James Maddock vs. Bruce Springsteen

      In the world of Bruce Springsteen fandom, of which I am an exclusive member, I'm about to speak blasphemy. Here goes: I recently had a concert experience that I enjoyed as much as, if not more than, a Springsteen show. There it is, I said it. And I'm sticking to it.

     
     Now compared to the JFK assassination conspiracy, and Pluto not being a planet after all, this declaration is not much of a great, historical revelation. But for the five or six friends and family members who read this incredibly unpopular blog, that statement I'm sure comes as quite a shock. If Jesus Christ is the savior of my soul, then Bruce Springsteen certainly is runner-up.

     
     Two weeks ago, a slightly lesser known and much more under-appreciated songwriter and musician named James Maddock left me with the same feeling I get upon leaving a Springsteen show: A high no drug could duplicate, a soul-stirring warmth no religious sermon could top, and a refreshing, optimistic perspective on life so desperately needed for a lonely and boring middle-aged man living an existence of banality between Boss concerts and basketball seasons.

     Now maybe my claims of sacrilege have something to do with seeing Maddock amongst only 70 other people in a cozy, rustic, great Irish pub called Swing The Teapot in a small Long Island town (did I mention James is slightly less popular than Bruce?). Or maybe the three beers I had during the show—three more than when I see Bruce play—had me enjoying the show more than usual. Perhaps it was because I actually met the artist himself and shared a few words and laughs with him, which has never and most certainly will never happen with the other guy. Maybe it was all of these things that made the night so great and memorable. But more than anything, I think it was simply the terrific songs played and sung so passionately by a guy who obviously loved sharing his proficient craft with his audience, whether it was 70 strong or 70,000.

     
     Categorizing Maddock's music into a specific genre just isn't possible. There's rock, folk, pop, country, and some jazz interspersed within and between songs. That musical variety, coupled with some wonderfully crafted cinematic lyrics, is what sets his songs far above the majority of most music that's out there, including music written by the best singer/songwriters. That James has a distinctly unique and captivating voice accentuates the vivid images of his lyrics. Think: a cross between Joe Cocker and who else, Bruce.

     
     On this night it was just him and his acoustic guitar and harmonica. But on his two fantastic solo albums, Sunrise On Avenue C and Wake Up And Dream, as well as his equally great album fronting a band called Wood, there's plenty of alluring and whimsical sounds coming from a variety of strings, horns, and keyboards. And like Bruce's music, what separates good songwriting from average, is the longevity of it; how the words have a timelessness to them. There's always a freshness to Maddock's songs, something heard that is new or different from previous listens. It could be a musical sound, an image, or the listener's personal change in lyrical meaning depending on his own mood or circumstance.

     
     Bruce can write Reno, a song about a tryst with a prostitute in a seedy hotel and paint a vivid picture of drunken debauchery. But he juxtaposes it with true love and redemptive insight, allowing the listener to define the story a different way, his own way. James writes about a lost love he can't live without in Too Many Boxes, unable to throw away any memories or mementos he's left with. A coexistent thought has him wanting to kill her for the very same heartfelt and heartbreak reasons he wants her back. Two different songwriters, writing about two different scenarios every guy in the world can relate to (ahem...well, at least one of those scenarios anyway). And both let the listener fill in his own blanks to the story, and those blanks can be edited over time, at any time. Both Maddock and Springsteen allow you to project your own personal and autobiographical images into the words that they create, and those words become your own. That's what makes for great songwriting. I wanted to tell James exactly that.

     So I make the 150 mile trip to Floral Park, NY. James plays for an hour and a half straight, singing and playing every song with a passion that's palpable, as if he were playing for tips on the street corner to feed his family. In fact, he thanks the crowd in jest (I think) that tonight's gig will allow him to pay this month's rent. Every song is sung like it's his first time singing it, with an emotional energy imploring the audience to please, like my music. But there was no need. The small crowd loved his music, singing along word for word.

     
     Thanks to Youtube and the interwebs, I knew James had seen the two videos I made to his songs Prettier Girls and Dumbed Down. Of course I had to use this association when introducing myself to him.

