My wife and I planned our trip to Asbury Park around the Stone Pony, the iconic Jersey Shore venue central to Springsteen mythology. Like Camelot to King Arthur, the Nile to Cleopatra, the Stone Pony is a legendary location for those of us who grew up in, and now grow old with, rock n roll.
It’s only fitting that the artist we saw there embodied what I imagine to be the energy, optimism, and relative anonymity of the 24 year old Springsteen when he played the Pony 50 years ago when it first opened its doors.
Peter McPoland was fresh, yet seasoned. Peter McPoland was playful, yet serious. Peter McPoland was authentic, yet over-the-top sensational. This show delivered every paradox of emotion that defines what rock once was and should always be.
Every time Peter McPoland started a song only to be drowned out by the jam-packed pit of twenty-somethings singing at the top of their lungs, I felt a broad grin well up from that part of the soul reserved for unbridled, collective joy.
Peter McPoland, his band, his songs and stories, his fans, friends and family on hand for this fitting finale of his “Piggy” tour ably and effortlessly ascended this stage amidst the ghosts and Gods of rock and gave us some reason to believe. Extraordinary!