Dancing In The Dark on Platform One Newcastle Train Station at 3am (4th June 1985)
I saw a video on The Old Grey Whistle Test by this American guy and decided to buy the album, which had a picture of his backside on the cover.
Born in the USA by Bruce Springsteen.
The rest, as they say, is history, but back then, it wasn’t. Springsteen had “a following” in the UK at that time, quite a big one, but he was also more of a cult-status in my neck of the woods. Most people knew of him, not many had heard him, apart from Born To Run and Hungry Heart probably. That was about to change, of course, but not long after buying the album, I acquired tickets to go see him at St James’ Park home of Newcastle United, just 200 miles north of my home in Coventry.
There was very little promotion of this gig, the first UK gig on what would become the huge BITUSA Tour. Although tour promotion was almost exclusively by means of the music press: Sounds, NME and ???? which came out once a week on Wednesday or Thursday.
I, however, had an inside-line on getting to the front of the queue before a queue had even formed: The Nuneaton Tribune.
The Trib came out on Thursday and its classified section had Coach Tours to Bognor, Bournemouth, Cov City away matches and, sometimes, gigs, and, on this occasion, a Springsteen gig! Tickets would go on sale on Friday, so all I had to do was to bunk off work, pop into town and say “Two tickets to Bruce Springsteen please,” and Bingo! I had tickets before most people even knew the gig was on.
Two tickets? Well, naturally I saw a romantic opportunity, and, naturally, romance failed to materialise and the less said about that the better.
Early morning train up to Newcastle, I rendezvous with my date at the predetermined time and place and we go straight to the ground, following the crowd, arriving at noon. But then, nothing, the crowd we followed were just hanging around, chatting, enjoying the sunshine. Me and my “date” had none of that, our attempts to communicate were awkward and fumbly, the sunshine baked us, embarrassment and sunburn combined to dampen the mood further.
The gates opened at 3 o’clock. We were at the front. Just another five hours to wait!
And then, there he was, standing right in front of me, his guitar and the 50,000 crowd in the palm of his hand.
“One, two, three, four!” and we’re into Born in the USA, then Badlands and Out In The Streets. It’s pandemonium and I know in my bones that this is it! This is why I am on this planet, to experience moments like this. If only the moments would last longer, or forever, but each one gets bumped along by the next and it’s hard to take in every detail and examine every euphoric feeling. All I can do is hold on and try my best.
After, I don’t know, an hour and half or so, Bruce announces a short break with a promise to be back for more. My date and I are beaming like converted pilgrims having seen the light, (and if we didn’t connect in that moment then it was clear we never would), but we knew we were blessed, everyone did.
Bruce and the band came back and rocked for another ninety minutes, fever pitch was peaking higher and higher and seemed to burst at the almighty Thunder Road, “our last song”. And that would’ve been enough, more than enough, I couldn’t believe what I had experienced or even that such things existed.
But we still screamed for more and boy did we get it. The best, as they say, was yet to come and it kept coming.
Born to Run (what can I say), Bobby Jean (a throw-away song becomes a heart-wrenching epic), Ramrod (???), Twist and Shout and Do You Love Me (indeed we do).
And then it was over. It was being in a jet plane when the engines cut out and you’re still high and travelling at speed, but the propulsion has gone and you’re gliding silently through the air, into the clouds, it’s peaceful and enjoyable in the moments before you have to turn your mind to thinking about how you’re going to land.
We landed at Newcastle train station. It was getting late. My date’s train was leaving later than mine, I did the honourable thing and stayed to see her safely onboard.
My next train was at 7:30 am.
At 1am me and a handful of assembled stranded Springsteen fans were kicked out of the cafe. I tried to sleep in a photo-booth but the combination of a slippery faux-leather seat and it being slightly too far away from the back wall meant that whenever sleep approached my body would relax and I’d slip forward and wake with a jolt. I tried a few different techniques and positional variations but I came to the conclusion that these things were specifically designed to deter such activities.
By 3am I was alone on the platform, laying on a bench, feeling the cold.
“Where’ve you been?” a male voice asked, the unmistakably-Geordie had a friendly tone to it, and I knew the question was aimed at me, but it seemed unnecessary. I looked down at the Bruce Springsteen Tour T-shirt and Tour Program, and looked up at the inquisitor.
He seemed friendly enough, but then so did Ted Bundy from I’d read.
He smiled and so I stated the obvious, “Bruce Springsteen.”
“Any good?” he asked.
I nodded, then understated, “Yeah, he was alright.”
“Did you miss your train?”
“Not yet,” I answered. It was a good answer, of the type not intended to be sarcastic, but sounding sarcastic. “It’s at 7:30, so…” I explained.
“Four and a half hours,” he informed me, they’re sharp these northerners, quick with the analytical thinking.
I said nothing.
“Have you eaten?”
I nodded.
He waited for an elaboration.
I added, “A Mars bar.”
“You must be hungry.”
I shook my head, “Not really.”
“Look,” he said, “you look starving, and tired, and cold. I know you’re putting on a brave face, but you’ve got a long wait for your train, so why don’t you come back to my gaff, I’ll wake up the missus and she can do you a fry up, you can get your head down for a few hours and I’ll wake you in plenty of time to get back here.”
It was a generous offer, posed as a question, almost a rhetorical question, as it was, as we would now say, a No-Brainer. I would be mad not to accept this kind invitation, not least because I was cold, hungry and very very tired.
However, I did wonder whether this gentleman made a habit of checking train platforms for young men in need of shelter and a hot meal or whether I was just plain lucky.
I decided to err on the side of caution and decline the offer.
“No thanks, although that’s very kind of you,” I smiled.
“It’s nay bother,” he laughed, “you can’t stay here all night, you’ll freeze!”
“I’ll be ok,” I said, “anyway, I’ll get lost, I’m not from around here.” Probably the wisest excuse given the circumstances, but that’s all I had at the time.
“You won’t get lost lad,” he urged, “it’s only roond the corner and I’ll show yee.”
His voice was now tinged with sadness as well as sympathy, as if my unfortunate reticence was a sign of the times where nobody trusted their fellow man and had to lock their doors at night, but what could you do?
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay here,” I told him, “the cafe will open at six, so…” I left the obvious connotation of this crucial fact unspoken.
“Oh aye,” he sighed, “please yourself.”
He walked away, passing behind me, and for a second I feared being knocked out and dragged away to the wake up bound and gagged in a draughty cellar being lectured about my gratitude and suspicious nature of people who only wanted help.
Nothing happened and I managed to resist the urge to turn around to make sure that he left, but I kept my gaze straight-ahead and I never saw him again.
Good intentions or something more sinister? Nearly forty years later, I have no idea. One thing I do know now is that anywhere else in the country I would side on the more sinister side of the equation. But I can say that Newcastle, after many trips, well, it’s different to most places, the people are different; more decent than most, more generous, more canny than most, and far less conniving.
So thank you Newcastle, apologies if I offended anyone during my trip.
#brucespringsteen #newcastle #oldman80spop