The summer the music died

Four years ago I left Fort Greene, Brooklyn, and moved to a small beach town called Asbury Park, New Jersey. It is not for everyone, but somehow it has suited me well. If given the opportunity I might have picked Dutchess County where I had lived on and off for over 13 years, but the shore beckoned.

Asbury Park is best known for its favorite son — Bruce Springsteen. He appears locally quite a bit, but my only encounter with him was at our son’s school the night of his induction into the Honor Society. Bruce was there as well, celebrating his daughter’s own induction. I smiled at this handsome, rock and roll star in jeans and a leather jacket. My friend, a musician, approached him and asked: “How’s the Boss?” He smiled, accustomed to this treatment, and said: “Fine.”

In mid-March of this year the music died in Asbury Park. The Stone Pony, the Paramount, the Wonder Bar, the Independent, the Saint and numerous bars and restaurants where one could hear live music are all closed. Rock and Roll has always been the life blood of this community. Even when Asbury Park was down on its luck — music always fueled its hope. Normally, music was live from afternoon into the night. I could hear its loud beats from my porch on 7th Avenue on a summer evening. I rarely went to hear it, but I always enjoyed its energetic presence. It seemed to come from the very heart of this town.

Two years ago “the Boss” came to the Paramount. He actually lives more inland on a large horse farm in Colts Neck. He”ll be back. Some day, break-ups, depression, miscommunications, anger, fear, bigotry, people working non-stop and the most difficult– loved ones dying– will lessen. But in spite of “the day the music died,” we still watch the sun rise and the ocean fall. There may be “darkness on the edge of town,” but this gritty slice of America will rise again and there will be music and all will be well.