Chords for My Father's House (Introduction) (Springsteen on Broadway - Official Audio)
Tempo:
78.025 bpm
Chords used:
Bm
E
Tuning:Standard Tuning (EADGBE)Capo:+0fret
Start Jamming...
My father worked as a 16-year-old floor boy in that rug mill.
Then he went off to war.
When he came home, he got married.
They shut the rug mill down, and so he went to work on the Ford Motor Plant line in New Brunswick.
Then he worked at the Nescafé plant in Freehold.
Worked in a plastics factory in town.
He was a truck driver, a bus driver, drove a taxi.
He lived mostly at home, except for his second home, which was a little local bar in the center of town.
Now, to a child, bars in Freehold were these citadels of great mystery.
When you walked through barroom doors in my hometown, you entered the mystical realm of men.
On the rare night that my mother would call my father home,
we would slowly drive through town until we drew to a stop outside of a single lit door.
She'd look at me and say, go in and get your dad.
This both thrilled and terrified me.
[Bm] Thrilled me because I'd been given the license by my mother, the law, to go into the bar.
[N]
I'm a kid, but it terrified me.
Because to enter the bar is to enter my father's privileged, private, and sacred space.
He was not to be disturbed when he's down at the bar.
Everybody knew that.
So I would walk in, and I was waist high like a jack who climbed some dark beanstalk into a land of giants.
All I remember is the men towering over me on their way out the door.
Now, once you were in, to the left against the wall was a line of red leather booths
that were filled with husband and wife tag team drinkers.
Now, they were your hardcore regulars there night after night after night.
Now, to the right was the bar, a line of stools filled by a barricade of broad working class backs,
clinking glasses, too loud laughter, and very few women.
I would stand there lost in the noise and the hustle of the crowd,
and I would drink in that dim smell of beer and booze and aftershave.
To a kid, that was the scent of adulthood.
It was the scent of manhood.
I wanted some of that.
Finally, somebody would notice me, draw me over to my pop.
Now, my view from the floor was the first thing I'd see is the chrome legs of the bar stool.
Then I'd see his black shoes, white socks, dark green work trousers, powerful legs and haunches.
My dad, to the day, died of the legs and an ass of a rhinoceros.
And his trousers always looked like they were stretched, stretched over the legs and ass somehow.
I don't know how.
He was always busting out, you know.
Then I would see his black Garrison work belts, green work shirt, and then his face.
By the time I got there, his face was flushed red, red as a tomato, because he was Irish,
and whatever he drank went straight to his face.
He couldn't hide a thing when he came home.
Not only was it red, but it was distorted, too, into some sort of booze mask by Mr.
Schlitz.
It was so foreign to me as a child that
Fuck, I don't know.
But it was scary, and he'd be peering down over his shoulder, down through cigarette smoke,
and he'd be looking at me like, I've never seen you before in my fucking life.
I didn't know the immortal words that I was sent to deliver.
Mom wants you to come home.
I'd hear, go outside, I will be right out.
And I would follow my breadcrumb trail back out the barroom door.
I would hop into the back seat, and I would inform [E] my mother.
He'll be right out.
He'll be right out.
[N]
Then he went off to war.
When he came home, he got married.
They shut the rug mill down, and so he went to work on the Ford Motor Plant line in New Brunswick.
Then he worked at the Nescafé plant in Freehold.
Worked in a plastics factory in town.
He was a truck driver, a bus driver, drove a taxi.
He lived mostly at home, except for his second home, which was a little local bar in the center of town.
Now, to a child, bars in Freehold were these citadels of great mystery.
When you walked through barroom doors in my hometown, you entered the mystical realm of men.
On the rare night that my mother would call my father home,
we would slowly drive through town until we drew to a stop outside of a single lit door.
She'd look at me and say, go in and get your dad.
This both thrilled and terrified me.
[Bm] Thrilled me because I'd been given the license by my mother, the law, to go into the bar.
[N]
I'm a kid, but it terrified me.
