By: Tanuj Singh
Illustrated by: Sylvain Chan and Suchita Thepkanjana
If Bruce Springsteen is taken to be the walking embodiment of America, for which there is a compelling case, then his albums each represent competing vision statements–varying articulations of the zeitgeist of the Union. It was clear this would either be a Born to Run or Darkness on the Edge of Town night – one of escape or one of retreat – and it has shaped out to be the latter. I sit here slumped, strung-out, while the Boss fills most of the airwaves and CNN the rest–an undoubtedly strange scene. But I feel a sense of familiarity – accomplishment almost – having arrived at one of life’s few fixed checkpoints: the US presidential election. What a gloomy, low-level trip this one has turned out to be.
It’s a shame my favourite author Hunter S. Thompson did not live to see this day; his incisive voice was made for surreal, hazy moments such as this. I suspect however, he would echo much of what he wrote in the wake of Richard Nixon’s 1972 reelection romp: “This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it–that we are really just a nation of 220 [now 340] million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable… Jesus! Where will it end? How low do you have to stoop in this country to be president?”
And perhaps invoking Thompson is not inappropriate, given the shades of 1968 – Nixon’s comeback year – which have reared their ugly head again, 56 years later. A deeply unpopular sitting Democratic president, stuck in the shadow of his charismatic former boss, coerced out of his reelection bid. A might-have-been legacy of sweeping domestic transformation undone by apprehensions over inflation and a generation-defining foreign war. The incumbent vice president assuming the Democratic nomination instead, plagued by associations with the current administration. A slippery Republican opponent who previously left Washington a tragic figure following a narrow election loss, now campaigning on a grim platform of law and order–fear and loathing, if you will. A man named Robert Francis Kennedy in the political primetime. Intense social division over conflicting visions of America’s future, codified in the most aggressively partisan platforms in recent memory. A supposed tossup heading into election day panning out as a Republican rout. The similarities are ominous; we still remember how Nixon’s reign ended, right?
What many appear to have forgotten is that a candidate as admittedly uninspiring as Biden winning in 2020 could largely be attributed to general weariness after Trump’s farcical, melodramatic first term. It might be a genuine possibility the electorate has taken a collective amnesia pill – or maybe time has quite simply run its course – partially explaining the failure of a more vital, engaged candidate in Harris to even come close to Biden, let alone win the presidency. Alternatively, perhaps a twisted Stockholm syndrome has fallen upon many, who would rather choose the devil they well and truly know over one they feel they should but don’t. But no matter what the ongoing Harris autopsy concludes, it is clear Biden’s hands were bloody from the start; his initial decision to seek reelection and subsequent hesitation to drop out were missteps that will and should haunt him for years to come. Running in 2020 purely to stop Trump, Biden has rather sadly proved an integral accessory to the increasingly impressive Houdini act that is Trump’s 2024. That too, we must remember this is a far less coherent, far more deranged Trump, and I am convinced 2016 Trump would have made even lighter work of Harris. Or maybe this indeed is his zenith–his king-hell final form. Either way, we have not only witnessed a comeback story for the ages, but also the ultimate (d)evolution of a generational movement set into motion by that ride down that golden escalator in New York City, all those years ago.
The thought of Trump, now at peak megalomania, returning to the Oval Office is pretty incredible – and mostly depressing – but ever so slightly tinged with drama and excitement. His second term threatens to leave democracy damaged, liberties lampooned, and civility carved apart; but the ride certainly promises gravity and consequence at every turn. The former prospect is disgusting but the latter not entirely disagreeable, given the air of tedium and futility which seemingly pervades the present–at least my personal present, as I stumble through the limbo between youth and adulthood that is third year. And on a slightly selfish note, this could well be the vindication of my eastward move across the Atlantic in 2022–something I resented for a long time and at times still ruminate over.
Consolation is tricky to articulate, and even trickier yet to wholeheartedly accept. 1968’s consolation was that the ‘revolution’ was still alive. The acid dreamers were still asleep, and their movement would outlast the antichrist Nixon just as it had ousted the sorcerer LBJ. But the revolution could not even survive itself; Manson dug its grave in Benedict Canyon, Jagger performed its last rites at Altamont, and the National Guard exorcised its final traces at Kent State. What to make of consolation in 2024? I see no revolution in sight; if anything, today’s revolution will soon be marching to the White House. Fatalism may seem a logical recourse, but such thinking brings about highly depressing conclusions which I have no appetite for. It remains that every day of the next four years presents a chance for collective wills to be energised and revitalised; a chance to turn off autopilot and re-engage with the world; a chance to rediscover convictions lost to indifference. And even if bad craziness lingers on, such scenes always promise us the chance to feel utterly and hopelessly alive, warts and all–for what it’s worth.
I prefer Born to Run to Darkness on the Edge of Town – most fans do – but at times it’s the latter I’m putting on. I think one has to, because diving deep into Darkness’ despondency and tragedy is ultimately what makes Born to Run’s Wagnerian-escapist-heroism so much more special the next time you spin it. And when those twinkling piano notes and Bruce’s harmonica spark “Thunder Road” into life, you realise how much you’ve missed a sunny day. Four years, but daylight must eventually ‘trump’ night.
Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the eaten dogs (and cats) of war…
