Monday, April 19, 2010
It's 2038. Bruce Springsteen's on the road in a modified Chevy pick-up. It's been modified to include bulletproof glass, heavy duty bullbar, flamethrower. All necessary to keep moving these days. The cannibal hordes littering the road respond best to steel and fire. The bulletproof glass is to protect against the nutso self-made commandos living out their post-apocalyptic fantasies, sniper rifle in hand. The Boss looks at his wristwatch: he's making good time. He's not expected onstage at the base for a few more hours, but anything could happen out here. He rubs his chest. The bionic heart the President gave him still sits weird. Cutting edge technology and they couldn't make it comfortable. Probably cost a fortune to manufacture. He had to have it, though - who else could the government count on to boost troop morale during a never-ending war for an America that doesn't exist anymore? Especially after Toby Keith was devoured alive en route to a rally in Boston. The Boss drums his fingers on the wheel. New Jersey looks a lot different these days, that's for sure. Buildings burnt out and buildings still on fire. Doesn't necessarily look worse, though. He smiles. What's on the setlist? Not Born To Run. Too optimistic. Not Born In The USA. Too optimistic. Not Dancing In The Dark. Too optimistic. Probably another set of new stuff. He always did his best writing under oppressive regimes: the Reagan administration; the post-apocalypse. He's been working on a new jam to fire up the troops. It's driving and anthemic (of course), only it doesn't yearn for an idyllic yesterday or a brighter tomorrow. It just sounds like hell.
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