Because to enter the bar is to enter my father's privileged, private, and sacred space.
He was not to be disturbed when he's down at the bar.
Everybody knew that.
So I would walk in, and I was waist high like a jack who climbed some dark beanstalk into a land of giants.
All I remember is the men towering over me on their way out the door.
Now, once you were in, to the left against the wall was a line of red leather booths
that were filled with husband and wife tag team drinkers.
Now, they were your hardcore regulars there night after night after night.
Now, to the right was the bar, a line of stools filled by a barricade of broad working class backs,
clinking glasses, too loud laughter, and very few women.
I would stand there lost in the noise and the hustle of the crowd,
and I would drink in that dim smell of beer and booze and aftershave.
To a kid, that was the scent of adulthood.
It was the scent of manhood.
I wanted some of that.
Finally, somebody would notice me, draw me over to my pop.
Now, my view from the floor was the first thing I'd see is the chrome legs of the bar stool.
Then I'd see his black shoes, white socks, dark green work trousers, powerful legs and haunches.
My dad, to the day, died of the legs and an ass of a rhinoceros.
And his trousers always looked like they were stretched, stretched over the legs and ass somehow.
I don't know how.
He was always busting out, you know.
Then I would see his black Garrison work belts, green work shirt, and then his face.
By the time I got there, his face was flushed red, red as a tomato, because he was Irish,
and whatever he drank went straight to his face.
He couldn't hide a thing when he came home.
Not only was it red, but it was distorted, too, into some sort of booze mask by Mr.
Schlitz.
It was so foreign to me as a child that
Fuck, I don't know.
But it was scary, and he'd be peering down over his shoulder, down through cigarette smoke,
and he'd be looking at me like, I've never seen you before in my fucking life.
I didn't know the immortal words that I was sent to deliver.
Mom wants you to come home.
I'd hear, go outside, I will be right out.
And I would follow my breadcrumb trail back out the barroom door.
I would hop into the back seat, and I would inform [E] my mother.
He'll be right out.
He'll be right out.
[N]
Key:
Bm
E
Bm
E
Bm
E
Bm
E
My father worked as a 16-year-old floor boy in that rug mill.
Then he went off to war.
When he came home, he got married.
They shut the rug mill down, and so he went to work on the Ford Motor Plant line in New Brunswick.
Then he worked at the Nescafé plant in Freehold.
Worked in a plastics factory in town.
He was a truck driver, a bus driver, drove a taxi.
He lived mostly at home, except for his second home, which was a little local bar in the center of town.
Now, to a child, bars in Freehold were these citadels of great mystery.
When you walked through barroom doors in my hometown, you entered the mystical realm of men.
On the rare night that my mother would call my father home,
we would slowly drive through town until we drew to a stop outside of a single lit door.
She'd look at me and say, go in and get your dad.
_ This both thrilled and terrified me.
[Bm] Thrilled me because I'd been given the license by my mother, the law, _ to go into the bar.
[N]
I'm a kid, but it terrified me.
Because to enter the bar is to enter my father's privileged, private, and sacred space.
He was not to be disturbed when he's down at the bar.
Everybody knew that.
So I would walk in, and I was waist high like a jack who climbed some dark beanstalk into a land of giants.
All I remember is the men towering over me on their way out the door.
Now, once you were in, to the left against the wall was a line of red leather booths
that were filled with husband and wife tag team drinkers.
Now, they were your hardcore regulars there night after night after night.
Now, to the right was the bar, a line of stools filled by a barricade of broad working class backs,
clinking glasses, too loud laughter, and very few women.
I would stand there lost in the noise and the hustle of the crowd,
and I would drink in that dim smell of beer and booze and aftershave.
To a kid, that was the scent of adulthood.
It was the scent of manhood.
I wanted some of that.
_ Finally, somebody would notice me, draw me over to my pop.
Now, my view from the floor was the first thing I'd see is the chrome legs of the bar stool.
Then I'd see his black shoes, white socks, dark green work trousers, powerful legs and haunches.
