation X and Millennial congregation members.
The author, who is just about my age, has since stepped back from that rigid recommendation, acknowledging that the 140-character limit of the format she’d chosen had cost her message some nuance. We all know how that is. (A warning to the Twitter generation?) But I was no longer concerned only with that one statement. The chorus of agreement that met it—mixed, to be sure, with many younger-than-Boomer voices protesting that they know and love Pete Seeger’s music—showed how badly these generational concerns can deepen the ruts we get into. We UUs clearly aren’t ready to move beyond our brother UU, Pete Seeger. On the contrary, we’d better run if we’re ever going to catch up with him.
I understand the exasperation with Baby Boomer domination of our culture, especially UU culture. I think the phenomenon is real, and I appreciate people’s reminding us that there are other generations, and not to get stuck in nostalgia for the boomers’ heyday, that is to say, the 1960s. And there are other people who have died in the last month who deserve our honor but don’t get much attention, such as Amiri Baraka and Chokwe Lumumba.
Still, not to lift up Pete Seeger’s work and life would be to cut off our nose to spite our face.
First of all, it’s important to remember that Seeger was not a boomer. He wasn’t even just a bit older than the boomers, like boomer icon Bob Dylan (born 1941). Seeger was born in 1919 and served in World War II. My colleague Dan Harper pointed out exactly why Seeger began playing the college circuit in middle age: because his thriving career as a performer and recording artist was throttled by the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) when it blacklisted him for insisting on his, and his associates’, First Amendment right to the freedom of assembly.
Which brings us to another reason we need to memorialize Seeger. No U. S. citizen can understand their country without knowing about the Red Scare. If you don’t know much about HUAC, reading the transcript of Pete Seeger’s testimony is a good introduction.
Seeger was a die-hard union supporter, and we don’t pay much respect to the labor movement in Unitarian Universalism. My congregation has its old lefties of Seeger’s generation, bless their rabble-rousing souls, but on the whole, we UUs have settled into a comfortable liberalism. The demands of the labor movement—now as in the 40s and 50s when his Almanac Singers and (to a lesser extent) Weavers were singing its songs—aren’t liberal, but radical, and they’re not comfortable. They shake up the system. It needs shaking up. Remember working 9 to 5? Weren’t those the good old days? In this and so many other ways, working people are going backwards, and Pete Seeger was one who kept pushing against that tide.
Another trend Seeger’s example helps us buck is that of receiving (consuming), rather than making, music. His concerts were always participatory and he never missed a chance to remind us that we are born to be music makers. He once said,
Once upon a time, wasn’t singing a part of everyday life as much as talking, physical exercise, and religion? Our distant ancestors, wherever they were in this world, sang while pounding grain, paddling canoes, or walking long journeys. Can we begin to make our lives once more all of a piece? Finding the right songs and singing them over and over is a way to start. And when one person taps out a beat, while another leads into the melody, or when three people discover a harmony they never knew existed, or a crowd joins in on a chorus as though to raise the ceiling a few feet higher, then they also know there is hope for the world.
I mostly listen to music; my guitar languishes in a closet and my fingers have lost their calluses, and I rarely gather with friends to make music, except in church. I want to change that. He’s a gentle prophet nudging us to make that change.
The most chilling comments in the wake of Seeger’s death were the ones dismissing music of 25, 50, and 75 years ago as ancient history. One way that Unitarian Universalists are totally mainstream, completely in the sway of U. S. American culture, is in our disdain for the past. We revel in our refusal to look back, as if focusing on the future is the secret to being progressive. I don’t buy it. I still think that those who will not learn from history are condemned to repeat it. We’re repeating it now, as those who have been thrown into poverty by others’ mismanagement of the economy are reviled as lazy spongers, as were those of Seeger’s childhood, the Bonus Army. We’re fighting battles that labor organizers of two generations ago thought they had won for us (workplace fatalities, for example, have plateaued after years of welcome decline). We’re struggling to keep our rivers clean—Seeger worked with the Clearwater efforts on the Hudson for almost 50 years—and maybe if we want to prevent poisonous spills such as we’ve seen in West Virginia and North Carolina in the past couple of months, we should look to the environmental strategies of 50 years ago, instead of trying to start from scratch every time. Maybe we give up so easily because we don’t know that we stand in a long heritage of struggle for true progress. As another UU singer, Utah Phillips, said, “The long memory is the most radical idea in this country” (Thanks, Dan Schatz, for that timely quote.)
