Bruce almighty

The Telegraph sent me to do a piece on Glastonbury the other week. The crush of the crowd, the stink of the burgers, the even worse stench from the lavatories, the fact that most people seemed to be half-drunk or stoned, and the loneliness of wandering around the site, utterly miserable, when everyone else appeared to be having a high old time with friends or loved ones, reminded me of Mephistopheles’s great line in Dr Faustus: ‘Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.’ When the thunder and lightning started, followed by rain so heavy it drenched you in seconds, I felt more miserable than I have in years.

As I fled the site I made a firm vow never to return to Glasto. Once was more than enough. But having filed my knocking copy I shamefacedly found myself creeping back the following day. After all, I had a sparkly gold press wristband that gave me access to the civilised ‘hospitality’ enclosure — where there are flushing toilets and excellent flapjacks — and Bruce Springsteen was playing.

Over the years I’ve seen the Stones, the Who, the Grateful Dead, Neil Young, Van Morrison and Pink Floyd. Springsteen was the last big name on my wish list and it seemed ridiculous to turn down the opportunity out of sheer wimpishness. And by now the sun was shining, I found a stall that sold excellent Yorkshire Blend tea, and I was on my second flapjack. Suddenly God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

I’ve never forgotten hearing ‘Born to Run’ for the first time in 1975, and feeling the hairs rise on the back of my neck. It has never lost its power to excite and stir the heart, and there are subsequent classics just as fine, most notably that superbly haunting epic of broken dreams, ‘The River’.

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