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Bumper stickers and stadium banners proclaim BRUCE--THE RAMBO OF ROCK! "In the midst of a lot of music about love, he's a spokesman for patriotism," says Larry Berger, program director of New York City's powerful WPLJ-FM. "He's the Ronald Reagan of rock 'n' roll." In fact, the only thing Springsteen has in common with Stallone's marauding murder machine is a bandanna around the forehead; and the one time the President tried to cut himself in on Boss territory ("America's future rests ... in the message of hope in songs of ... New Jersey's own Bruce Springsteen"), he was met with an oblique but sharp rebuff. "I kinda got to wondering what his favorite album must've been," Springsteen speculated at a Pittsburgh concert. "I don't think he's been listening to this one," he added, tearing into a ripsaw version of Johnny 99, about an unemployed factory worker who shoots a hotel night clerk: "Now judge I got debts no honest man could pay/ The bank was holdin' my mortgage and they/ was takin' my house away/ Now I ain't sayin' that makes me an innocent man/ But it was more 'n all this that put the gun in/ my hand."
Politicians still keep running for a rumble seat on the Springsteen bandwagon, however. New Jersey Senator Bill Bradley has written about the Boss for USA Today and, declaring himself "an old rock and roller," told the CBS Morning News that Bruce was "part Elvis, he's part Chuck Berry, he's part Buddy Holiday." The old rocker must have meant Buddy Holly, but, even with facts straight and names neatly in place, a professional politician is not likely to get an endorsement from Springsteen, who now seeks out small organizations in each town he plays, then makes a donation and a fund-raising plea from the stage. He has given nearly half a million dollars so far.
"He's something to be proud of," says Ron Weisen, whose United Steelworkers of America Local 1397 in Homestead, Pa., was one of the first organizations to receive a Springsteen contribution, almost a year ago. "He worries about the underfed and the underprivileged." Says Robert Muller, president of the Vietnam Veterans of America: "We would not exist if it were not for Bruce Springsteen." Back in 1981, when, as Muller says, "nobody wanted to hear about the Viet Nam War," a Springsteen concert raised about $100,000 for the V.V.A. "That was the beginning of Bruce's political involvement," Muller thinks. "My hope is ten years down the road, he'll run for President."
Well, in the words of old Buddy Holiday, that'll be the day. Springsteen is a superstar, but he is also bent on being a populist, marrying the mythic dimensions of major celebrity to the kind of moral and social responsibility seldom found bobbing in the musical mainstream. "He's closer to his public image than any of the other rock stars I've known," says his friend and biographer Dave Marsh. "It's hard to accept, but the guy is all there in his music." Backstage at a concert, the atmosphere is a little more restrictive, less familial than in times past, but Springsteen, off the road, is still the superstar who will tag along home on the spur of the moment with a casual friend and plunk out a few notes for the family on a toy piano. Recently, after a rehearsal in New Jersey, Springsteen found a fan lounging on the Boss's '69 black Chevy Malibu convertible. The fan took a bluff, bold shot: "How about a ride home?" "Hop in," said the Boss, and they drove off.