There’s a quote often attributed to Antonio Gramsci: “The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born; now is the time of monsters.”
As I type these thoughts, a lot has happened in America over the past five months. This month alone, Ben Cohen of Ben & Jerry’s was arrested while protesting, and one of our great American bards, Bruce Springsteen, publicly criticized the government’s increasingly cynical take on liberty.
I just finished listening to Born in the U.S.A., analyzing it, enjoying it, trying to understand it. A bit about me: I love Springsteen. “Dancing in the Dark” is one of my favorite songs, and Born in the U.S.A. is one of my favorite albums. It’s not just the music. It’s the urgency behind it.
There’s something oddly frustrating but also grounding about listening to a record or cassette. You can’t just skip around. You have to sit with it. The inconvenience reminds me of being a kid, rewinding tapes or skipping tracks on a scratched CD, just to hear a song again. And yet that inconvenience brings focus. I write better this way, using pen and paper, the needle spinning, no algorithm telling me what to feel.
Born in the U.S.A. was released in 1984 during the height of Ronald Reagan’s presidency. Born in the U.S.A. arrived in an era when America was wrapped in red, white, and blue triumphalism. The Cold War was still raging, the economy was shifting under deregulation, and the Vietnam War was a wound the country was trying hard to ignore. Springsteen’s album cut through the noise. It painted a portrait of blue-collar life in decline—veterans abandoned by their government, towns hollowed out by job loss, dreams sold off piece by piece.
Despite the upbeat production, many of these songs grapple with loss, betrayal, and alienation. The title track was famously misinterpreted as a patriotic anthem. In truth, it was about a working-class Vietnam vet returning home to find his country indifferent to his suffering. Springsteen refused to let politicians, including Reagan, use the song in their campaigns.
The album was both a commercial juggernaut and a cultural contradiction. It sold millions of copies and made Springsteen a household name, yet its message went over the heads of many listeners who heard only the booming choruses and not the anguish underneath.
1. “Born in the U.S.A.”
It is strange how one of the most misunderstood songs in American pop culture became an anthem for the very system it condemns. That fist-pumping chorus and stadium-rock sound are a Trojan horse. Beneath it is the story of a working-class veteran, chewed up by the American war machine and spit back into a country that doesn’t care. Reagan tried to co-opt it. Springsteen refused.
2. “Cover Me”
A love song, yes, but soaked in dread. Bruce begs for shelter from the world, from collapse, from burnout. It is sweaty, seductive, and haunted. The grind wears us down, so we cling to each other, even if it’s only for a night.
3. “Darlington County”
A road trip song with a dark edge. Two guys chasing women and work across rural America, only to run into the same dead ends and overzealous cops. The highway promises freedom, but it loops back into the same trap every time.
4. “Working on the Highway”
Labor, love, and prison repeat like a cycle. The narrator is out there breaking rocks, whether literal or not, it doesn’t matter. The upbeat melody feels like mockery. Springsteen is pointing at how easily we fall into the trap and call it a life.
5. “Downbound Train”
One of the most heartbreaking songs here. A man loses his job, his love, and any clear future. The piano hits like grief. He is the American everyman, cursed to push the boulder uphill forever.
6. “I’m on Fire”
A low, simmering ache. Lust, yes, but also class resentment. He is a working-class man yearning for something just out of reach—maybe a woman, maybe a better life. The synths throb with heat and longing.
7. “No Surrender”
At first glance, it is an anthem of defiance. But under the surface, there is a sense of loss. “We learned more from a three-minute record than we ever learned in school.” School didn’t prepare us for this world. It trained us to follow rules no longer written for us.
8. “Bobby Jean”
A farewell to a friend, maybe a lover, maybe just youth itself. The saxophone aches. In a country that throws everything away—jobs, people, memories—holding on becomes radical.
9. “I’m Goin’ Down”
A dance track hiding quiet devastation. The relationship is falling apart, and he keeps trying the same things as if they’ll work. It is funny at first, then quietly tragic. This is the sound of a crumbling ego.
10. “Glory Days”
A barroom lament. High school legends who peaked too early, now retelling old stories to anyone who will listen. The guitar solo cries out in defiance. In a country obsessed with its past, the song hits a nerve. What if the best is behind us, and we know it?
11. “Dancing in the Dark”
The hit that turned Bruce into an MTV icon. But if you peel away the gloss, it is a song about desperation. “You can’t start a fire without a spark.” What happens when the spark has been smothered by Reaganomics, layoffs, and silence?
12. “My Hometown”
A quiet, devastating ending. A father drives through a dying town with his son in the backseat. He knows the cycle will repeat. The factories will shut down. The racism will fester. The American dream will keep fading into memory.
Born in the U.S.A. is not just an album. It is an autopsy. In 1984, it warned us. In 2025, it reflects us.
The monsters Gramsci warned about are still here. They wear different suits, but they operate the same machinery. But so is Springsteen. And so are we. The ones still listening. The ones still writing. The ones who still believe there is something worth saving. We are not reminiscing. We are howling into the storm. The struggle is written into the grooves.
