My Letter to Bruce Springsteen

In October, I wrote a letter to Bruce Springsteen - the first "fan" letter I believe I've ever written - to express the extent to which his music and ethos have influenced me. I highly doubt the letter actually reached him, but nevertheless, I thought I'd share it here.

Dear Mr. Springsteen,

When I was ten years old, my father – who, at the time, was in and out of rehabs across Texas to treat his alcoholism – was visiting my mother and me during a period of brief recovery. It was the early days of purchasing music from the internet, and I was happily showing him how it worked. When I asked him for a song selection, he said to me, “Download Human Touch by Bruce Springsteen.”

Less than a year later, he died of a heart attack, in large part due to his drinking. I was left with a fleeting image of a man I would never fully know – but I held on to the things he loved, the pieces I had picked up during my childhood that formed my image and understanding of him. And in listening to your music, your voice grew, over the course of many years, into the narration of my life.

I mention this because I had the privilege of attending Springsteen on Broadway for the second time this past August. I saw the show during its initial run in 2018, where – even from the back row – I could feel the power and resonance of your every word. Songs I’ve known for what feels like my entire life were given new meaning and context. And with each new chapter of your life, I felt like I was there – the details and imagery in each story were as evocative as the song that accompanied them.

When I saw the show this summer, I was able to sit a bit closer – with my mother by my side, which added a tremendous amount to the experience (particularly during your renditions of My Father’s House and The Wish, during which we were both choking up underneath our face masks). But I was struck most by your admission that you crafted your stage persona in your father’s image, and how this act felt like a way of getting to know him better.

I found myself nodding in recognition while listening to this passage of the show. My father felt similarly unknowable, and as I get older, I see more of him when I look at my reflection in the mirror. I wonder what he was experiencing at my age, what internal demons he wrestled with, his joys, his sorrows – and his relationship with your music. It’s a funny world where a few words said off-hand to a child lead to a lifelong connection with an artist – one who has shaped the way I think, feel and relate to the world.

I have no doubt you receive letters like this by the hundreds daily, and I hesitated at first to write, because I’m certain my relationship to your work is not unique. I’ve heard the story in which a fan approached Bob Dylan and told him his music changed his life – to which Dylan supposedly replied, “What do you want me to do about it?” But in this case, the connection feels deeper than just the music. It’s the ethos, the pains taken to live a life well, the disappointments and resentments either embittering us to the world or providing a pathway to renewed growth and strength – all of these tenets find their way into my heart and mind through your music.

If I may add a bit more – one of the many things I love about your songwriting is your directness. I learned a key lesson from your work early on – life isn’t perfect. Lyrics like “You’ve got to learn to live with what you can’t rise above,” or “Round here, baby, I learned you get what you can get,” or “I know I ain’t nobody’s bargain but hell, a little touch-up and a little paint” – these words feel like an honest representation of what life is really like. Your music is truthful about so many things, chief among them love.

More than anything, you’ve provided me with two essential lifelines over the years. The first is solidarity when I’m heartsick or despondent (I have struggled with depression and anxiety ever since my father’s death, and I am deeply moved by the candor with which you’ve described your own mental health struggles). Whether it’s the haunting loneliness of Stolen Car or the world-weariness of The Wrestler, devastation never feels quite as brutal as it might if I didn’t have a Springsteen song by my side.

The second is perhaps even more important – you’ve always extended me an invitation to the party. I’ve recently started dating someone after a rather prolonged and messy break-up, and I’ve warmed up for each date by watching one of your live performances. I’m talking about the hip-swinging, guns-blazing rockabilly of Cadillac Ranch live in Tempe, Arizona in 1980; the joyous medley of Sweet Soul Music and Raise Your Hand during your 1988 tour; the 11-minute Amnesty performance of Twist and Shout, which delightfully morphs into La Bamba midway through. To quote a seemingly improvised line from your 19-minute rendition of Tenth Avenue Freeze Out at Madison Square Garden, “It’s all right to have a good time.” Sometimes I need a little reminding of that.

Simply put, there’s not another soul on this earth who can play so readily to these contradictory feelings – joy and anguish – that make up so much of our lives.

But back to my original reason for writing you. Watching Springsteen on Broadway this last time around and hearing you talk about your father, I felt I had come full circle from when I first heard your music. It took me back to the genesis of what drew me to your work. And in a year marked by so much loss, the choice to close the performance with I’ll See You in My Dreams felt right. The power of your show comes not just from us getting to witness your onstage visitations with those you’ve lost, but the joy of having our own memories and ghosts pop up right alongside yours.

God bless you, sir. Thank you for a lifetime’s worth of encouragement, and for your continued inspiration with every new record (Western Stars and Letter to You get a lot of play in this household). I’m forever grateful you have been able to use your gift to lift people up everywhere – myself included.

With deep admiration and gratitude,

Jack Kyser