For the past couple of months, I've been hounding my girlfriend, Katie, trying to convince her we need to move to the city. While that’s not necessarily true, I am really craving being a part of a place where “things happen” – that ever-elusive term that loosely applies to whatever you want it to apply to. In my case, I'd love to be able to go to a bar and see a world-class band whose albums I buy without driving or making a big plan of it. I'd love to be able to stop by a comedy club or join a writer's group, two things that are virtually non-existent outside of cities. I'd love to go somewhere whose crowd is both full and always stretching itself towards a stage with my favorite artists on it.
But there's something to be said for small town bars on a small town night. For instance, last night, I went with a few friends, Katie, Ryan, and Frank to Edgar's in Manasquan to see the E Street Shuffle, a Bruce Springsteen cover band, play.
Edgar's is currently under construction, so the new front door doesn't have a ramp anymore, which is critical because my friend Frank has Cerebral Palsy and is in a 500-lb wheelchair. Luckily, we were greeted by a gaggle of cigarette-gulping men in uniform from the army camp next door outside the place who offered to help us lift the chair over the one big step at the door.
As huge Bruce fans living mostly within walking distance of Edgar's, Frankie and I basically feel like the E Street Shuffle is a thing that was made specifically for us. We love hearing songs that Bruce himself seems to have forgotten, and hearing them be crafted right in front of us without being in a seat in a huge stadium next to some guy who thinks out loud that the first notes of “Racing in the Street” is the ideal time to go to the bathroom.
There was a girl in a blue shirt who was up and dancing from the first notes of the second set, occasionally tugging on her significant other (let's call him a boyfriend)'s plaid collared shirt and dragging him onto the floor. There was another girl dancing by herself like she was the fucking queen, which was awesome in its own way. There was the group of tipsy men in prim uniforms at a table in the back, who seemed to be enjoying some time off. There was Frankie, dancing in his wheelchair, and me trying my best to dance, and often corralling a sober Katie onto the floor to laugh at me.
Other than that, a couple guys at the bar watching March Madness, and a bartender who shook my hand and asked me how I was doing, the place was pretty empty. And yet, there's something to be said for an empty bar where a world-class band is lighting the place on fire and receiving respect from their few patrons. The set included Frankie's favorite, "Talk To Me," a rare but intensely beautiful dip into '90s Bruce with "If I Should Fall Behind," and other great performances on "Born to Run," "Fire," and "Promised Land".
And, there was, of course, the closer – a reluctant compliance to an outlandish request sprung from Frankie’s keyboard and carried into voice by the five dancing fools chanting for "Thundercrack": a nine-minute opus complete with dance move-instructions, chanting, sax solos, and lots and lots of sweat.
There's something to be said for walking home without being in a rush, having to catch a train, or pay for a taxi, and mostly just meandering down the only non-residential street in town towards Frankie's house. Walking with him can be slow-going, especially when he's hilariously fucking around and trying to ride backwards down the sidewalk. Blue shirt girl and reluctant-dancing boyfriend were walking on the other side of Washington.
"Thundercrack!" she shouted across the empty parking spots through no traffic for miles as Frankie and I became illuminated by a twinkling streetlight.
"Baby's back!" I responded, and hummed the rest of the song to myself.
They disappeared into the night and the stench of the ocean with a "get home safe."
There's almost certainly something to be said for that.
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