Bruce Springsteen has never shied away from politics. But decades into his hall of fame career, the rocker is on what's being called his most political tour ever. Pulitzer prize-winning Esquire columnist Mitchell S. Jackson caught the show in Phoenix, and found himself asking some tough questions. Read on below. —Madison Vain, executive editor
|
|
|
|
As one of the only Black people in the crowd at a recent concert, I have a few questions about the Boss’s fan base.
|
Bruce Springsteen—man, myth, rock demigod—materializes at a mic as if beamed to it from beyond the clouds, drawing thunderous applause from the sold-out crowd in Phoenix’s Mortgage Matchup Center. Springsteen is decked in a pinstripe shirt and a tie beneath a vest and slim jeans and has traded his once-standard rocker boots for a pair of big-soled running shoes. He’s backed by a 19-member version of the E Street Band, whose ranks tonight include guitarist Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine, a catalyst for this tour. Before strumming a single note on his Telecaster, the Hall of Famer dives into his first monologue of this “political” show.
Springsteen and Trump are no strangers to beef. Way back in 2016, when 45/47 was using “Born in the U.S.A.” on the campaign trail against Springsteen’s wishes, the rocker called the then candidate a “moron.” Even though that kind of milquetoast language softened the threat 45/47 posed, I have little doubt that Springsteen’s been sincere in his persistent criticisms, in his apprehension of perils. Nonetheless, gandering around the arena—I count more Black folks on stage than I see in the crowd, not to mention scant brown people—I have questions about Springsteen’s fans, about what their monolithic nature bespeaks of their paradigms.
|
|
|
|
The guy who plays the Punisher offers to make me a cup of tea. When I decline, Jon Bernthal, forty-nine, reaches for a square tin box and pops off the lid to reveal a pile of purple gummies. I am certain there’s weed in them. “Want one?” he asks, pushing the tin in front of me. I pause, eyeballing them. “They’re soft throat lozenges. Sugar-free. These fuckers are good, dude.” My throat is fine, but I oblige. Bernthal drops one in his mouth and leans back in his chair, assuming the position for a raw and honest talk about life.
An hour earlier, he met me inside the stage door at the August Wilson Theatre in Manhattan—where he’s starring in the Broadway adaptation of Dog Day Afternoon—dressed in blue jeans and an orange hoodie, an American flag on the left breast. Under the flag are the words “We Support the Troops.” He was shirtless beneath the sweatshirt, a tattoo on his left pectoral that says “Lil Bird,” his nickname for his wife, Erin, peeking out. He had the hood pulled over his head, which was already covered in a stocking cap. He wore what looked like wrestling shoes on his feet. They’re not wrestling shoes, although he did wear them to grapple with one of his sons earlier that day.
|
|
|
|
Sure, you could spring for a luxury diver or GMT to see you through the dog days of summer. We’ve recommended both moves in the past and continue to endorse them to this day. But when you’re talking about an investment-level watch, you’re not just talking dollars—you’re talking mental energy, too. Is it safe? Is it going to get scratched? Or, even worse, will it be snatched if I leave it chilling on my beach towel while I try out those bodyboarding moves from my teenage years?
These are all reasonable concerns. And if you’re not in the mood to deal with them over the next few months, we understand. Allow us to present, then, the concept of the “summer watch.” For our purposes, this is a specific term. It refers to a timepiece that’s fun, colorful, suited to the season, and—crucially—comes with a reasonable enough price tag that losing it or damaging it won’t ruin your mood for the foreseeable future.
|
|
|
|
|