Pete Seeger never stopped raising his voice, even decades after he insisted that he couldn’t sing anymore. It was never about the quality of his voice anyway—it was about heart and commitment. We still need them, and when I find someone who devoted himself to making a better world long after most people retire or give into cynicism, I’m really happy for his example. So as soon as the news of his death came, I scheduled a Pete Seeger Memorial Singalong Celebration, and we’ll be raising our voices tomorrow, March 8, at 6 p.m. at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Palo Alto.
In a great addition to our Sunday services, our Associate Minister of Religious Education, Dan Harper, is going to be doing something special in the 9:30 service three Sundays a month. This past Sunday morning he led a chant, a quasi-call-and-response called “Have You Got the Spirit?”
Have you got the spirit? / Oh yeah!
Let me see it in your head!
He drafted our music director to stand beside him and lead the congregational part, and we all shook our heads and waved our arms as called upon. As in education, there are theories that worship should engage the whole person–you want elements that use different modes and appeal to different aspects of ourselves. This one had laughter, using our bodies, music (rhythm), camaraderie, and definitely lots of spirit.
Return engagement is this Sunday, 9:30 a.m. Oh yeah!
Today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of one of my heroes, Woody Guthrie. My family and I celebrated in the most appropriate way, by singing lots of his songs, thanks to a sing-along at Reach and Teach, a local company devoted to peace and justice education. Our singing was led by the duo Folk This! and punctuated by occasional passage of Caltrain, as the store’s yard backs onto the train tracks. Since Guthrie spent plenty of time riding the rails with other hoboes, wrote many songs about trains and popularized Goebel Reeves’s beautiful “Hobo’s Lullaby,” the clack and rush of the train seemed very appropriate, though it would have been even more appropriate in the early morning when the freight trains come through.
The scope of what his songs mean to me is beyond my ability to say, so I will go smaller. Certain phrases in Guthrie’s songs have woven themselves into the fabric of my life, the way words will when they shape our thoughts or express something we’ve long felt.
Oh, the gamblin’ man is rich an’ the workin’ man is poor (“I Ain’t Got No Home”)
I don’t think he’s talking about Las Vegas. Guthrie turned 17, a working man, the year the stock market threw the country into the Great Depression. The Glass-Steagall Act not having been passed yet, bankers and investors could speculate wildly with people’s deposits, as they can again today, and I think those were the gamblers he had in mind. What the line always makes me think about is how we tax the income earned from work at a higher rate than the income from investments, which is to say, bets placed on the market. If we valued work the way Guthrie did, I don’t think we would set up the tax system this way.
- – – -
I’d like to dream my troubles all away
On a bed of California stars
Jump up from my starbed and make another day
Underneath my California stars
They hang like grapes on vines that shine
And warm the lovers glass like friendly wine
“California Stars” is one of the hundreds (thousands?) of songs Guthrie wrote but never recorded; his daughter Nora wanted some of them to be set to music and performed, and Jay Bennett and Jeff Tweedy of Wilco wrote the music. It’s my favorite song on the first Wilco/Billy Bragg collaboration, Mermaid Avenue. It has a place in the soundtrack of my life, since I was listening to this album a lot at the time I moved to California and danced to it often in my first weeks here, which were lonely and full of promise. I just love that image of the stars hanging in the sky like grapes. What a wine they would make.
– – – –
Since our daughter’s birth we’ve had Guthrie’s Songs to Grow on for Mother and Child, which all sound like songs an astoundingly prolific songwriter might spontaneously invent while taking care of his children. They are full of nonsense and endearments, and talk about topics like burping a baby (“You’ll fly up so high / In the clouds and skies / If you don’t make a blubble . . . Blow a bubble soon”), taking a bath, picking up toys, and this one about the incessant questions in a houseful of young children (“Why Oh Why”):
Why, oh why, oh why oh, why?
