According to tradition, after the release of 1975’s Born to Run and the superstardom and legal battles that ensued, The Boss spent some time soul searching, trying to find himself, as he put it, “stripped away [of] all of your celebrity and left…with all your essence.” What resulted was an album free of commercial ambition (or singles) and the super-ensemble that raced through his breakthrough. In its place was a collection of songs that is at once intensely personal and endlessly relatable. After all, who hasn’t woken up with an urge to get in a car and drive until your weariness and cynicism disappear from your rear view mirror? And while it’s admittedly much darker than the anthem-filled Born To Run (and also, free of saxophone), there is a peace in the album’s escapism that transcends its darkness and brings a sort of lightness to it.

Also, listening to Springsteen has made me realize that my music taste is rather European –most of my favorite bands dabble in un-swung rhythms, dense sonic textures, and either monotone or operatic vocals singing abstract lyrics (see: Bon Iver, Deerhunter, Flaming Lips, Radiohead, etc.). As such, there’s something about Springsteen’s distinct brand of Americana that stirs something foreign and familiar in me. He may make a proper American of me yet.