Roll of the Dice: Nothing Man

One of Bruce Springsteen’s underappreciated talents is the construction of an album sequence.

If that sounds like a lame thing to classify as a “talent,” then just consider: on Bruce’s landmark “9/11” album, The Rising, only half the album was actually written post-9/11.

A full seven songs (possibly eight–the jury’s still out on “Mary’s Place“) were written at earlier times in different contexts, and yet so skillful is Bruce in arranging The Rising that he’s able to place unrelated songs in close enough proximity to convince you that they couldn’t be about anything but that tragic day in American history.

Nowhere is that skill more on display than in “Nothing Man,” the oldest song on The Rising, dating all the way back to a solo recording in 1994.

A haunting tale of a borderline suicidal veteran, “Nothing Man” perfectly translated to the immediate aftermath of 9/11, when so many first responders carried the trauma of the horrors and loss they experienced on that day.

When the E Street Band reunited in the studio in early 2001, “Nothing Man” was one of the songs they took a stab at,  but Bruce wasn’t happy with the result of anything from those sessions. He asked Brendan O’Brien to help him lead the band toward an album, and “Nothing Man” was one of the first tracks Bruce played for Brendan. The song resonated, especially when the Twin Towers fell shortly after.

Under O’Brien’s watch, Bruce recorded “Nothing Man” for a third time, and that third time proved to be the charm: “Nothing Man” made it onto The Rising as one of the album’s strongest tracks.

I’ve read suggestions that Bruce tinkered with the lyrics at least slightly before recording it with the E Street Band during The Rising sessions, and that’s certainly possible. But then again: see the lede.

Bruce has a habit of pairing his lyrics with backing tracks that belie rather than enhance the song’s subject, but this is not one of those times. The prominent synth throughout perfectly conjures the daze and aimlessness of the narrator; Nils’ slightly threatening guitar encroaches and fades around the melody as if held barely at bay by the protagonist’s attempts to keep it together.

And then there’s the lyrics, easily carving out a place in upper echelons of Bruce’ most powerful songwriting. If there’s another Springsteen superpower on display in “Nothing Man,” it’s the remarkably deep empathy of its songwriter.

I don’t remember how I felt, I never thought I’d live
To read about myself in my hometown paper
How my brave young life was forever changed
In a misty cloud of pink vapor

Darling give me your kiss, only understand:
I am the nothing man

Our hero is… well, a hero. To us, at least–the listeners as well as the characters who inhabit the song. To himself, not so much.

What selfless act of bravery did he commit? In the context of The Rising, perhaps he was a first responder, trying in vain to rescue as many lives as possible but falling impossibly short due to the sheer magnitude of the attack. In the context of its original 1994 incarnation, he’s likely a soldier injured in battle, unable to save enough of those he served alongside.

In any event, his deeds were noble enough to earn him the attention and accolades of his hometown, but at a cost steep enough to have incurred lasting trauma. Is the pink vapor his own blood, created by a bullet that paralyzed him for life? Or does it belong to those he couldn’t save? Was he physically debilitated in that moment of truth, emotionally paralyzed, or both?

Regardless, he now views himself as a “nothing man”–with no feelings, no purpose, no value, and no hope. He pleads with his love for connection but cautions her that he’s unable to reciprocate.

(At least we think he’s talking to his partner. That may change.)

Around here everybody acts the same
Around here everybody acts like nothing’s changed
Friday night, the club meets at Al’s Barbecue
The sky is still the same unbelievable blue

Darling give me your kiss, come and take my hand
I am the nothing man

There’s a commonality felt by those who experience something life-altering–whether something good like the birth of a child or something tragic like the loss of one: how can everyone around us carry on like nothing’s changed when our own world has been irrevocably shattered?

That’s the emotional context of the second verse. Bruce significantly refers to “the club” rather than “the regulars” or “the guys” or “everyone.” With one word, Bruce signals that the narrator is emotionally alienated from his group of former intimates, and his disbelief at the bright sunny sky tells us all we need to understand about the contrast of his emotional state.

