Bruce Springsteen & the E St Band: Sat 1 March, Auckland NZ

After introducing the E Street Band near the end of the final show of the 2013 European tour in Kilkenny, Ireland, Bruce Springsteen did something wonderful: He paid tribute to the "ticket-seekin', hotel-bookin', money-jugglin', plane-takin', train-ridin', queue-formin', tramp-meetin', feet-throbbin', back-breakin', burger-eatin', rain-endurin', music-lovin', Boss-followin', legendary E! Street! Fans!"

I recently spent a weekend with members of this tribe during the final stop of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band's 2014 tour of Australia and New Zealand. In the gorgeous city of Auckland we bought (and sometimes sold) tickets, checked in and out of hotels, burned through money, flew on planes, rode trains (for free with a Springsteen ticket), stood in queues, caroused with fellow tramps, massaged throbbing feet, withstood broken backs, ate pub burgers with chips (always chips), endured sunburn (rather than rain), rejoiced in soul-reviving music and followed the Boss like devotees to a cause. 

If you've been to a show, a single show, you understand the cause. If not ... well, I can't help you, son.

Seeing 9 of the 15 shows in Australia/NZ this year lands me on the 'kook' side of the fandom scale, but I'm not 'legendary'. That tag's reserved for globetrotters. I've endured social media inundation about tours in familiar lands since moving to Australia from Asbury Park, NJ eight years ago. Full-on cold turkey withdrawal when you're used to Bruce playing a few blocks away at Asbury Park's Convention Hall or up the Turnpike at Giants Stadium. I did what I could to make up for it last year by gorging on 8 of the 10 shows in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne, but it wasn't until this year that I got my passport stamped on account of Bruce & Co by crossing the Tasman to New Zealand.

That's not true: I once drove across the Canadian border with a friend from Freehold to see a show on the Rising tour. So that's twice. Still, a road trip from NJ to Montreal doesn't compare to traveling across SHARK INFESTED WATERS to see the man in Australia.

Side note: My unique NJ-in-Oz perspective and long-standing friendship with Backstreets magazine editor Christoper Phillips allowed the fortuitous opportunity to write a feature about last year's Aussie tour for the most recent Backstreets issue #91 (right), as well as online 2014 reports for shows 2 and 3 in Perth, the lone (but epic) show in Brisbane and both shows in Auckland. Chris is a wonderful editor and I'm honoured to have contributed to a publication I've read religiously for over 30 years. It's also helped salve the wounds inflicted during the missed tours back in NY, NJ and other, less important, States over the past 7 years.

So ... Auckland. Got picked up at its shiny airport on Friday afternoon by a pair of women with the numbers 1 and 2 written in black ink on their hands. German Eden and Swedish Sonja were running the Front GA line and roll calls for Saturday's show. I'd met Eden in Melbourne but was no more than a Twitter acquaintance when she volunteered to retrieve me from the airport. While waiting on my delayed flight from Melbourne she and Sonya bumped into an Aussie named Jamie they'd also met in Oz. First thing I noticed about Jamie was the laminated -- laminated! -- sign requesting a dance with Michelle Moore he carried in the airport. This trio of fellow nutjobs awaited me when I arrived, and the four of us set off beneath a perfect, late-summer Kiwi sky. After a quick visit to Mt Smart Stadium for Jamie and I to get numbers (62 & 63), Eden took us to Mt Victoria for panoramic views of NZ's largest city (below).

View of Auckland from Mt Victoria.

Eden is now happily situated in the Land of the Long White Cloud -- a phrase I initially read as an admission to a heroin addiction -- and Jamie and I felt particularly undeserving being chauffeured around Auckland by a couple of 20-something women we barely knew. At one point Sonja cracked open a tin of what I guessed to be survivalist food in the front passenger seat and ate it cold with a spoon. She was clearly roughing it and deserved the #1 on the back of her hand. We ended up in a trendy neighbourhood and an outdoor bar that served pitchers of local ale at a reasonable price. What a way to be introduced to a land I've wanted to visit for eight years, with kind people, in a new and interesting locale, with Springsteen shows on tap the next two nights.