Why, oh why, oh why?
Because because because because
Goodbye goodbye goodbye
To know why a mouse can’t eat a streetcar, why a cow drinks water, why your grandpa ain’t your grandma, etc., you’ll have to click above and read all the lyrics.
– – – –
I’m moved by “The Unwelcome Guest” (another set to music posthumously, by Billy Bragg), and its paradox of “I’ll still be here after I’m gone.”
Yes, they´ll catch me napping one day
and they´ll kill me
And then I´ll be gone but that won´t be my end
For my guns and my saddle will always be filled
By unwelcome travellers and other brave men
Guthrie uses a similar trope about absence, presence, and immortality in “Tom Joad,” when Tom says goodbye to his Ma and says, “Wherever people ain’t free, Wherever men are fightin’ for their rights, That’s where I’m a-gonna be.” And of course it shows up in Alfred Hayes’s song “Joe Hill,” which Guthrie surely knew. It seems to have been the kind of immortality that was most important to Woody Guthrie, who suspected by his 30s that he had the same disease that killed his mother at age 42. It’s the kind of immortality he has achieved, and a kind that’s available to any of us, if we choose to live that way.
I wrote about inclusive lyrics and their limits a few days ago. Some further thoughts on music, based on the vibrant music at General Assembly (GA) last week:
A song leader should use the mike when teaching an unfamiliar song or giving a soloist’s riffs over the congregation. Otherwise, they should back off the mike. When they sing right into the mike, we in the congregation hear them instead of ourselves and each other.
Rock makes people move. Not everyone, of course, but we have a few generations in services now for whom rock is the beat of our bodies. In any case, if you want people to move their bodies, play the music they dance to.
Let the congregation do the interesting stuff. A disappointing aspect of music at last year’s CENTER Institute (continuing education for UU ministers) was that the role of the congregation was that of backup singers to a soloist, and backup singers with a pretty monotonous part, at that. We, the congregation, would chant an uninteresting part over and over while the band would go nuts. I started to feel like wallpaper.
On the other hand, letting the congregation sing the same thing over and over can be really powerful. Too often, we sing something two or three times and just as we’re getting brave about harmonies and really feeling the music, it stops. Repeating a chorus many times lets us in the congregation begin to get creative, and get into that meditative place where a chant can take us. Jason Shelton did this really well with “Wallflower,” a Peter Gabriel song he sang immediately after Karen Tse’s sermon in the Service of the Living Tradition. She had ended with a story about prison and an exhortation to “do the one thing you can do,” and the song (how did Jason think of that song? Stroke of genius!) began with images of prison and ended with the refrain, “I will do what I can do.” He kept us singing it for a long time, allowing it to rise as a prayer and a promise from each of us. For me, in the midst of the campaign to raise UU awareness about slavery, every word of that service was about slavery and my commitment to do something to end it, and I am sure I was not the only person for whom singing those words evoked tears of hope and resolve.
Projecting words on a screen really helps people sing out. Proofread the words very carefully.
Don’t surprise the congregation. If you teach them a song, lead it the way you taught it to them. Small variations are okay–key changes, harmonies, etc.–but if you suddenly throw in a bridge, you have to warn us or we get confused and discouraged, and we don’t sing with the same abandon because we’re watching for further curveballs.
It’s worthwhile to teach songs before the service starts. Not everyone will be there, but those who were will anchor the singing.
The choir can introduce harmonies and rounds that embolden the congregation to join in, if the choir has a “y’all join in” attitude instead of a “be quiet and listen to us perform” attitude. Smiles and other signs of exuberance help. The conductor can transform the choir from performers into song leaders with one simple move: turn and conduct the congregation while the choir continues to sing. Conduct us as if we have never been in a choir, because most of us probably haven’t; keep it simple.