In the second chorus, Bruce once again pleads to his off-screen love, but there’s something curious about the construction here: he begs her to take his hand as if to lead him, but his “nothing man” self-condemnation seems to stand alone. It’s our first real hint about who he’s actually addressing.

You can call me Joe, buy me a drink and shake my hand
You want courage, I’ll show you courage you can understand
The pearl and silver resting on my night table
It’s just me Lord, I pray and I’m able

Darling with this kiss, say you understand
I am the nothing man

All three verses in “Nothing Man” are powerful, but it’s the final one that devastates. Joe has become something of a local celebrity, but while he goes through the motions of allowing his grateful neighbors express their appreciation and admiration, it’s clear his self-image does not match their perception.

And at this point, I must confess: until I sat down to write this essay, I always thought the key lyric was “I’ll show you courage you can’t understand.” I confirmed my mistake by consulting Bruce’s Songs book, the studio track, and live performances, and it’s clear to me now that Bruce does indeed sing the affirmative “can.” But it’s rocking my world a bit, because the rest of the verse unmistakably refers to a gun at Joe’s bedside and his readiness to use it, almost certainly on himself.

To my mind, I can’t hear anything other than “courage you can’t understand,” because how could most of us understand what it feels like to consider ending our own lives?  But the line is clearly “can,” which I suppose speaks to the depths of Joe’s despair–if we only knew, if we’d been through what he experienced, we’d understand how his contemplation could be seen as courage.

Either way, the verse remains masterfully and magnificently ambiguous: Bruce clearly intends to keep us in the dark about the character’s fate. We know he feels worthless, we know he has a gun by his bedside, we know he’s contemplating using it, and we know he’s praying for the strength to follow through with his decision.

But what is his decision? For as much as the song intimates an inclination towards suicide, it can also be read in the reverse: a prayer for the strength and the courage to keep going just one more day, to not use that pearl and silver. I pray, and I’m able. (The “able,” by the way, adds credence to the interpretation that Joe was disabled during his heroic deeds.) That act of finality is tempting not just in its promise of release, but in the sense of control and self-determination–however fleeting–it provides him. I pray for release from this life, and I’m able to make it happen.

Is Joe summoning up the courage to live one more day, or the courage to make this day his last? That’s left for the listener to decide. But if you’re inclined to the darker interpretation, there’s a reading of the chorus that supports you.: while Joe may be addressing his romantic partner, there’s a strong argument to be made that Joe is talking to Death itself, pleading for its kiss of release and a path to the afterlife.

There’s no bright interpretation of “Nothing Man,” only dark and darker. The most hopeful reading is one where Joe summons the courage to hang on just one more day, and then hopefully does it again tomorrow. This is one of the bleaker songs in Bruce’s catalog, and it’s a testament to his songwriting skill that he’s able to make us feel Joe’s pain despite so few of us having experienced anything resembling his trauma.

Still, the bleakness of “Nothing Man” probably has a lot to do with its rarity in concert. Other than “Let’s Be Friends (Skin to Skin)” (a personal favorite but one which many fans would argue deserves to be buried), “Nothing Man” is the least-performed song from The Rising. In the clip below–one of the the song’s only two performances from the Rising Tour–we get a sense of why.

As soon as Bruce begins to play “Nothing Man,” he loses the crowd; we can hear their indifference to the song. I actually find that poetically apt–there’s something powerful about Bruce singing in the voice of someone so alienated while the crowd completely ignores him. They might as well be the crowd at Al’s Barbecue.

“Nothing Man” fared better on Bruce’s 2005 solo acoustic tour, where he performed it eleven times, including its last outing to date. In a theater setting, with only spare instrumentation, “Nothing Man” comes across as the inner monologue it is, to heart-breaking effect.

It’s been a long fifteen years since we’ve heard Bruce play “Nothing Man” in concert, and unless we’re fortunate enough to get another solo tour down the road, I suspect we might have heard the last from it. Despite its absence from the stage, however, “Nothing Man” remains one of Bruce’s most powerful songs.

Nothing Man
Recorded: Early 2002
Released: The Rising (2002)
First performed: September 30, 2002 (St. Paul, MN)
Last performed: October 28, 2005 (Boston, MA)

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