Eden and Sonja at roll call on Friday night.

This scenario gets to the heart of the Springsteen community and the rewards of putting your trust in fellow tramps. It's one thing to travel to new places and broaden your horizons because of a guy you've been following since your teenage years. It's another to feel part of a community that actually cares about each other and is eager to show it. This extraneous goodness of the faithful goes unrecognised by concert reviewers and chroniclers of cool but it's as organic to the Springsteen experience as the taste of salt on a NJ boardwalk breeze. 2013's 'Springsteen & I' touched on it, but the film's natural focus was individuals who'd submitted homemade videos, not the community that springs to life when Bruce tours. Someone will put out a natural sequel called 'Springsteen & Us' and if it's done right it'll be a hell of a better film.

Why? Because sharing the joy of a Springsteen concert with new friends who feel like old friends is a gift that instantly vaporises whatever bullshit came before it -- plane delays, traffic hassles, taxi fares, 'roided up security goons, miscommunications -- when the lights dim, the crowd roars and magic happens. Everyone's equal as we sing along, pump our fists, act like goofballs, and for 3+ hours nothing else matters. Where else you gonna find that?

"It's fun to stay at the ......"

It was dark when we raced back to Mt Smart for roll call and eventually Jamie and I hopped in separate cabs back to our hotels. In my case, 'hotel' is a rosy descriptor. When I travel without my wife I assuage an ever-present Irish-Catholic guilt by staying in {cough} economy {cough} accommodation. In Auckland this meant the YMCA. Take it from this 48-year-old: You can't imagine the pleasure of answering "Where are you staying?" by spelling Y - M - C - A over your head, Village People style. The sort of thing everyone needs to do once in his/her life. And only once. The room was prison-sized but clean, the people were friendly, and a cast of characters roamed the halls that would give David Lynch goosebumps.

Auckland's Sky Tower in the afternoon.

A sleepless night gave way to a fresh NZ morning. Even in NZ's  only metropolis the air was bracingly clean, invigorating -- whatever cliche you can conjure. Perfect. As someone brutalised by Melbourne's notoriously allergy-inducing atmosphere the whole of NZ was the equivalent of a bronchial brothel. Two other relocated locals described similar reactions to Kiwi air.

A Starbucks around the corner provided requisite caffeine and another $30 taxi ride got me to Mt Smart for morning roll call. After lining the sleep-deprived horde up and double checking list names & numbers, Eden provided Jamie and I with yet more insight into Auckland's suburbs with breakfast at a converted gas station in Avondale. She pointed to a giant spider sculpture on its main street like it was a historic church, or a celebrated piece of architecture, the sort of thing you find tucked between a liquor store and bakery any ol' place. Turned out a certain huntsman spider was only found in this municipality for many years, hence its elevation to statue-worthy icon. NZ's funky like that. Breakfast was thankfully spider-free.

The ground at Mt Smart Stadium, pre-show.

We returned to Mt Smart so Eden could rejoin Sonja and manage the GA line. I chose to test Auckland's mass transit by riding a train back into the CBD. With back-to-back crowds of 40,000 expected to descend on the stadium officials closed local roads and Mt Smart's public parking lot for the bulk of the weekend. An unimaginable strategy back in the States but apparently commonplace in laid-back NZ. Train and bus rides were free with a Springsteen ticket and 'free' beats a taxi fare every time, no matter how compelling a story the always foreign driver has to tell. Got off at Britomart station in the CBD and walked Queen Street -- Auckland' main drag -- back to the YMCA. Changed into a #2 Derek Jeter Yankees jersey, splashed some water on my face, and was soon back in a taxi as the clock ticked too close to 1:00, the time of final roll call. All roads around Mt Smart Stadium were in near shutdown mode. This concert was a big deal.

Marilyn and Elvis await the Boss with us commoners.

