P.J.’s Ultimate Playlist #7: “Dancing in the Dark” by Bruce Springsteen
What can I say about Bruce Frederick Joseph Springsteen that hasn’t already been expressed by writers much more talented than I am? The man is called “The Boss” for a reason. His electrifying concerts with his illustrious E Street Band and his evocative lyrics painting profound portraits of the joys and struggles of blue-collar America have rightly cemented him as one of the most celebrated artists in popular music. Indeed, the website Acclaimed Music lists him as the fifth most celebrated musician in pop music history, behind only David Bowie, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, and the Beatles.
Indeed, it says something that the song I’ve chosen to profile in this article is one of his relatively half-assed efforts. “Dancing in the Dark” was a last-minute addition to its parent album written overnight in a hotel room when the producer claimed he didn’t hear a single. But even with its relative simplicity compared with some of Bruce’s other iconic tracks, it still manages to touch upon all the themes that run through the rest of his oeuvre, which Rolling Stone magazine defines as “desire, the search for freedom, and the search to find yourself.”
So let’s talk about it.
The Backstory
“Dancing in the Dark” was recorded at the Hit Factory in New York City on February 14, 1984, and was released as a single on May 9, 1984, about a month before the release of the legendary album Born in the U.S.A. on June 4. The song was a late addition to the album. While the other tracks were written while Bruce was recording his stark acoustic solo album Nebraska in 1982 (reflecting the much more radio-friendly sound of Born…), this song was written sometime in early 1984 after producer Jon Landau told Bruce that he didn’t hear any potential singles in the songs he wrote for the album. Bruce was none too pleased with his assessment, as he reportedly shouted, “Look, I’ve written seventy songs! You want another one, you write it!” at Landau. However, he eventually sat down in his hotel room and brought the song over the next night.
Landau’s fears may seem unfounded all these years later, given how no less than six other singles came out of Born in the U.S.A. (namely “Cover Me,” “Born in the U.S.A.,” “I’m on Fire,” “Glory Days,” “I’m Goin’ Down,” and “My Hometown”). But out of all of them, “Dancing in the Dark” was the highest charting of his entire career, reaching No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100, only being held from the top spot by Duran Duran’s “The Reflex” and Prince’s “When Doves Cry.” It has since gone down in history as one of the Boss’ most beloved songs.
But what about it has captured the public’s hearts in the forty years since it was written?
The Song
“Dancing in the Dark” is a very pop-sounding song, even by the more radio-friendly standards of the Born in the U.S.A. tracklist. It is one of the first E Street Band songs to incorporate synthesizers, which lend the track a distinctly synth-pop sound. The result is kept from sounding like Depeche Mode, the Eurythmics, or the Pet Shop Boys by preserving the E Street’s hard-driving backbeat and Bruce’s gutsy baritone. Add a soulful saxophone solo from the late great “Big Man” Clarence Clemons during the ending fadeout, and you get a perfect Bruce Springsteen song for the 80s.
But don’t let the poppy sheen fool you regarding the lyrics. The Boss remains just as true to his working-class roots here as he does in his other works. Fittingly, given how the song was created, the pressures of writing a hit single are prevalent, but it also deals with the stresses of fame and the feelings of isolation that often come with it.
Take the opening lyrics, for example:
I get up in the evening,
And I ain’t got nothing to say.
I go home in the morning.
I go to bed feeling the same way.
Bruce starts by referencing the odd, nocturnal hours he keeps as a professional musician, with sleepless nights filled with concerts and late-night recording sessions. The line “I ain’t got nothin’ to say” could be interpreted as a jab at Landau for forcing this last-minute assignment on him, complaining that he can’t just magically get a good idea for a song whenever someone tells him to. I also get the impression that Bruce may be referencing his lifelong struggle with depression in these lines.
He continues:
I ain’t nothing but tired!
Man, I’m just tired and bored with myself.
Hey there, baby,
I could use just a little help.
Bruce sings about how he feels he’s missing out on the fun side of life thanks to his depression and the pressures of stardom. He calls out to someone he calls “Baby” to help him out of his rut. Whether that means a significant other or he’s using “Baby” as a euphemism for “inspiration” is up to the listener to decide.
Then we get to the chorus:
You can’t start a fire!
You can’t start a fire without a spark.
This gun’s for hire
Even if we’re just dancing in the dark.
Bruce talks about how you can’t create something unique without first being inspired, something that he obviously wasn’t feeling when writing the song (or he was, except that inspiration was intermingled with frustration). Bruce also seems to think that the music industry sees him as nothing more than a hired gun to bring them more profits rather than a person trying to create art for its own sake. The whole “dancing in the dark” could be a reference to what we in the writing business call “pantsing,” short for “writing by the seat of your pants,” which refers to the practice of making up the story as you go. He also seems to imply that life itself is just a shot in the dark: either your plans work out or they don’t, and there’s often little rhyme or reason to it.
We then come to the second verse:
Messages keep getting clearer.
Radio’s on and I’m movin’ round the place.
I check my look in the mirror.
I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face!
These lyrics reference the universal theme of wanting to start over and feeling that you’re wasting your precious little time on this Earth. One might also get the impression that Springsteen is referencing the significant change in sound between albums at this point in his career, from the dreary acoustic doom of Nebraska to the lighter and poppier (but still painfully socially conscious) Born in the U.S.A. I also can’t help but wonder how many closeted transgender people can relate to the line, “I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face.”
The verse continues:
Man, I ain’t getting nowhere,
Ah, just living in a dump like this!
There’s something happening somewhere.
