Born in the U.S.A.
1985 was a peculiar year. The great snowfall hit hard in Italy and I still remember that magical atmosphere of the cities blanketed in white. For a 7-year-old boy, it was like living in a fairy tale. We returned from Rome — where we had spent Christmas with our relatives — to our home in Northern Italy and found that one of the large trees in our garden had collapsed under the weight of the snow. I was deeply affected by the collapse of the tree. To me, it was a beautiful creature—seen through the eyes of a child who couldn’t have known that the tree was already sick and weak; in other words, ready to go.
But while nature was showing its fragile side outside, something was shifting inside our house. My brother made me listen to an album that had come out shortly before: Born in the U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen. It was an epiphany. I can still feel the energy of those tracks hitting me for the first time. The sound of the snare was like a sonic boom, a crack of thunder. Since that day, the passion for that specific record has never left me; it became a part of my DNA. And now, it has passed to my daughter, too.
For a long time, though, I stayed away from the Fender Telecaster. I used to snub it, thinking it was too simple or perhaps just not for me. I was wrong. I eventually realized that the Telecaster is a guitar for mature musicians—players who aren’t afraid to expose themselves, because that slab of wood doesn’t hide anything. It’s honest, raw, and demands authenticity.
So, three years ago, I finally decided to close the circle and bought a used 2000 Fender Telecaster American Vintage 1952. It’s the closest thing to Bruce’s iconic guitar, with its black pickguard and that Butterscotch Blonde finish.
Holding it felt like reconnecting with that 7-year-old boy from 1985. On this guitar, I wrote a song dedicated to my mother, who is no longer here. It’s a strange feeling: using a guitar that represents strength and maturity to express such a delicate and personal loss.
Today, this ’52 reissue isn’t just an instrument in my collection. It’s a bridge between the snow of 1985, the fallen tree, my brother’s turntable, the memory of my mother, and the man I’ve become. It took me decades to understand this guitar, but now that I have it, I know it’s exactly where it belongs.
