One tale that never grows tired of the telling is the one about Bruce Springsteen—two albums into his career and with nothing but disappointing sales to show for it—was on his label’s chopping block. In him, they thought they’d found the next Dylan, and such an assumption might be excused.

He was a wandering troubadour with a gift for turning a phrase, a romantic gaze, and an eccentric air. He came out of Jersey, but seemed to be from a little bit everywhere, with a story that suited every situation. His identity was fluid and, in that fluidity, had a True North that was, above all else, distinctly American. Everything about him screamed star. Everything except the sales. (more…)