Roll of the Dice: The Wish

I’m about to break my own rules–three of them, in fact:

• I’m ignoring the randomizer and choosing the song I want to write about, something I haven’t done since my very first post.
• I’m focusing less on the history of the song and more on its significance today.
• There are spoilers below for anyone who hasn’t yet seen Springsteen on Broadway–you are hereby warned.

But I saw Bruce’s Broadway show for the fourth time the other night, and while I frequently teared up the first three times I saw it, I outright bawled last night when Bruce played “The Wish.”

I haven’t been able to get that performance out of my mind since, and I need to write about it.

You don’t have to know much of Bruce’s backstory to understand “The Wish.” Everything you need to know is laid out nakedly in the lyrics. “The Wish” is a love letter from Bruce to his mom, and it’s probably the most autobiographical song he’s ever written. There are no characters or composites–just the singer and his mother. Through the song, Bruce shares with us how influential his mom was on the man he became: she bought him his first guitar, taught him pride of work and station, showed him how to take joy in one’s job, passed on to him a love of music and dancing, anchored him from succumbing to his dad’s darkness and depression, and encouraged his love of performing.

Here’s the very first time Bruce played “The Wish,” eight years before he released it officially:

Dirty old street all slushed up in the rain and snow
Little boy and his ma shivering outside a rundown music store window
That night on top of a Christmas tree shines one beautiful star
And lying underneath a brand-new Japanese guitar

I remember in the morning, ma, hearing your alarm clock ring
I’d lie in bed and listen to you gettin’ ready for work
The sound of your makeup case on the sink
And the ladies at the office, all lipstick, perfume and rustlin’ skirts
And how proud and happy you always looked walking home from work

If pa’s eyes were windows into a world so deadly and true
You couldn’t stop me from looking but you kept me from crawlin’ through
And if it’s a funny old world, mama, where a little boy’s wishes come true
Well I got a few in my pocket and a special one just for you

It ain’t no phone call on Sunday, flowers or a mother’s day card
It ain’t no house on a hill with a garden and a nice little yard
I got my hot rod down on Bond Street, I’m older but you’ll know me in a glance
We’ll find us a little rock ‘n roll bar and baby we’ll go out and dance

Well it was me in my Beatle boots, you in pink curlers and matador pants
Pullin’ me up of the couch to do the twist for my uncles and aunts
Well I found a girl of my own now, ma, I popped the question on your birthday
She stood waiting on the front porch while you were telling me to get out there
And say what it was that I had to say

Last night we all sat around laughing at the things that guitar brought us
And I layed awake thinking ’bout the other things it’s brought us
Well tonight I’m takin’s requests here in the kitchen
This one’s for you, ma, let me come right out and say it
It’s overdue, but baby, if you’re looking for a sad song, well I ain’t gonna play it

Bruce recorded the song during the Tunnel of Love sessions, but he sat on the song for more than a decade before releasing it on Tracks.

Until Broadway, he performed it only rarely–ostensibly because it’s considered uncool to sing about one’s mother (as he’d typically explain by way of introducing the song), but I suspect more likely because the song is so bravely autobiographical. It’s one thing to write so openly; it’s another to perform that way.

The first time I saw Springsteen on Broadway was the very first show of the run, and every song was a surprise–but none more so than “The Wish.” I was delighted to finally hear Bruce play it live, and I was touched by how lovingly he described his mom by way of introducing the song.

I saw the show twice more over the following month, and each time Bruce grew more detailed, confident, and open when he shared stories about his mom. But emotionally, I always felt the emotional heft of the show was when he talked about his dad.

But now it’s eight months later, and based on what I experienced two nights ago, Bruce has emotionally elevated the show to heights I couldn’t have imagined. And what used to be a light, joyful moment (Bruce still segues into it by saying “I’m going to take you off of suicide watch now”) is now a sucker-punch.

Bruce still lovingly described his mom in all her joy, warmth, and carefree-dom. (“She’d make conversation with a broom handle.”) And he added new details, expanding at length on her love of dancing. (We’d soon learn why.)

But then he revealed something I’d known and read about but never heard him say or talk about: his mom is seven years into Alzheimer’s, and while her memories are slipping away, the one thing that remains as strong as ever is her love of dancing. No matter her presence of mind, whenever she hears music around her, she gets up and dances–that core piece of her personality remains intact and unchallenged.

At that very moment, I instantly recollected a story and video that went viral a few months ago. You might remember it: in the middle of an ordinary Saturday afternoon, Bruce showed up with his mom at the Wonder Bar in Asbury park, where they danced at an Eddie Testa Band concert until the power went out from a storm.

I remembered that video, and I remember wondering why Bruce would brave the cameras and the elements just to dance at a Saturday afternoon bar gig. And as Bruce started to sing, I knew what lyrics were coming up:

It ain’t no phone call on Sunday, flowers or a mother’s day card
It ain’t no house on a hill with a garden and a nice little yard
I got my hot rod down on Bond Street, I’m older but you’ll know me in a glance
We’ll find us a little rock ‘n roll bar and baby we’ll go out and dance

And I knew… I absolutely knew what was about to happen. And I started crying before it even happened.

Bruce got to that verse, and he did something I’d never seen or heard him do.

He sang the verse, but when he got to the words “you’ll know me,” he stopped playing.

He sat in silence for several seconds, staring down at the piano keys.

And then he repeated, this time spoken, not singing: “You’ll know me.”

More silence.

And then he finished the verse, ignoring the audience for a few moments so he could dance with his mom in an imagined rock and roll bar, like he did that Saturday in April.

I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Certainly not mine, and not Bruce’s either, who had to wipe his when he finished the song.

We’d just shared the most emotionally raw and powerful moment I’ve ever been witness to at a show.

Here was a man who was and is in the process of losing his mom, inch by inch, day by day, to the ravages of Alzheimer’s Disease, and each night he comes out on stage, celebrating his mom but also reliving the pain of a gradual loss-in-progress. I’ve never seen a braver on-stage performance.

He all but told us in so many words that his mom has reached the point where she sometimes doesn’t know him, but when they dance… when they dance, they connect.

Dammit. I’m crying right now.

My wish for Bruce: that he has many more opportunities to dance with his mom in a little rock and roll bar, and that those present allow him the space and privacy to enjoy it.

My wish for you: that you someday, somehow have the opportunity to see this remarkable show, either on Broadway or in what I hope will be an eventual home video release.

And that we all find our little rock and roll bar, where we can dance ever after with the ones we love.

The Wish
Recorded: February 22, 1987
Released: Tracks (1998)
First performed: November 17, 1990 (Los Angeles, CA)
Last performed: September 4, 2021 (New York City, NY)

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