Baby, I just know there is.
These lines come back to one of the quintessential themes running through all of Bruce’s songwriting: the theme of escape from small-town boredom and the road as a symbol of freedom and discovery. It speaks to a yearning for a life of excitement that a dying small town can’t easily provide.
After a repetition of the chorus, we get the bridge:
You sit around getting older.
There’s a joke somewhere and it’s on me.
I’ll shake this world off my shoulders.
Come on, baby, the laugh’s on me.
The bridge takes the theme of wasting your life until you die old and unaccomplished and spins it in a self-deprecation-style direction, with the singer being aware that he’s the butt of some cruel cosmic joke.
The third verse comes in and further dissects the issues with staying in a boring small town with nothing to do:
Stay on the streets of this town
And they’ll be carving you up alright.
They say you’ve gotta stay hungry.
Hey, babe, I’m just about starving tonight!
Here, Bruce makes it clear that it’s not just the ennui that’s eating at him. It’s the small-minded and toxic people surrounding him that he’s desperate to escape, fearful of them molding him into becoming just like them. He goes on to reiterate how he’s “starving” for action. Whether he’s starving for love, sex, inspiration, or experience, it’s clear the small town of his birth cannot sustain him.
I’m dying for some action!
I’m sick of sitting around here trying to write this book!
I need a love reaction.
Come on now, baby, give me just one look.
We circle back to the writing process, with Bruce right back to agonizing over writing that radio hit that Landau wants. He begs his muse to look his way to give him the inspiration he needs to actually write the damn song.
We then reach the final repetition of the chorus, although Bruce adds some extra lyrics here to flesh out the song’s themes further. The first new lyric reads as such:
You can’t start a fire
Sittin’ around crying over a broken heart.
This lyric points out how you can’t just sit around moping over your circumstances in life (being stuck somewhere you don’t want to be, being lovesick, caught in a rut, lapsing into nostalgia, etc.). You need to work through your baggage to accomplish something worthwhile with your short time on this Earth.
The last unique lyric reads like this:
You can’t start a fire
Worrying about your little world fallling apart.
Here, Bruce tells us to overcome our fear of change and that taking risks is essential to finding the best life for yourself. Sure, it may be a shot in the dark, like the rest of the song says, but it sure beats sitting around bored and depressed in your current unfulfilling routine.
Then we reach the final fadeout, with Clarence Clemons giving one of the famously soulful saxophone solos he is remembered for.
Personal Thoughts
Anyone who’s been reading either of my blogs for the past few years will probably know the reasons why this song resonates with me. The line “I’m sick of sitting around here trying to write this book” is especially relevant to my current situation. I’ve had the idea for another story in my Divine Conspiracy universe that involves the Fomorians of Irish mythology and a journey into tunnels below Paris that house Lovecraftian horrors for a long time now. But I can’t seem to find any motivation to actually write the stupid thing.
There are probably several reasons for this. One of the biggest is a lack of confidence in my abilities, combined with a fear of commitment and sheer intimidation at the scope of the story I want to tell. These stories are supposed to be the introductory chapters of a larger narrative that involves a secret society of occult detectives trying to outmaneuver Satanic and Lovecraftian forces who want to destroy the Earth and enslave all its souls in an eternity of torment. It involves political intrigue, explorations of the esoteric sides of religion and spirituality, and deep existential questions about humanity’s place in a vast and seemingly uncaring cosmos. How am I supposed to write about all that and come off as if I even remotely know what I’m talking about?
Beyond the “trying to write this book” line, I also relate to the theme of being lost and unsure of what I want out of life. On one hand, as an autistic person, there is comfort to be found in the routines I currently find myself in. But on the other, I have no social life, no close friends, and no driver’s license. The only time I leave the house is to go on walks in the woods or attend family gatherings. Sure, sitting around my bedroom reading, listening to metal on Apple Music, and watching anime on Netflix everything might be fun in the moment, but I know all this isolation isn’t good for my mental health in the long run.
Finally, there’s this line: “Stay on the streets of this town, and they’ll be carving you up all right.” As much as I love my family and appreciate all they did for me growing up, I can barely stand to be around them anymore ever since Trump came to power. Most of my family members remain die-hard Republicans even after all of the horrible scandals that have surrounded the party in the last eight or so years. I’m paralyzed with fear over confessing my socialist sympathies to them as they keep going on about how evil they think it is (as if capitalism is any better). I’m constantly worried that they’re going to take such news in the worst possible way, like that I’m either mentally ill or too stupid to understand how the world works. Another big problem is that, while I have powerful anarchist beliefs, I’m also a very suggestible person, and there’s the constant worry that with enough manipulation and brow-beating, they might turn me back into the ultra-conservative Glenn Beck fanatic I was in my teenage years. Then again, my environmentalist and pro-LGBTQ beliefs were strong even then, so maybe I don’t have as much to worry about there.
But still, I should probably remember the two lessons that Bruce relates toward the end of the song: “You can’t start a fire sitting there crying over a broken heart” and “You can’t start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart.” My world as it stands right now is indeed very little. It’s past time I made it a little bigger.
There’s also a small voice in the back of my head pondering some much darker and more literal interpretations of “They’ll be carving you up all right.” Like… there couldn’t possibly be any people in my family or my hometown who would actually want to kill me over a difference in political opinion, right? Right?!
Next time, I’ll start a new series on this blog called “The Anti-P.J. Playlist,” where I examine songs I dislike. And I shall begin with a recent mega-hit in the country music world that carries some disturbing hidden implications. Until next time!
