When I was a budding young music nerd, yellowing back-issues of Rolling Stone and Creem introduced me to a number of records I’ve loved ever since. Yet one satirical essay almost ruined Bruce Springsteen for me. Its author imagined a visit to the singer’s absurdly all-American house, complete with a white picket fence and a Chevy in the driveway, where Springsteen could be found grilling hot dogs in the back yard and spouting vapid clichés in the third person (“Bruce Springsteen sure does like a cold one after a hard day on the job”).
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