I've ranted time and time again about Springsteen and I won't explain myself for writing another post about him because there are so many reasons to tune in and inhale this amazing poet, especially this album "The Ghost of Tom Joad".
The reasons for listening to this song is not for the G/C/D tempo, nor is it for the picturesque way he portrays the American Southwest. It isn't for such insight as "For everything the north gives it exacts a price in return." which holds truer than most every quote uttered outside of Churchill and Kipling. I think sometimes it may be worth listening to for such rhythmic words playing off each other as "drove" and eucalyptus grove". Or maybe it is the idea of two men crossing a river in a Moses like quest towards towards some promised land that never really existed. Then again you could comment on the story of two brothers reaching out and risking it all for some ideal of a better life that existed if they could only skirt the consequences of the law. At times I think of Roberto Bolano and his epic work of "2666" and how they all fit into the picture of the despair of the Mexican common man. Maybe sometimes one could draw a parallel to Hemingway and the simplicity and terseness, the frugality and power of 24 simple words that portray so much as "The hydriodic acid Could burn right through your skin They'd leave you spittin' up blood in the desert if you breathed those fumes in." Then sometimes I think of John Steinbeck writing about spending a year in the orchids for pennies handed out by the boss man.
But the ONLY reason for listening to this song is to hear the Boss' voice crack at 1:16 when he croons "Word was out some men in Sinaloa". There is nothing more pure in any song I have ever heard. In my mind he didn't make it crack on purpose but rather it occurred naturally and when cutting the track he decided to leave it in there. And the fact that he decided to do so, or maybe John Landau did is an example of a craftsmanship that rarely exists in songwriting presently.
There's a lot of hurt in the world that we pass by on a daily basis. In Manhattan no matter how chic the restaurant you are dining at the sous chef is a Mexican working for pennies. On the golf course where we all live the life of privilege the men cutting the Bermuda grass and trimming the rough trace their roots to Ciudad Juarez where the donkey shows run 24/7. We are blind to all these faceless men. I am not advocating we prop them up on a pedestal simply because of their lot in life. But I can say that their stories are a beautiful act of contrition, maybe supplication honoring the life that we lead on a daily basis. It is pure, it is holy and it makes us feel alive that there are men still willing to take a risk and endure the hardships starting with the coyotes and ending under the thumb of the big boss man threatening to send them back home across the river to a life of poverty.