The choir members at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Palo Alto have heard this from me before: the choir adds so much to the feel of the service when their attire is simple and undistracting. The GA choirs mostly wore all black, or black with bright stoles of various colors. One small ensemble wore shades of blue with various scarves, a mishmash of patterns that was pleasant because coordinated. Some of these groups had been singing together for only a few days, or even only a few hours, but they looked, as well as sounded, polished.
If you have a hundred-member choir, you need risers. Any choir, of whatever size, should have risers steep enough that you can see every singer’s face. It’s distracting to see just the top half of the back rows’ faces, and it has to interfere with their sound.
Having a band adds so much flexibility to congregational music. A trio of guitar, drums, and bass are all you need to make a huge difference. They won’t be called for on every song (not even the piano is used on every song), but they’re great to have.
Put more participatory music in the service. More. Now add some more.
At General Assembly, a music leader gave a heartfelt plea for us to be more creative in our use of imagery in music. “Standing on the Side of Love,” she said, is a wonderful song but unintentionally hurtful to those who cannot stand. She urged us to be more poetic. For example, she suggested that sitting is a powerful image for taking a strong position. This is true, but does not resolve the problem she raised, since there are people who cannot sit.
I have given this a lot of thought in the past, and where it has led me has been to songs that have no metaphor whatsoever, including the “dead metaphors” that characterize so much of our language (e.g., in “I have given this a lot of thought,” the verb “give” is a dead metaphor). I have considered some of the most basic metaphors we use in our hymns and other songs and who is excluded by them, and I must differ with the speaker’s confidence that we will be able to find, create, or rework lyrics that include everyone.
Vision imagery leaves some people out; some people cannot see.
Hearing imagery leaves some people out; some people cannot hear. (I have always liked “From All the Fret and Fever of the Day” for its use of deafness as a positive attribute, calling on us to be “deaf to all confusing outer din.” But it goes on to say, “Intently listen to the voice within.”)
If we want to be sensitive to those who cannot speak, we should avoid imagery about raising our voices in speech or song. Songwriters love to urge us to sing, but some people can’t voice any sounds, so all imagery of singing should be avoided.
Many people cannot have children or grandchildren, and are grieved by that. We should avoid phrases like “for the children of our children” (“Circle Round for Freedom”).
Some people cannot walk, march, or run a race, and replacing those words with “go” is no help. Some people cannot go anywhere. They live their entire lives hooked to machinery in a bed. “Come and go with me to that land” is no more sensitive to such folks than “We are marching in the light of God.”
In fact, we should avoid journey imagery.
About all that is left to us, the only attributes that apply to every living human being, are that we breathe and our hearts beat. Not without assistance, in some cases, so “Just as long as my heart beats” (Hymn #6) is probably a painful phrase for some to hear, but we could use those images without actually excluding anyone.
The other avenue still open to us is to skip imagery about human beings altogether. In the same service in which this issue was raised, we sang the rousing hymn,
Ain’t you got a right
Aint you got a right
Ain’t you got a right
To the tree of life?
No problems there, in the chorus. The verses were chock-full of imagery such as people on a journey, though.
The fact is that we would have a very short list indeed if we really eradicated all songs that refer to abilities that some of us lack. I suggest that instead of walling ourselves into that corner, we take a different approach. From my own experiences I find that the language makes little difference if we do two things.
First, we use a wide variety of images to portray human experience. They won’t all fit mine, but because we’re using a variety, many of them will, and it will be okay.
Second, and by far the more important: we make our communities places that welcome and celebrate all people, regardless of their abilities in all of these areas. In my experience, songs touch on a nerve of mine when the nerve has already been stomped on by the community. When the community practices justice on all these points, and many songs reflect my experience, the occasional use of imagery that might otherwise seem exclusive just seems irrelevant. Being one of the temporarily able-bodied, I can only extrapolate from my other identities to imagine how I would feel–how I will feel–when I am unable to walk, or talk, or hear, so please correct me if I am missing something.
By the way, the best music-and-sensitivity advice I heard all week came from Fred Small, who led a workshop on songleading and advised us not to identify the origin of a song only in the case of “minority” music, but in all cases (or none). As he pointed out, when we say “This song is from the African-American tradition,” but we don’t say of the next one, “This song is from the Irish tradition,” we imply that Irish is the norm and African-American is a special case. Amen.
