"When the change was made uptown and the Big Man joined the band.From the coastline to the city all the little pretties raised their hands.
I'm gonna sit back right easy and laugh, when Scooter and the Big Man bust this city in half with a Tenth Avenue freezeout..."
E Street is closed to through traffic tonight. The buses don't run there right now and the happy noise that ruminated from it is stilled forever because the Big Man, Clarence Clemons, finished his gig Saturday night and went home.
I had several days of brief encounters with Bruce Springsteen when he was touring behind "Darkness on the Edge of Town," one of my favorite albums. I had flown to Berkeley, California to catch the show and interview Springsteen afterwards.
It had been a remarkable show. Springsteen was exhausted. I caught up to him in one of the backstage dressing rooms. He stood there quietly, a puddle of sweat at his feet. He was nothing like the wild man who had just rocked the Community Theater. He was quiet, introspective. We chatted for a good hour, maybe more, and I had to leave to catch the red-eye back to Los Angeles.
He had another show a couple nights later at The Forum, then a surprise gig at The Roxy, which was broadcast on the legendary KMET. That Roxy show, by the way, was the heart of a live album he put out several years later.
The shows were stunning, powerful. Springsteen was a commanding figure on the stage, backed up by a most incredible band. Miami Steve was laying down some very cool guitar licks, trading leads with Springsteen, who has always been a bit underrated as a guitar player. Max Weinberg was flailing at his drums. But, the soul of this dynamo known as the E Street Band was the Big Man, Clarence Clemons.
What a figure he cut on the stage.
A man of large proportion, he dominated the right side of the stage, up front. Not many sax players can command as much of the spotlight as Clemons, but, then again, few could play the horn like he did.
I spent a lot of time that week with the Springsteen entourage, wrote some decent stuff, I guess, because I got a mention in Rolling Stone for my stories. Springsteen called me out after the Forum gig at the after party and gave me one of the biggest hugs I have ever received. His people put me at Gary Busey's table at The Roxy. Now, Busey was riding the crest of his performance in the Buddy Holly film. It took him a few tumblers of Wild turkey to loosen up, but he finally got into the show. Afterwards I saw Springsteen again and we chatted as members of the band rambled around the empty nightclub. He gave me the nickname "L.A. Ed with Glasses," according to my friend, Harvey Kubernick, who was in Springsteen's inner circle.
Let's be straight about one thing here, if there had been no change uptown and the Big Man hadn't joined the band, Springsteen's career might have been dumped by Columbia Records about the time "Born To Run" came out. You see, the first couple albums didn't fare well and label was all about sales. There was also a huge beef between Springsteen and his former manager Mike Appel that prevented him from doing much of anything but touring. So, Springsteen and the E Street Band hit the road, gigging incessantly from coast to coast.
When the beef was finally put behind Springsteen and Appel, Springsteen was able to go into the studio and lay down the tracks to "Darkness," a remarkably mature album comprised of dark characters and a yearning for something, anything, to free them from their demons.
Clemons' saxophone haunts Springsteen's storytelling on "Darkness." Without it, the album is a lesser novel of the struggle known only too well by the working men and women on Planet Springsteen.
If Springsteen was The Boss, Clemons was his Lead Man.
He was the spirit of the band. He could pick them up on stage with one of his thrilling sax riffs. Springsteen, you see, would get the band to whatever venue they were playing early in the day. By the time showtime came around, they had been playing for a good four or five hours, running through songs, rehearsing, trying new fills, working on new material. By showtime, they had done the equivalent of about three sets. By intermission, they were ready for a breather.
They would close the first half of the show with "Pradise by the C," an instrumental piece that was a real showcase for Clemons, who would breathe life into a tired, ragged bunch just before it took a rest between rounds.
They would always come back from the intermission ready to rip the roof off the joint.
On the road, it was Clemons who would break tedium of the long bus rides. If things got too glum, he'd strip naked and march up and down the aisle of the bus playing The Village People's "Macho Man" on his saxophone. It lifted everybody's spirits.
He could make the saxophone soar, like on "Born to Run," or weep, as in "Jungleland." He could play the role of Springsteen's sidekick or steal the show, depending on what was needed.
But, beneath it all, he was a musician's musician, respected by the oldtimers and the new breed. In fact, he recently flew to New York for his last recording session -- a gig at the request of Lady Gaga. She asked him to do some work on her new album. He was on a plane within a couple hours of getting her call.
And, now, he's gone. Complications from a stroke took him.
And, sadly, another change was made uptown and the Big Man left the band.