My dad, to the day, died of the legs and an ass of a rhinoceros.
And his trousers always looked like they were stretched, stretched over the legs and ass somehow.
I don't know how.
He was always busting out, you know.
Then I would see his black Garrison work belts, green work shirt, and then his face.
By the time I got there, his face was flushed red, red as a tomato, because he was Irish,
and whatever he drank went straight to his face.
_ He couldn't hide a thing when he came home.
Not only was it red, but it was distorted, too, into some sort of booze mask by Mr.
Schlitz.
It was so foreign to me as a child that_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Fuck, I don't know.
But it was scary, and he'd be peering down over his shoulder, down through cigarette smoke,
and he'd be looking at me like, I've never seen you before in my fucking life. _ _ _ _ _ _ _
I didn't know the immortal words that I was sent to deliver.
_ Mom wants you to come home.
_ _ _ I'd hear, go outside, I will be right out.
And I would follow my breadcrumb trail back out the barroom door.
I would hop into the back seat, and I would inform [E] my mother. _
_ _ He'll be right out.
He'll be right out.
_ [N] _
Then he went off to war.
When he came home, he got married.
They shut the rug mill down, and so he went to work on the Ford Motor Plant line in New Brunswick.
Then he worked at the Nescafé plant in Freehold.
Worked in a plastics factory in town.
He was a truck driver, a bus driver, drove a taxi.
He lived mostly at home, except for his second home, which was a little local bar in the center of town.
Now, to a child, bars in Freehold were these citadels of great mystery.
When you walked through barroom doors in my hometown, you entered the mystical realm of men.
On the rare night that my mother would call my father home,
we would slowly drive through town until we drew to a stop outside of a single lit door.
She'd look at me and say, go in and get your dad.
_ This both thrilled and terrified me.
[Bm] Thrilled me because I'd been given the license by my mother, the law, _ to go into the bar.
[N]
I'm a kid, but it terrified me.
Because to enter the bar is to enter my father's privileged, private, and sacred space.
He was not to be disturbed when he's down at the bar.
Everybody knew that.
So I would walk in, and I was waist high like a jack who climbed some dark beanstalk into a land of giants.
All I remember is the men towering over me on their way out the door.
Now, once you were in, to the left against the wall was a line of red leather booths
that were filled with husband and wife tag team drinkers.
Now, they were your hardcore regulars there night after night after night.
Now, to the right was the bar, a line of stools filled by a barricade of broad working class backs,
clinking glasses, too loud laughter, and very few women.
I would stand there lost in the noise and the hustle of the crowd,
and I would drink in that dim smell of beer and booze and aftershave.
To a kid, that was the scent of adulthood.
It was the scent of manhood.
I wanted some of that.
_ Finally, somebody would notice me, draw me over to my pop.
Now, my view from the floor was the first thing I'd see is the chrome legs of the bar stool.
Then I'd see his black shoes, white socks, dark green work trousers, powerful legs and haunches.
My dad, to the day, died of the legs and an ass of a rhinoceros.
And his trousers always looked like they were stretched, stretched over the legs and ass somehow.
I don't know how.
He was always busting out, you know.
Then I would see his black Garrison work belts, green work shirt, and then his face.
By the time I got there, his face was flushed red, red as a tomato, because he was Irish,
and whatever he drank went straight to his face.
_ He couldn't hide a thing when he came home.
Not only was it red, but it was distorted, too, into some sort of booze mask by Mr.
Schlitz.
It was so foreign to me as a child that_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Fuck, I don't know.
But it was scary, and he'd be peering down over his shoulder, down through cigarette smoke,
and he'd be looking at me like, I've never seen you before in my fucking life. _ _ _ _ _ _ _
I didn't know the immortal words that I was sent to deliver.
_ Mom wants you to come home.
_ _ _ I'd hear, go outside, I will be right out.
And I would follow my breadcrumb trail back out the barroom door.
I would hop into the back seat, and I would inform [E] my mother. _
_ _ He'll be right out.
He'll be right out.
_ [N] _