I must have listened to the song “Man in the Long Black Coat” a hundred times back when I owned the album Oh Mercy. It’s one of those Bob Dylan songs that admit of many interpretations, and I never pressed too hard to decide what it all means. I like just letting the images wash through my mind, and they’ve meant different things at different times. Recently I bought the CD again, and on listening to the song now, for the first time it is obvious to me that the man in the long black coat is death.
Joy and I had a lovely little mix-up on Valentine’s Day, like “The Gift of the Magi” except with no downside (I always did feel so bad about Jim’s watch): we each surprised the other with a pair of tickets to the April 24 Bruce Springsteen concert.
Laughs and hugs exchanged, and extra tickets sold, we eagerly looked forward to the show, and it did not let us down. Bruce started out strong and ended stronger. I swear, he looked younger and more energetic at the end of the three hours than he did at the start. I was exhausted, and I’m almost 20 years younger than he is. And, I might add, a good 30 years younger than a lot of the people in the crowd. Joy was a little concerned that someone might have a coronary. No one did, at least not in our section. They danced and sang along and looked very happy. I knew we had a great crowd to share the concert with when he sang “Badlands” early on and everyone sang along. Not just on the chorus–on the verses.
On the down side, there was such a bottleneck getting into the arena that the show had to start 45 minutes late. I don’t know how many entrances there are into the arena but it’s about 25% of the necessary ones. A more significant problem was that, as we discovered, the HP Pavilion in San Jose is a rotten place for a rock concert. The sound was so muddy I couldn’t make out half the instruments. I knew there was a violin in that mix, because I could see the violinist playing, but I couldn’t hear her until Bruce introduced the band and each got a moment’s solo. Today when I told a friend I’d been to the show, she said, “I saw him there a couple of years ago!” and within three seconds we had shared the opinion that the sound was abominable. About the best thing that can be said about the arena is that its seats are super-comfortable.
Never mind. Springsteen said the mission of the band was to make us wake up the next morning saying, “What the f— happened to me? I feel different!” and they accomplished it.
I was saying to Joy the other day how much I love the song “Atlantic City,” and she was a little surprised and curious. So in honor of her first and ultimate religion, Brucetarianism, and in memory of Levon Helm, who covered this song and has just died, here are my thoughts on this multifaceted gemstone of a song.
Well they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night
First of all, the first line cracks me up. I only had a vague awareness of this song before I heard it on The Band’s Jericho. That version opens with the tinkling of a mandolin and a deep Arkansan accent–it is miles and miles away, in sound, in culture, in every way, from New Jersey or Philadelphia–but I said immediately, “That’s got to be a Springsteen song.” Who else would blow up the Chicken Man in the first line? Who else would know who the hell the Chicken Man is, or think someone with that nickname belongs in a work of art?
The lyrics continue:
–now they blew up his house too
Down on the boardwalk they’re gettin’ ready for a fight gonna see what them racket boys can do
Now there’s trouble busin’ in from outta state and the D.A. can’t get no relief
Gonna be a rumble out on the promenade and the gamblin’ commission’s hangin’ on by the skin of its teeth
OK, the stage is set. There’s trouble. Who’s telling us all this? Someone who’s going to head right into the middle of it as if it’s a hot date. Here’s the chorus, for the first time:
Well now everything dies baby that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
Put your makeup on fix your hair up pretty
And meet me tonight in Atlantic City
So right off we know a few things: bad shit is going down. This guy, the narrator, plans to be in the middle of it. He’s trying to make light of it; he’s meeting his girl on the boardwalk. But the boardwalk’s where there’s going to be a fight (to the death, if the chicken man is going to be avenged), and he can’t avoid the truth: “Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact.”
It’s significant that the song is a love song as well as about something grimmer, a Mafia showdown. That’s a rock and roll convention, sure–they’re almost always love songs, whatever else they’re about–but it’s more than that. The interplay between the image of a girl getting ready for a date and the images of violence and death, which will crop up again, sets up the theme of life being a little bit of hope and happiness snatched out of dark despair.
