I saw this little blurb in my newspaper back home about a New Yorker article on Bruce Sprinsteen (aka “The Boss”). Dave Marsh, who is quoted here, has long been rock’s reddest, rawest smacked ass, but The Boss does his part, as always, to build his legend. I don’t care if he ever writes 30 songs I love, I’ll always be annoyed by this guy’s routine and the fawning that refuses to die. Too bad. He does and stands for some things I love.
I’ve been in Monterey, California the last 24 hours. It’s my second or third time in this delightful town. One thing, however, really bugs me: the only reason I ever knew and cared about Monterey growing up was the Monterey Pop Festival of 1967. The film of that festival was part of young hippie education. I’ve not yet found a Monterey Pop Festival t-shirt in this town. No offense to fans of Steinbeck, sea life, and the old canning industry, but is that too much to ask?