Taxi dropped me at the stadium's main entrance but Eden, Sonja, Jamie & Co. were nowhere to be seen. Standing at the gate were two people: Tour stalwart and NJ-boy Ted Brych and a Swedish woman who'd heard I was selling a Front GA ticket. We settled our business and entered the stadium grounds for the first time. A miscommunication had resulted in 100+ people lining up at the gate ahead of the folks who'd gotten numbers and been lining up for days ahead of Saturday. Harsh words had passed between groups but by the time I arrived everyone had settled into their proper places. Jamie and I got talking to a couple dressed as Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley who were behind us in line. I'd seen the bloke the night before drinking a beer and blasting obscure Springsteen songs and was apprehensive to learn why he was now dressed as a dead dude from Tupelo. The saying 'Don't judge a book by its cover' -- no matter how rhinestoned and/or cleavage-revealing -- never rang so true. Wish I had the King and his partner's names. They were funny and self-deprecating and crazy locals who'd traveled to Australia in 2013 to see Springsteen but were now impersonating American icons to welcome a living, breathing American icon to their homeland for the first time in 11 years.

'American hotdog' was actually a deep-fried corn dog. Blech.

It was a gorgeous Saturday afternoon as we found refuge on grass and beneath trees beside the Front GA gate. The absence of cars meant we were free to wander open macadam to vendors selling food and drink. Workers inside a massive beer shed stood ready to slake the thirsts of Springsteen fans but all -- drinkers and servers -- had to wait until an ungodly 4:00pm to consummate their mutual desires. I sat on a shady patch of grass and marveled at the number of familiar faces around me. People I'd seen in Perth, Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane. Hell, the New Zealander who'd mailed me my tickets for this show was -- unbeknownst to me -- sitting three feet away. (A Facebook friend request a week later revealed the guy's image for the first time. A Florida gentleman by the name of Tim Cabrey had put he and I in touch ... Tim and I met at last year's shows. It's a community, ya see.) Unlike other fans who follow bands like stoned gypsies, a gathering of Springsteen hardcores don't sit in circles holding hands, extolling the virtues of hemp, having sex behind port-o-johns, burning through trust funds. We bust our asses to be there, and await the payoff with a calmness that can be attributed to the rigors of roll call and a sense of being exactly, EXACTLY, where we should be. The peace of chasing joy and knowing we'd catch it.

And things were only going to get better. Much, much better.

Jimmy Barnes's daughter Mahalia -- who performed with Barnes at the Hanging Rock shows in 2013 -- this time did a set of her own before her dad. Great voice and stage presence.

Little Steven came out to play a song he wrote for Barnes -- that he also recorded with Southside Johnny -- called 'Ride the Night Away'.

Springsteen drew gasps with a stripped-bare cover of Lorde's 'Royals' to open. I admit to not knowing the song beforehand, despite it being 2013 Grammy Song of the Year, 'cause I'm an old fuck. By the time Bruce was done grinding the Kiwi teen's lyrics between his teeth and spitting them out like a man too disgusted with himself to care, I was a Lorde admirer. She was later quoted as saying Springsteen's version "made her teary".

'My Love Will Not Let You Down'

Giant Jake during 'Badlands'.

A favourite from my bootleg collecting days in NJ, the "very obscure" 'Loose Ends' sent a classic E Street Band noise into the Kiwi night.

An early indicator of the crowd's passion was unprompted singing to 'The River'.

Eden and Sonja's well-earned vantage points.

What it looks like when you inform an Aussie or Kiwi audience that you're about to perform the Born in the USA album in its entirety.

The great Nils Lofgren steps up during 'Cover Me'.

Bruce came to the front stage 'thrust' for the first time during 'Darlington County'.

'Darlington County'.

'Darlington County'.

The woman looking adoringly up at Bruce is Beverly. She's from San Francisco. I'd spoken with her briefly the night before at roll call. Beside her is Dal, from Perth. They're both remarkably lovely people. Their respective nights would get a helluva lot more interesting.

'Working on the Highway'. By now, we all know it's coming.

'Working on the Highway'.

'No Surrender'.

'Bobby Jean'.

On Twitter, Tom Morello used a hashtag 'halfblackallrock' to describe himself and Jake Clemons. Who can argue?

'Glory Days'.