To skip forward to the bridge:
Now our luck may have died and our love may be cold but with you forever I’ll stay
We’re goin’ out where the sand’s turnin’ to gold so put on your stockin’s baby ’cause the night’s getting cold
It’s getting cold out there, baby, in more ways than one.
What death is on his mind? The one that starts off the song (whoever the chicken man is), the ones bound to come in the rumble, the narrator’s own, and something else.
Well I got a job and tried to put my money away
But I got debts that no honest man can pay
So I drew what I had from the Central Trust
And I bought us two tickets on that Coast City bus
He tried to live honestly, but he’s getting pulled into a life of crime. The line “I got debts that no honest man can pay” is ambiguous: it could mean “I owe so much money that I can’t earn enough to pay it back,” or it could mean he owes something else, like a favor to a mobster, and there’s no honest way to pay those back. So he’s spending his last lone dollar on getting to his new job, something to do with the mob and this unfolding disaster. The “Central Trust” is a homely little detail: the narrator’s taking his money out of a nice, safe, conventional place, just as he’s abandoning a nice, safe, conventional life. And trust is another one of those things that’s dying–we’re out of the realm of trust and into the riskier realm of gambling, where the narrator’s chances are probably as good as the gambler’s chance of beating the house.
I love what a tight songwriter Springsteen can be–he also slides in a reminder that the love story is still in progress with that “two tickets.”
The chorus again:
And everything dies baby that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
The second line is so poignant. A rationalization, maybe; a desperate attempt to reassure himself that the situation isn’t as bad as it looks. Someone or something is going to die, but maybe it’s not the end.
Now I been lookin’ for a job but it’s hard to find
Down here it’s just winners and losers and don’t get caught on the wrong side of that line
Well I’m tired of comin’ out on the losin’ end
So honey last night I met this guy and I’m gonna do a little favor for him
Okay, he’s a loser and he’s tired of it. He wants to change his luck. He’s already acknowledged that this bright, cute relationship is actually on the rocks (“our love may be cold”) and he doesn’t have high hopes (“our luck may have died”), but he’s gambling all he’s got on one long shot. The casino logic is drawing him in, with all its empty promises of “the sand’s turnin’ to gold.” What is it he’s going to do? It can’t be anything good. “I’m gonna do a little favor for him”–well, it could just be running numbers, his first foray into crime, but I don’t think so. With that chorus about death, I think someone’s life is at risk: his own, or, that suspicious “little favor,” someone he’s being paid to kill.
If the latter, there’s another layer of meaning to the refrain. “Everything dies, baby” becomes a rationalization; hey, no one’s immortal, so why not put some money back in the bank by speeding someone along? The hope of resurrection begs forgiveness in advance; if “maybe everything that dies someday comes back,” then maybe killing someone isn’t so bad after all . . .
The other things in mortal danger are his innocence and his conscience, or his soul. It’s not “everyone” dies, after all, but “everything.” So his existence as a good guy trying to work hard and do the right thing is about to die, as he sells his soul to the mob, but maybe there’s still hope. Maybe he can “someday come back” from the end of this road he’s on.
And the song ends in future tense: we don’t know what will happen. The big drama is still to come. The rumble and the date haven’t happened yet (the last line is “Meet me tonight in Atlantic City,” repeated several times). We can’t even be sure she’s going to come along. We just know that he’s going and the outcome doesn’t look good. Is there even really going to be a date, what with the rumble and the ominous job he’s going to do? It doesn’t seem likely, and their love has gone cold anyway, but at the end he’s still thinking about love and the simple pleasure of a pretty woman made up for a night with him. He’s running on denial, but it’s getting him through the night.
Springsteen has a genius for painting a portrait in a few strokes so that we can see someone who might otherwise be invisible to us, like the guy working at the carwash or sitting unemployed in his empty house. The narrator of “Atlantic City,” the lowest man in the mob, a new recruit who might not survive his first job–what do I know about people like that? This song invites us to care about him and hope he and his soul survive.