Putting the dice aside for the day to fill a request: E Street Shuffle reader David asked for my take on “Lost in the Flood.” It was a surprisingly tough assignment, because my feelings about the song are conflicted, depending on which version we’re discussing.
Let me start by saying something that’s probably tantamount to heresy among Bruce fans: I’m not convinced that “Lost in the Flood’ is the masterpiece that most seem to view it as–not on vinyl, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great song: there are absolutely flashes of lyrical brilliance, and it’s furiously powerful when Bruce performs it with the E Street Band in concert.
But I also find it lyrically messy at times, a victim of the verbal spewage that characterizes some of Bruce’s earliest work. Worse, the E Street Band is weak on the studio track–the power that drives this song in concert is limp on vinyl. The difference between the studio and live versions of “Lost in the Flood” is one of the starkest in Bruce’s catalog. Let’s dive in and check it out:
“Lost in the Flood” consists of three seemingly unrelated but thematically linked vignettes, with the narrator chiming in at the end of each like the Greek chorus in a tragedy. I love the structure–Bruce would employ it to even greater effect almost a decade later in “Reason to Believe“–and the fourth-wall-breaking device is clever. But the stories are uneven in style and approachability. The first and third stories are particularly dense with “Blinded by the Light“-style rapid-fire imagery, so they take some careful attention to appreciate. The middle story is plain-spoken but wears the most brilliant disguise.
Story #1 begins with an ominous clap of distant thunder (Steve Van Zandt’s first contribution to a Springsteen record); David Sancious’ piano is the only accompaniment for a soldier returning home (presumably from Vietnam). He doesn’t recognize his town, and his town doesn’t recognize him.
The ragamuffin gunner is returnin’ home like a hungry runaway
He walks through town all alone
“He must be from the fort,” he hears the high school girls say
To the gunner, the streetscape evokes the wartime countryside. There’s an unholy, drug-fueled ennui that’s taken over the streets, and the gunner feels mired in it, unable to move.
This countryside’s burnin’ with wolfmen fairies dressed in drag for homicide
They hit and run, plead sanctuary, ‘neath the holy stone they hide
They’re breakin’ beams and crosses with a spastic’s reelin’ perfection
Nuns run bald through Vatican halls pregnant, pleadin’ immaculate conception
And everybody’s wrecked on Main Street from drinking unholy blood
Sticker smiles sweet as gunner breathes deep, his ankles caked in mud
The narrator sets him straight–Gunner isn’t stuck; he’s sinking.
And I said, “Hey, gunner man, that’s quicksand, that’s quicksand that ain’t mud
Have you thrown your senses to the war or did you lose them in the flood?”
The apocalyptic religious imagery is a little over-the-top for my taste, but it certainly takes us inside Gunner’s mind. Let’s continue.
Story #2 introduces us to a Jersey street racer, going nowhere fast:
That pure American brother, dull-eyed and empty-faced
Races Sundays in Jersey in a Chevy stock super eight
He rides her low on the hip, on the side he’s got “Bound For Glory” in red, white and blue flash paint
He leans on the hood telling racin’ stories, the kids call him Jimmy the Saint
At this point, the E Street Band enters, and Jimmy springs into tragic action, racing into a hurricane. Jimmy challenges the storm and the storm wins.
Well that blaze and noise boy, he’s gunnin’ that bitch loaded to blastin’ point
He rides headfirst into a hurricane and disappears into a point
And there’s nothin’ left but some blood where the body fell
That is, nothin’ left that you could sell
Just junk all across the horizon, a real highwayman’s farewell
The narrator again enters the scene:
And I said, “Hey kid, you think that’s oil? Man, that ain’t oil, that’s blood”
I wonder what he was thinking when he hit that storm
Or was he just lost in the flood?
Given the context of the first and third vignettes, it’s likely that this story, too, concerns the spread of drugs on the street. Jimmy is “dull-eyed and empty-faced,” and “racing” could easily be a metaphor for shooting up. Riding and disappearing into a hurricane, with nothing left to sell… just “junk” all over the horizon. Doesn’t take much of a stretch to make the connection, but Bruce pulls off a neat trick by using the plainest language of the three stories to employ the subtlest metaphor.
For the last story, we’re back out on the street, in an eerie quiet that breaks suddenly:
Eighth Avenue sailors in satin shirts whisper in the air
Some storefront incarnation of Maria, she’s puttin’ on me the stare
And Bronx’s best apostle stands with his hand on his own hardware
Everything stops, you hear five quick shots, the cops come up for air
A pell-mell gang gunfight ensues, and Bruce narrates it as if directing a movie:
And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they’re shootin’ up the street
Whoa, that cat from the Bronx starts lettin’ loose, but he gets blown right off his feet
Oh, and some kid comes blastin’ round the corner, but a cop puts him right away
He lays on the street holding his leg screaming something in Spanish
Still breathing when I walked away
(Those last two lines are a great example of Bruce’s talent for crystallizing a scene in the viewer’s mind simply by describing a seemingly trivial detail–in this case, the kid on the street holding his leg, screaming something the narrator doesn’t understand and doesn’t stick around to find out. It’s a brilliant device.)
Unfortunately, the musical accompaniment isn’t nearly as ferocious as Bruce’s lyrics. The E Street Band reaches for the cinematic equivalent of a gunfight, but the organ-forward sound isn’t appropriate, and Vini’s drums aren’t up to the task either. As a result, the listener (this one, at least) feels detached from rather than immersed in the chaos.
The narrator enters once more, wondering what the point was of the carnage–or if there even was one.
And somebody said, “Hey man, did you see that? His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud”
I wonder what the dude was sayin’, or was he just lost in the flood?
Well, hey man, did you see that, lord, those poor cats are sure messed up
I wonder what they were gettin’ into, or were they all just lost in the flood?
Were they lost, oh, tell me, tell me, man
Were they lost?
Lost in the flood… of what? The junkie’s rush? The miasma of the street? The demons that drive one to drugs in order to escape? Probably all of those.
If you want to hear this song in its full power, you’ll need to turn to a live recording. My favorite is from the official Live in New York City release:
The instrumental prologue establishes a dire, impending tone. The entrance of the guitars and feedback is far more effective than the faux thundercrack on Greetings. And in the climactic battle, the reunited E Street Band are street fighters themselves: Max’s drums fire like gunshots (in later performances, almost literally), Bruce’s guitar is like a knife, and the whole band hits the street with a beautiful thud.
“Lost in the Flood” has never exactly been a staple of live performances, although it did appear frequently between 1972 and 1978. It then disappeared until the very last show of the Reunion Tour in 2000 and has surfaced only occasionally thereafter.
Until I heard it played live in concert, I admit to being left cold by “Lost in the Flood.” It’s a good object lesson that as strong a lyricist as Bruce is, a good deal of the power of a song comes from the music. “Lost in the Flood” needs to be experienced live to be fully appreciated.
Lost in the Flood
Recorded: June – October 1972
Released: Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ (1973), Live in New York City (2001), Hammersmith Odeon, London ’75 (2005)
First performed: February 14, 1973 (Richmond, VA)
Last performed: January 22, 2017 (Perth, Australia)
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