This woman was a legend from the moment Bruce pulled her up on stage at the start of 'Glory Days'. She was holding a sign that said "In the wink of a young girl's eye" and time after time cracked Bruce and Steven up with her chutzpah.

One of my favourite photos from the night. Look at her face!

Remember that sign Jamie was carrying? The laminated one asking for a dance with Michelle Moore. Being that the four of us were at the front of the thrust and therefore in Bruce's direct vision, Jamie was the first to be yanked on stage during 'Dancing in the Dark'.

I don't know about you, but if I found myself in front of 40,000 people and a gorgeous woman awaiting a dance, I'd assume the fetal position and pray for a power outage.

But not the man I'll always refer to as The Legend ...

... who grabbed a tambourine and danced around like a born performer.

The Legend.

The Legend.

Another favourite photo as Beverly gets helped onstage by Springsteen ...

... who gives her a hug ...

... and they begin one of the sweetest dances I've ever seen ...

... while Dal and Tom Morello cut rug up on stage.

Beverly was fitted out with a guitar ...

... while Bruce kept a keen eye on Dal. Note Jamie and his tambourine.

Beverly's smile hovers above all like a midnight sun.

Jamie shares a mic with Little Steven.

The Legend shares a moment with Springsteen at the song's end.

'My Hometown' finished Born in the USA ...

... which led directly to 'The Rising'.

'Ghost of Tom Joad' ...

... and another epic guitar duel between Bruce ...

... and Tom.

Michelle, Curtis and Cindy joined Steven on backing vocals for 'Land of Hope and Dreams'.

E Street Band takes their bows.

The crowd Saturday night was incredible, and Bruce responded in kind ... as always.

Getting a number pays off during 'Born to Run' ...

... for us, too. (My hand's on the left with the wedding ring.)

Bruce cracked up Steven during an insane 'Rosalita' ...

... which brought Steven, Jake and Bruce to the thrust's edge.

Here's another angle of that shot from Dal's vantage point, with me perhaps taking the two photos shown above this one.

What happened next made this an especially unforgettable night for me. During a song that's lifted my spirits for over three decades, Springsteen dropped his mic in front of me (above) during the "We're gonna play some pool, skip some school ..." section of 'Rosalita'. I screamed the lines in what the official audio download revealed to be a pro wrestler's growl ...

... and, perhaps because I'd sang the proper words with requisite enthusiasm, Bruce answered immediately with a tremendous "FUCK YEAH". Both of these photos were taken by Jamie, to whom I'm eternally grateful.

This photo's from a woman met in Auckland named Piera who lives in Melbourne (her and a friend named Mary carried a sign that said 'Teachers for Tom Morello'). I had several people come up to me after the show congratulating me on my contribution as my mug was up on the rear screen throughout.

Without 'Shackled and Drawn' in the setlist, Cindy played less of a role in Auckland. She still looked incredible, of course.

'Tenth Ave Freeze Out'.

When Nils did this to Bruce in Sydney last year my photo got picked up (and purchased by) Rolling Stone magazine in the US and Germany.

This one's a better shot, simply for the look on Steven's face. But isn't that always the case?

Bruce closed the night with a solo 'Thunder Road'.

"... we're riding out tonight to case the promised land ..."

When this amazing night was over and Jamie and Eden and Sonja and Dal and Beverly and a host of others had reconvened by Mt Smart Stadium's main entrance to get Front GA numbers for Sunday night's show (I skipped roll call, however -- had a report to file for Backstreets and was bloody beat) one of the guys who travels around the world to see Springsteen asked me this question: "Are you going to write the truth, or are you going to say it was a good show?" I chuckled and told him his perspective was skewed. A crowd of 40,000 hungry to see him and the E Street Band after an absence of 11 years, songs played with passion and fury, a complete Born in the USA, a set of encore songs that had every person within 20 feet of me bouncing up and down ... I wrote the truth as I lived it for Backstreets.

In the words of the jaded gentleman, it was a good show.

Walking up Auckland's Hobson Street after post-show pints at the Albion Hotel I looked up and saw the Sky Tower glowing like a blue beacon.