Born to Run (59 page)

I knew this was the music I should make now. It was my job. I felt the country was at a critical juncture. If this much damage can be done to average citizens with basically no accountability, then the game is off and the thin veil of democracy is revealed for what it is,
a shallow disguise for a growing plutocracy that is here now and permanent.

Wrecking Ball
was received with a lot less fanfare than I thought it would be. I was sure I had it. I still think I do and did. Maybe my voice had been too compromised by my own success, but I don’t think so. I’ve worked hard and long to write about these subjects and I know them well. I knew
Wrecking Ball
was one of
my best, most contemporary and accessible albums since
Born in the USA
. I’m no conspiracy theorist, so basically I realized that the presentation of these ideas in this form had a powerful but limited interest to a reasonably large but still select group of people, especially in the United States. For the next several years we toured, crisscrossing the globe,
to a wild reception, where Europe,
as usual, was a whole other story. There there was a deep and abiding interest in American affairs and anyone singing about them. Their interview questions were political and filled with the stakes I knew I was writing about when I wrote the record. I came to terms with the fact that in the States, the power of rock music as a vehicle for these ideas had diminished. A new kind of super-pop, hip-hop
and a variety of other exciting genres had become the hotline of the day, more suited to the current zeitgeist. Don’t get me wrong. I can’t complain.
Wrecking Ball
went to number one and had a fine success of its own in the United States. Appreciative and understanding audiences met us everywhere. But I thought this was one of my most powerful records and I went out looking for it all.

SEVENTY-THREE

LOSING THE RAIN

I was in the studio at my farm on a rainy, wind-soaked day between tours when I received a phone call from Clarence. I’d been trying to get hold of him for a sax session on the new version of “Land of Hope and Dreams” we’d cut for the upcoming
Wrecking Ball
. He was calling from Los Angeles, where he’d just performed with Lady Gaga on
American Idol
. He’d played a great
solo on her “Edge of Glory” single as well as appearing in the video. I asked how he was and he said he had some numbness in his hand that was inhibiting his sax playing and was making him very nervous. I asked him what he wanted to do and for the first time in our history he begged off a session and asked if he could return home to Florida to see a neurologist and have his hand checked out.
I assured him he could catch the session later and told him I’d call him in a week or so and see how he was doing.

Patti’s and my anniversary came up and we left to spend five or so days
in Paris. About three days in, Gil Gamboa, our security person, knocked on our hotel door in the afternoon. When I opened the door, all I saw was his eyes glazed with tears. He choked out that Clarence had had
a very serious stroke and was in the hospital. I left for Florida.

Clarence’s stroke was massive, shutting the lights out on an entire side of his brain. It had happened in moments as he fell out of bed onto the floor. I visited St. Mary’s Medical Center in West Palm Beach, where I was greeted by Clarence’s brother, Bill; Jake, his nephew; and Victoria, his wife, and I was ushered in to see the
Big Man. He lay in bed breathing heavily in a dimly lit room with tubes and cords emanating from underneath his gown. Clarence’s eyelids, which were always like soft steel doors, languorously opening and closing, were heavily shut. Victoria spoke to him and told him I was there. I took his hand, spoke gently to him and could feel a light grip form around my fingers. Some part of him somewhere was
responding. Clarence’s hands were always like heavy stones but when he placed them upon your shoulders, the most comforting, secure feeling swept through your body and heart. Very, very strong and exceedingly gentle—that was C with me.

The folks at St. Mary’s were kind enough to provide us with a small room where Clarence’s brother, nephews, children and friends could gather, play some music
and talk about C. It was far enough away not to disturb the other patients and before long, we had the saxophone, guitars and our voices singing during the days and nights we waited to see how Clarence would respond to the efforts of his doctors. There were procedures, medical decisions to be made by the family, doctor’s consultations, but one afternoon, I was taken aside by Clarence’s main physician
and was told it would be near miraculous if he ever regained consciousness. If he did, he would most certainly be wheelchair bound, an entire half of his body paralyzed. His speech, his face, his hands dysfunctional. He would certainly never play the saxophone again. I don’t know how Clarence would’ve handled this. He was a strong man with a staggering life force but I know not playing, and not
playing in the band, would’ve hurt big. It really wasn’t meant to be. Clarence had been a natural creature of excess, lived hard, never really taken great care of himself and never looked back.

