"Runnin' Down a Dream" by Tom Petty
Roll down the windows and sing along with Del
“It was a beautiful day, the sun beat down / I had the radio on, I was drivin' / Trees went by, me and Del were singin' Little Runaway I was flyin’”
“When it comes down to living in America™, you just gotta go for it. Things probably won’t work out, but here in America™ we live by the seat of our pants. All or nothin’, man, is the only way. We’re doers, bro, you just gotta do the thing. Do or die. Ride or die!”
There’s a big weird voice in my head, spouting off motivational patriotisms whenever I’m out on the highway dusting 18 wheelers or walking around a flea market. The ranty America™ guy lives there rent-free, goosing me if I start to get lazy, making sure I’m always on the chase. Get after it, man. After what? It.
He’s insufferable.
But I also live in a here/not-here binary. When I’m away from the U.S., I’m just a human being interacting with other human beings. Doing human stuff. It doesn’t matter how modest the circumstances, because I get to choose where I go. Bypassing the well-publicized, miserable, oppressive zones all over the world where human rights are less than modest and the fear factor is fraught, I get to parachute in to mostly friendly places with my trusty US Passport. I remain blissfully cradled by privilege on my way to the gig.
And I’ve taken some time and trouble to get comfortable in the not-here. I’m a good traveler. I’ve learned some languages, I can make nice in foreign markets. Everyone I interact with sees me coming from a mile away, and most of the time the greetings are warm and a little curious. Dignity and respect are in high supply. There’s a “we’re all out here” kind of vibe. Food is attentively prepared.
Then, when I get back, the ranty guy in my head comes back online. Back to work, he says, back to the grind! Fast food once again takes over the landscape. Interactions become more brittle. The fear returns: I might not make it…
Welcome home, sir.
“Yeah, runnin' down a dream that never would come to me / Workin' on a mystery, goin' wherever it leads / Runnin' down a dream”
The story we tell ourselves in America, our manifestational myth, is always in development. I was a kid in the 80’s during a major rewrite of the American Dream. Somebody un-throttled the stock market, the Space Shuttle took off, and before we knew it, the nuclear age’s “white picket fences, 1.8 kids” ideal had been consigned to the margins. A new story took root: the future is now, we must create, we all have to become worldbeaters.
Not that I got the memo. I remained mentally enmeshed in The Shire for another couple of decades. But looking back (and looking at the numbers), everything shifted into high gear during the 80’s. I was a kid, though. I knew nothing else.
“I felt so good, like anything was possible / Hit cruise control and rubbed my eyes / The last three days the rain was unstoppable / It was always cold, no sunshine”
The guy in Runnin’ Down a Dream (let’s call him Tom…) appears to fully embody the Freedom hymn we find so intoxicating. I’m hearing a bit of “Born To Be Wild” in the groove. We don a pair of aviators, head out on the highway, roll down the windows and sing along with Del.
But in 1989, when this song came out, I couldn’t hang. I was at my most alienated. I couldn’t stand Tom, couldn’t stand Bruce, couldn’t stand Bon Jovi… anyone who looked remotely like me could not possibly be a real musician. Real musicians had to come from very far away. The ones from Far Away™ were somehow closer to God, so I consumed a steady diet of Indian sitar music, Brazilian samba, French funk and free jazz (as played by the Dutch). I was born to be weird.
And I won’t claim that that road led to anywhere good. Diversity is great, but being a stuck-up snob about music is a great way to limit your life chances. Eventually I found my way out of it. I can get with Tom now, but I have to play catch-up.
“Yeah, runnin' down a dream that never would come to me / Workin' on a mystery, goin' wherever it leads / Runnin' down a dream”
Get with the program, they say. Our economy is a race car. We drive it wherever the mystery leads. It took me forever to comprehend the appeal - and I’m not saying I’ve become a full convert to the Matrix or anything - but the thing we have going on here is pretty damn special. Try getting a drummer from any other country to lay down a groove like “Runnin’ Down A Dream” and it’ll come out sounding like a polka. It’s just not there. The American™ flywheel, only we have it. I don’t know why.
There is so much great music in the world. And because I was drawn out into the world at an early age, I had an insatiable curiosity and thirst for the experience of music in other cultures. I still do, but along the way I needed to talk myself off the ledge more than once about the music my people bring to the world. Love it or hate it, USA music has wings and it has wheels. Tom Petty was the only guy who could properly do Tom Petty. There was only one James Brown, only one Elvis, one Peggy Lee, one Nina Simone, one Bobby Womack, you name it. Are we still minting legendary artists like these? It’s debatable. The blast furnace seems to have cooled down.
“I rolled on, the sky grew dark / I put the pedal down to make some time / There's something good waitin' down this road / I'm pickin' up whatever's mine”
I’m booking dates in Germany for next year. I don’t know how the tour will turn out, but I’m certain that the driving distances will be shorter. We’ll take mostly trains between places, actually. Not that Germany’s better, but it’s smaller. Although the driving is definitely better. It’s easier to get a pilot’s license in the US than it is to get a driver’s license in Germany.
The left lane in the US is for suckers, filled with vaguely impatient and lazy drivers. They push a modest margin of the speed limit, inevitably crowding together in mutual disappointment when everyone decides they deserve a life in the fast lane and it jams up. The practical driver will bypass that mess to the right. But Germany’s autobahns have no speed limit, the roads are profiled for Formula 1 and the left lane is definitely not for amateurs. If you like life, you stay to the right. The speed there is more than adequate. Germans don’t merely “put the pedal down to make some time”, they bend time with eyeball-flattening acceleration.
Still, when you drive across the US, connecting the dots from New Jersey to Louisville to Wichita to Santa Fe and beyond, time stretches out like nowhere else. So we “get after it” in a different way. We run our dream down with a looser gait, more swing.
Wherever it leads.
“I'm runnin' down a dream that never would come to me / Workin' on a mystery, goin' wherever it leads / Runnin' down a dream”
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Hey, how about Australia? I think you would love Australia; not that I have experienced that much of it, mostly Melbourne and a little of Tasmania. You could wander into the many op (opportunity) shops, Australia’s thrift shops dedicated to various non-profits where you never know what familiar music you might hear. Dylan. Springsteen. Once I was browsing through a rack of clothes when I heard that iconic saxophone solo at the beginning of Bakers Street. I thought, “ what is that song I’ve been listening to forever?” And now I know thanks to you.