or better or worse, we here at Stylus, in all of our autocratic consumer-crit greed, are slaves to timeliness. A record over six months old is often discarded, deemed too old for publication, a relic in the internet age. That's why each week at Stylus, one writer takes a look at an album with the benefit of time. Whether it has been unjustly ignored, unfairly lauded, or misunderstood in some fundamental way, we aim with On Second Thought to provide a fresh look at albums that need it.

In just two years he would appear simultaneously on the covers of Time and Newsweek. In seven, he would crack the top ten. In eleven, he would be the biggest rock star on the face of the earth, and in twenty-one, he would win an Academy Award. But in early 1973, Bruce Springsteen could have been anything. Indeed, the world of Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ is one of complete possibility and blinding uncertainty. Sometimes it’s bitter with frustration and others ecstatic with hope, but in the hands of Springsteen, it’s always tangibly human.

Few rock stars before or since have reveled in the virtues of rock and roll with as much unflinching glee as Springsteen, and although it lacks the life-or-death dramatics of Born To Run, the warm revisionism of The River, and the thunderous resonance of Born In The USA, that is never more evident than on this, his debut album. From the very first skittery guitar notes that open “Blinded By The Light”, the words bound from Springsteen’s mouth before he even has a chance to discern their meaning. The pictures that he paints are all bright colors and barely restrained flamboyance in the dank corners of urban decay. As always, his lyrics are mostly character-based. While later on, those characters would become disillusioned by corruption and lies, here the “wizard imps and sweat sock pimps, [and] interstellar mongrel nymphs” burst with youthful naivety. They may never escape New Jersey, but this time, it rarely fazes them; the dreams alone are enough. Even on this first record, you can feel Springsteen reaching for the stars. Although his penchant for adolescent hyperbole would be mastered elsewhere, his ability to scale the depths of humanity is firmly in place.

The sheer breadth of this album’s vision can quickly be attributed to its creator’s dizzying array of influences. Elements of blues, funk, soul, jazz, folk, and rock can be heard in nearly every song. Although the trademark E-Street band wasn’t fully intact (only Clarence Clemmons and Garry Tallent were present), the musicians that flesh out Springsteen’s thoughts are no less notable. Barrelhouse piano, wailing saxophone, manically strummed guitar, jittery bass, and swift drumming form the rickety foundation to songs like “Does This Bus Stop on 82nd Street?”, “It’s Hard To Be A Saint In The City”, and “Blinded By The Light”, while the group tightens up to lend pertinence to more histrionic tracks like “Spirit In The Night” and “Lost In The Flood”. No matter what style is being spotlighted, the playing is always raggedly impeccable; without it, the occasional lyrical indulgences would stand in a starker and less flattering light. Nevertheless, the brunt of these songs is the result of Springsteen’s commanding and personable presence.

“Blinded” simply reels with uninhibited ebullience, setting the template for the majority of the album. It may be his most loquacious dispatch and owes a notable debt to surrealist-era Dylan, but even Hibbing, Minnesota’s own was never this fun. When he sings “I jumped up, turned around, spit in the air, fell on the ground”, it all but sums up his affable temperament and youthful abandon. “Growing Up” finds him lamenting his youth like it’s all that matters in the world. “For You” stands in a distinctive place as not only one of his most exuberant love songs, but as one of his most melancholy, as well.

With a record like this, there’s no place where the album hits its stride; it’s directly on line throughout its running time (with the possible exception of the plodding “The Angel”, which is almost negated by the far superior “Mary Queen of Arkansas”), but the undeniable centerpiece is the compelling “Lost In The Flood”. Springsteen’s voice teems with despair and tenacity as “everything stops” and bodies “hit the street with a beautiful thud”. This is what happens after the jukebox raves. The gravity of this song belies the effulgence of the album, but is a telling (and somewhat welcome) turnaround that allows Springsteen to flex his poignancy.

Only nine months later, the Boss-to-be would verify his immense talent with the even more accomplished The Wild, The Innocent & The E-Street Shuffle, but even after the fifteen-year string of incredible albums that would find bigger sales and better reviews, Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ stands as his most satisfying, if not most idealistic recording; a resplendent feather in a tattered cap for anyone’s record collection.