Today marks nine months since my surgery to remove a benign brain tumor on my pituitary gland. Although it’s not a major milestone, it’s tied to a once-in-a-lifetime event—seeing Bruce Springsteen in concert on April 18 in the JMA Wireless Dome in Syracuse.

The concert was originally scheduled for September 7, 2023, and I would have been in no condition during my recovery to climb the concrete steps to the upper rafters of the Dome in Section 336, Row Y. I transferred my ticket to a co-worker, but then the tour was sidelined due to Bruce’s peptic ulcer disease. I’d like to think some heavenly intervention permitted me to attend the rescheduled event in April in a fully restored state.

I went to the concert with my wife, Pam—a rare night out for us and a break for her as she completed her first full year in her occupational therapy assistant program at Bryant and Stratton College. We hired a babysitter and took a Lyft to the show, arriving before the gates opened.

The Dome’s muddy sound system threw me off as the concert began. Bruce’s opening number was “Lonesome Day,” but I couldn’t figure out the tune. I felt like an outfielder in baseball who can’t pick up the ball off the bat. The first song I recognized was “No Surrender,” and the sound quality seemed to improve as the concert wore on.

Bruce and the E Street Band played the anthemic classics, which I have been reliving through the miracle of YouTube: “Badlands,” “Backstreets,” “The Promised Land,” “Thunder Road,” and “Born to Run.”

Up in the nosebleeds, an exuberant middle-aged woman with long, dark hair kept bumping me as she swayed, stomped her feet, clapped her hands, and pumped her fists. She kept apologizing, but I didn’t care about the incidental physical contact. I appreciated the pure joy she displayed, and we formed a bond through our mutual love of the music.

After “Born to Run” finished with a flourish, we shared a two-word conversation—screamed into each other’s ears.

I turned to her and said, “Amazing.”

“Right!” she said.

I hardly go to concerts, and I can’t remember the last stadium concert I attended. It may have been when I saw Bruce in Phoenix in 2002 during The Rising Tour. I went alone to America West Arena during the sweltering heat of August.

A Syracuse woman posted on Facebook that she didn’t enjoy the show because of the behavior of the people around her. And I know a debate persists about proper concert etiquette. As for me, I love it when fans dance and shout the lyrics at the top of their lungs. I mean, if you can’t let loose at a rock concert, where can you? They’re not serving tea and finger sandwiches. I think your ticket should come with a warning like “buyer beware … this isn’t your living room,” and I sang many songs, my voice growing hoarse as the night continued.

Music provides bookmarks for people’s lives. Fans connect songs to significant moments in their lives. Bruce’s music sustained me during my darkest days when I was consumed by loneliness, shame, and self-hatred.

So when Bruce belted out the words to “The Promised Land,” I joined him and thousands of others in screaming:

Blow away the dreams that tear you apart,
Blow away the dreams that break your heart,
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing
But lost and brokenhearted …

And I didn’t care that my voice was way off-key.