No Retreat, Baby, No Surrender.

By Charles Ribakoff

Note from Charles: Once again, this is one that was written for the Harr / MHQ newsletter. Even a challenging business environment can be overcome by the healing power of rock and roll.

I don’t know if he ever seriously considered this as a career choice, but Bruce Springsteen would have been one hell of a car guy. Probably even better than I’d be as a rock star. And herein maybe lies a story.

I have had this eccentric fear (moi?) since I first saw Springsteen live in the early ‘70s and became a fan, that next time he came around, it wouldn’t matter to me so much. Maybe he’d have changed, or I would have, but I was worried that he wouldn’t hit me in the same way. But that hasn’t happened in almost 40 years, during which time I have put the children of many scalpers through college.

Now, I’ll stipulate that it might not have been what Bruce had in mind when I would hold my older daughter as a new born in the front of the airplane, and sing to her that tramps like us, baby we were born to run. (It is true that, among Corky’s first words, were “Daddy, please stop singing,” but that’s another story).

I think Bruce has an unspoken contract with his audience, which, if it were to be spoken, would be something like, “I’ll give it everything I have and tell you all the things I think are important, and you’ll keep listening.”

By and large, if you forgive that fiddle and banjo crap album, we’ve both kept our end of the bargain. (I’ll forgive Bruce that, and he’ll forgive me Charles Chevrolet). Probably another 100,000,000 people feel the same way, even though I know that the contract is just with me.

So when he and the E Street Band played in Boston a few weeks ago, even though I had the same apprehensions, I went to the show. Now, I’ve probably seen Bruce play live 30 times (clear proof that I need to get a life), from about every kind of seat from the third balcony to backstage. My seats this time were even with side of the stage, a few rows up, so I could watch all the choreography that goes on –the right guitars getting to the right person in time for the right song, and so on.

Bruce and the band have changed over the years. The Boss now has streaks of gray in his 60 year old hair. Patty, his wife, had allegedly fallen off a horse, and was not there, although there was some chance that it had something to do with Bruce falling off his girlfriend, whose husband named him that week in a divorce action. Danny Federici, the man who brought the accordion from the circus to rock and roll, is dead (from melanoma, of all things, beating all odds that the early death of a rocker is always more chemically than organically related). Clarence Clemmons, the Big Man, is sick enough with something that he looks like Little Big Man; the huge tenor sax he plays was held in a stand all night, and he has to sit down a lot. Max Weinberg’s son – the son of Mad Max, Jay, all of 19, fills in on some songs, and will cover for his dad when the band goes to Europe this summer, as Daddy has a TV gig. (Bleeping 19 and Playing the Drums With The Band. Can you imagine? Let’s not go there). Not the band of my youth, for sure.

It’s only my assumption, but, I think, a safe one, that these guys don’t do it any more for the money. Selling out 20,000 seat halls every night at $75 or so an average ticket pays even better than buying a used car for $1000, spending $200 on recon, and selling it for $1100 a couple of times a day.

But after playing ‘Born to Run’ live for maybe the five thousandth time, one would be shocked (but not surprised) if they just decided to phone in a performance every now and again, to emerge Rolling Stone-like as if they’ve just been let out of their wheel chairs and walkers for just a short time, and need to stumble around for a couple of hours to justify a night of clubbing, or at least soft food.

Not these guys. While they can no longer describe themselves as death defying (as in the rap ‘pants droppin’,’ house shockin’ hard rockin’, love makin’, heart breakin’, soul cryin’ death defyin’ E Street Band), from the first note, they are giving it all they got. Bruce hits (almost) every note, and the show flows with an energy as though they’re all playing it for the first time. They go non stop for more than two and a half hours. Everybody leaves happy.

So what, you may be wondering, does have to do with Bruce being a good car guy here in the post miracle age? I thought you’d never ask.

Here are just some of the reasons:

1. He works as hard as he can every show.
2. His work has changed over time, but remains fresh.
3. While all rock is a variance of a simple 4/4 beat, he finds ways to work off that in ways no one else does.
4. He sure acts like he’s having fun, even when there’s a miscue.
5. His enthusiasm brings the rest of the band along with him.

Well, gosh, these are all things that work in car world. At Harr, we were doing these things, literally, since before he was born. It’s served us well on our journey so far.

Not to gloss over that being in a band has some differences from working in the world of cars (you have to stay up later, for one thing, and your hearing winds up getting blown out), as our journey hits some bumps in the road, there are these similarities to keep in mind.

We have to keep doing the things we know work. We have to remember that we’re on the right road. We have to work harder than anyone else. And we have to have fun.

Or as someone once said, “No retreat, baby, no surrender.”