Pointless Celebrity Encounters. Part Three.

Saturday, November 15, 1980. Houston, Texas. One day later, Gerald Hines' Galleria, modeled after the one in Milan, would be ten years old. There was much hoopla and festive adornment to mark this occasion. For example, there was a tenor, standing on a small stage that resembled the top of a wedding cake, singing opera. I paused, briefly, to watch. I had recently emerged, in much the same way hamburger emerges from a grinder, from a relationship with a woman who tried to help me appreciate opera. She failed. It was still boring, and I was still a heathen who preferred less cadaverous forms of artistic expression. I was impressed by the virtuosity of the singer, however, and found myself lingering. The small crowd continued to grow, and the tenor continued to sing. Abruptly, the man standing directly in front of me turned and we almost collided. He had obviously had enough opera, and was making his escape. I was blocking his way. It was Bruce Springsteen.

I didn't recognize him at first. He was shorter than I imagined. But the facial recognition software in my brain went haywire. For a fraction of a second, I thought I recognized him from high school, or art school or work. That face, which gives one the impression that Robert DeNiro once mated with an Easter Island statue, was clearly imprinted on my brain, but I simply could not place the name. Seriously. I was only a fan for the two years between The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle and Born to Run. By 1980, I was more interested in the rude, noisy boys and girls from England and New York and Akron. Even if had been a fan of someone as mainstream as Springsteen, it would have been my secret to conceal.

Anyway, back at the Galleria, the tenor was still singing and Bruce Springsteen was still standing in front of me, not moving. He was staring right back at me, waiting patiently for me to say something. I realized later, when I saw him talking to a group of very excited young women, that he was completely accessible, absurdly approachable, and seemed to enjoy talking to his fans.

A fraction of a second later, I recognized him, and realized he was waiting for me to say his name. I find this significant, and quite admirable. He would have granted me that moment of rare, unencumbered fandom. But, since he already knew who he was, and didn't really need my validation, I just nodded and stepped aside. He hooked up with a small entourage, and spent the next few hours doing exactly what I was doing. Hanging out at the Galleria.

He had performed at the Summit the night before, and would do it again in a few hours. I know people who still talk about those shows. When I saw him again, an hour or so later, he was watching dozens of Dorothy Hamill wannabes, and other assorted Exxon brats, skate loopy figure eights to AC/DC's Highway to Hell. That was a moment of pure American bliss. And I saw him shortly after that, talking to the aforementioned female fans. They had gathered at the base of an escalator, near the very popular Magic Pan Creperie. (Magic Pan Creperie. What the hell were we thinking?)

I continued strolling through the festivities and seductive retail overkill. Just when I thought Bruce had left the building, I ran into him one more time. He was standing in a massive, chain record store holding a copy of Give 'Em Enough Rope. I walked in looking for John Lennon's Double Fantasy, which was scheduled to drop any day. I wasn't sure if I would buy it or not, but since it marked Lennon's return to recorded pop music, I was curious -- and about two days early.

But, there was Bruce, holding that Clash album. I toyed with the idea of buying a copy of Greetings From Asbury Park and asking for his autograph, but I didn't do it. I'm glad I didn't. And I'm really glad there wasn't a phone in anyone's pocket that also took photos. The image of Bruce Springsteen holding a Clash album in 1980, when we were both young and full of nicotine, is much too cool to sully with such documentation. In about a month, Sandinista would be released and The Clash would, for a short time, be the only band that mattered. In twenty-three days, John Lennon would be gone. And thirty years later, record stores would be irrelevant.