Saturday
Sep102011
The Big Man
Saturday, September 10, 2011 at 05:07AM
Chasing the sunset somewhere southwest of Topeka and cruising at 32008 feet, it truly hit home that Clarence Clemons is gone. Of course he's been gone since June 18th when he passed away following a stroke at the age of 69. As a longtime Brucefag follower of the E Street Band, I read the news with a heavy heart. The Big Man had brought a world of joy. Sure, his chops had slipped over the course of the last few tours, but when he stepped into the spot the notes mattered less than the spotlight, and the man deserved the spotlight.
Through the magic of all things Internet and Steve Jobs' little jukebox, I was listening to The River show from Madison Square Garden in 2009. Drinking a little Jack & water and staring down at the odd blocks of Kansas greenery, I had Drive All Night cued up and when the sax solo came it hit like a shotgun blastf. In the beat of a heart I was back in every arena where I'd seen the band, every car I'd jammed away in, every dark apartment drinking every solitary drink I've drunk. It was supposed to be a diversion, a counterpoint to the engines' droning. It wasn't supposed to matter. Not this time. But it did. Shame on me for ever pretending it wouldn't.
I've never gotten my head around the whole arts/music/emotion thing. Those things, those works of art, can reach from some uber-godly depth of heart or soul or primordial love-ooze and disturb places that mightn't ought to be disturbed. Life would be easier if they weren't, not necessarily better but easier.
Many artists and musicians say they feel as though they are simply a conduit, that the songs and the stories and the images flow into them and out them as if on their own accord. Keith Richards, for one, is bomb on this. Yet it seems that many of those who espouse this theory suffer some version of artist's agony, some addiction, some inability to find a peaceful, productive place in the world outside their creative process. Clarence seemed to cotton to none of this. He came from a different place, a place that allowed beauty to arise without the throes of creation, a place of a deeper peace. On stage and in the lore of the band, this was played up. From the outfits and demeanor on stage to the oft-repeated tale of the first Clarence/Bruce meeting on a rainy Jersey boardwalk, Clarence was presented as a larger than life character. But it seemed a life far less ordinary. Though he occupied his traditional position stage-left for nearly forty years, when the spotlight hit him and the solo began the E Street universe shifted and Springsteen, one of the most compelling performers since Daniel entered the lions' den, played second fiddle until C had his say. In younger days Bruce could be seen zooming around the stage during the solos like a planet round the sun, but he was a miniaturized Boss until the saxman was done; in later years he was prone to step back and observe, to drink it in like the rest of us, with a look of appreciation and awe. As the last note rang often Clarence would recede from the spot with a slight bow as if acknowledging a gift both given and received. Night after night the notes were the same, but the solos, like a lover's kiss, landed fresh and true every time.
If we ever see the E Street Band again, it will surely feel like a skeleton. Though always an integral part of the band and the sound, Danny passed away and was replaced. For the most part the band felt same. But Clarence played a role in the live shows that can never be recast. Whatever band we get next, if..., will feel like E Street Lite.
The performances of Clarence Clemons will live on. Those solos that soared like a red-tailed hawk in a summer sky will continue to steal my breath. They sound as fresh and new now as they did thirty years ago. But the teardrops will never dry on E Street.
*"Hey vibes man, hey jazz man, play me your serenade..."*
Through the magic of all things Internet and Steve Jobs' little jukebox, I was listening to The River show from Madison Square Garden in 2009. Drinking a little Jack & water and staring down at the odd blocks of Kansas greenery, I had Drive All Night cued up and when the sax solo came it hit like a shotgun blastf. In the beat of a heart I was back in every arena where I'd seen the band, every car I'd jammed away in, every dark apartment drinking every solitary drink I've drunk. It was supposed to be a diversion, a counterpoint to the engines' droning. It wasn't supposed to matter. Not this time. But it did. Shame on me for ever pretending it wouldn't.
I've never gotten my head around the whole arts/music/emotion thing. Those things, those works of art, can reach from some uber-godly depth of heart or soul or primordial love-ooze and disturb places that mightn't ought to be disturbed. Life would be easier if they weren't, not necessarily better but easier.
Many artists and musicians say they feel as though they are simply a conduit, that the songs and the stories and the images flow into them and out them as if on their own accord. Keith Richards, for one, is bomb on this. Yet it seems that many of those who espouse this theory suffer some version of artist's agony, some addiction, some inability to find a peaceful, productive place in the world outside their creative process. Clarence seemed to cotton to none of this. He came from a different place, a place that allowed beauty to arise without the throes of creation, a place of a deeper peace. On stage and in the lore of the band, this was played up. From the outfits and demeanor on stage to the oft-repeated tale of the first Clarence/Bruce meeting on a rainy Jersey boardwalk, Clarence was presented as a larger than life character. But it seemed a life far less ordinary. Though he occupied his traditional position stage-left for nearly forty years, when the spotlight hit him and the solo began the E Street universe shifted and Springsteen, one of the most compelling performers since Daniel entered the lions' den, played second fiddle until C had his say. In younger days Bruce could be seen zooming around the stage during the solos like a planet round the sun, but he was a miniaturized Boss until the saxman was done; in later years he was prone to step back and observe, to drink it in like the rest of us, with a look of appreciation and awe. As the last note rang often Clarence would recede from the spot with a slight bow as if acknowledging a gift both given and received. Night after night the notes were the same, but the solos, like a lover's kiss, landed fresh and true every time.
If we ever see the E Street Band again, it will surely feel like a skeleton. Though always an integral part of the band and the sound, Danny passed away and was replaced. For the most part the band felt same. But Clarence played a role in the live shows that can never be recast. Whatever band we get next, if..., will feel like E Street Lite.
The performances of Clarence Clemons will live on. Those solos that soared like a red-tailed hawk in a summer sky will continue to steal my breath. They sound as fresh and new now as they did thirty years ago. But the teardrops will never dry on E Street.
*"Hey vibes man, hey jazz man, play me your serenade..."*
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