“As far as my own plans, you know, I think you’re concerned about ever playing again.” (He says this lightly enough, and later takes pains to clarify that he’s far more concerned about “working musicians who go week to week, and all your back-line people in the crew.”) “So that weighs on your mind a little bit because, well, it was fun. So, how’s he doing? “Hangin’ in there, like everybody else,” Springsteen says, sinking further into his chair. For a man who’s born to run but more or less stuck in place, there are worse spots to be. We settle into wicker chairs, six feet apart, across a table of white stone that overlooks a tree-lined field, where leaves are swaying in what’s left of the morning’s wind. I grew up around here, too, so as we head to a covered porch, there’s some local small talk - we mourn a mutually beloved Carvel store, mentioned in his book, that’s morphed into a Dunkin’ Donuts. When you’ve hardly spoken with anyone else face-to-face for months, it’s even odder. It is, as always, mildly jarring to be standing next to him, as though one of the heads from Mount Rushmore peeled itself off the cliff to hang out. These Republicans Are Casting Doubt on Election Results and Refusing to Concede We are six months deep into a global pandemic, and even Bruce Springsteen has been working from home for a long while. He’s in jeans, needless to say, but they’re light blue, in a loose carpenter cut. On his sockless feet - incredibly! - are a pair of leather sandals. His hair is silver and black, cropped short, and on his still-lean torso is a thin white undershirt not unlike the one he wore on the cover of Darkness on the Edge of Town, with a low, ribbed neck and a tiny hole on the side. (The more time he spends in semi-isolation here, the more he ends up focusing on the weather: “What else is there?”) “It ended up being a halfway decent day,” he says, with real gratitude. It’s afternoon now, and above Springsteen’s farm, the clouds are scattering, with sunshine breaking through. This morning, an early-August thunderstorm straight out of one of his own metaphors rumbled through New Jersey’s Monmouth County, soaking Asbury Park, buffeting Freehold, leaving muddy ground here in the horsey acres of Colts Neck. Bruce Springsteen is standing on a gravel driveway outside his house, squinting up at the sky.
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