Long before indie rockers discovered the patchy beard and the horrifyingly-low-cut V-neck t-shirt, there was Bruce Frederick Joseph Springsteen. I’ve been really scouring the legendary photographs Eric Meola took for Born to Run, and this one leapt out at me.
First, how delicate he appears: tiny golden ball stitched into his left ear, nose as straight and tender as a piece of Greco-Roman statuary, curls like a 50’s siren. He is, for a lack of a better term, almost pretty, all scruffiness aside.
It strikes me as fundamentally odd that he’s become this macho leading man of rock and roll, when in the early years he so clearly struck the pose of the ragged, sensitive, Byronic poet.