      “Hello James, I'm John. That guy who made those corny videos using your songs?”

      “John...!” he responds in sheer delight. “I love them-they're great!” he says. Humbled and flattered by my little music video-making hobby, he gives me a big hug, thanking me for making them. I was thrilled by his response.

      Ticket to James Maddock: $25

      Traveling and hotel expenses to New York: $210

      Shamelessly using your corny videos to elicit a hug from Maddock: priceless

     

At Swing The Teapot in Long Island, NY

     I tell James how much I enjoyed his performance and how much I love his music.

      “You're songs have a great cinematic quality about them” I tell him. “The pictures you paint with your lyrics just hit you right here, right in the heart” I say. I blabber on about how his songs aren't just his, but that they're mine as well, because he allows me to personalize them and put myself, my experiences, and my own emotions into the words he put to music. 

      “And...” I add, “Nobody else does that as well as you. And Bruce.” (Ugh!)

      As soon as “and Bruce” rolled off my tongue, I regretted saying it. I'm sure the last thing any musician, athlete, actor, whatever, wants to hear is the name of someone in his own profession with similar talents whose made it big, while you struggle with next months rent. I mean, would mentioning Bruce be like bringing up Michael Jordan to Sam Bowie? Ringo Starr to Pete Best?

      But my regrettable slip of tongue was immediately squelched. James was flattered by the comparison, gives me another big hug, and says to all those within hearing distance, “I love this guy!”

      He gladly poses for a picture with me, we shake hands and exchange thank-yous. Then I was gone from Swing The Teapot, taking with me that same euphoric high I leave a Springsteen show with. It'll pass, I thought, driving away. But it didn't. It lasted for several days. Just like that post-Springsteen concert high.

     
     Back home, I make a phone call. “I'm writing an essay of comparison” I tell my friend and Springsteen concert partner, Cindy. “It's entitled James Maddock vs. Bruce Springsteen".

      “Stop it right there” she says in utter disbelief and disgust. “Are you serious?! How could you even...?” I just laughed, expecting that exact reaction from her. It wasn't worth trying to argue my case. She'd never consider it possible anyone being compared to Bruce. That's blasphemy after all. 

Awaiting Bruce & The E Street Band with Cindy

      


So here I am, listening to Stars Align and blaspheming away. That night James comically explained that the stars actually don't align. The planets do once in awhile, but not the stars. However, writing a song about a moment in time, or a day when everything seems to fall perfectly into place, singing a song entitled Planets Align just doesn't have the same poetic sound, he says, as singing “...when the stars align”.

          
          You see the world in a new light

           You prove yourself right, when the stars align...

           A girl walks over and asks for your number

           When the stars align, when the stars align

           Everything you say is funny

           And she says she comes from money

           When the stars align...

      Later this month I'll be going to my 34^th Springsteen show. It'll be great as usual, it always is. I'll be fired up with excitement. Singing, dancing, fist-pumping for three plus hours. Chances are he'll get me misty-eyed a time or two by singing Racing In The Street or The Promise. Cindy will be right by my side doing the same. Afterward we'll both leave on a high like we always do, inspired by the Gospel of Bruce and renewed, refreshed, and reborn by the power of his music.

     But there will be no meeting Bruce, no hugs shared between us, and no posing for a picture with my musical hero. After dropping Cindy off, I'll drive home by myself and replay the awesome night in my head. I'll look up at the night sky and no doubt think that this great night of Springsteen has caused the planets to align. The planets that is. Not the stars. Those belong to Maddock.

A note from James:
 Hi John and thank you for your wonderful and touching article/blog . It actually bought a tear to my eye . Thank you for taking the time to both come and see me and then write the article . Your insight is spot on and it warms my heart to know that people like you are listening and responding to my songs the way you do . I hope we meet again soon. I reposted your blog on my FB page , I hope that's ok .
Thank you so very much for your words. And no I wasn't joking about the rent !!
Please keep in touch. Your blog will inspire me as I go in to record my new cd tomorrow!
 Love to you my friend 
James