A week passed; C’s condition continued to worsen and all that could be done had been done.

The morning sun laid a pinkish veil over the St. Mary’s parking lot as we entered through the rear door and gathered
bedside in Clarence’s small room. His wife, his sons, his brother, his nephews, myself, Max and Garry prepared to say our good-byes. I strummed my guitar gently to “Land of Hope and Dreams” and then something inexplicable happened. Something great and timeless and beautiful and confounding just disappeared. Something was gone . . . gone for good.

There is no evidence of the soul except in its
sudden absence. A nothingness enters, taking the place where something was before. A night without stars falls and for a moment covers everything in the room. Clarence’s great body became still. His name was called. A lot of tears fell. We took some time, said our prayers and were ushered gently out by the nun who’d been C’s nurse. Clarence’s brother, Bill, took it very hard for the rest of us. The
stillness was broken. In the hallway we comforted one another, talked for a while, kissed and hugged one another, then just went home.

Back in the world, it had turned into a beautiful sunny Florida day, just the kind C loved for his fishing expeditions. I went back to my hotel and took a swim deep into the sea until the noise of the shore drifted from my ears. I tried to imagine my world without
Clarence. Then, turning over on my back, I felt the sun take my face and I swam back to land, went inside and fell asleep soaking on my bed.

•  •  •

The thick Florida air filled my lungs with cotton as we entered the Royal Poinciana Chapel. All of E Street, Jackson Browne, and Clarence’s wives and children, along with Eric Meola, who took the iconic picture of Clarence
and me on the cover of
Born to Run
, were there. Victoria spoke lovingly of Clarence and read his last wishes, which were basically that C wanted his ashes scattered in Hawaii in the presence of his wife and all of the other “special” women in his life. Only Clarence, alive or dead, could pull this one off.

The first time I’d seen C’s massive form striding out of the shadows of a half-empty bar in Asbury Park, I’d thought,
“Here comes my brother.” Yet as solid as the Big Man was, he was also very fragile. And in some funny way we became each other’s protectors; I think perhaps I protected C from a world where it still wasn’t so easy to be big and black. Racism was still there and over our years together, occasionally we saw it. Clarence’s celebrity and size did not always make him immune. I think perhaps C protected
me from a world where it wasn’t always so easy to be an insecure, weird and skinny white boy either. Standing together, we were badass, on any given night, some of the baddest asses on the planet. And we were coming to your town to shake you and to wake you up.

Together, we told a story that transcended those I’d written in my songs and in my music. It was a story about the possibilities of friendship,
a story that Clarence carried in his heart. We both did. It was a story where the Scooter and the Big Man busted the city in half. A story where we kicked ass and
remade
the city, reshaping it into the kind of place where our friendship would not be such an anomaly. I knew that that was what I was going to miss: the chance to stand alongside Clarence and renew that vow on a nightly basis. That
was
the
thing that we did together.

Clarence was one of the most authentic people I’d ever come across. He had no postmodern bullshit about him. Other than my old man, a true Bukowski character come to ass-on-a-bar-stool life, I never met anyone else as real as Clarence Clemons. His life was often a mess. He could spout the most inane bullshit you’ve ever heard and believe it, but there was something
inside of his skin that screamed life was ON and he was the master of ceremonies! He made himself extremely happy and horribly miserable, he
dogged me and blessed me, was side-splittingly hilarious and always treading near pathos. He collected a cast of characters around him that often had to be seen to be believed. He was sexually mysterious and voracious but he was also incredibly lovely and
my friend. We didn’t hang out. We couldn’t. It would’ve ruined my life. There was always too much. But the time I spent with him was filled with thrills and big laughs. We were physically comfortable with each other, often hugging and embracing. Clarence’s body was a vast world in and of itself. He was a mountainous, moving, kind citadel of flesh in a storm.

I miss my friend. But I still have
the story that he gave me, that he whispered in my ear, that we told together, the one we whispered into your ear, and that is going to carry on. If I were a mystic, Clarence’s and my friendship would lead me to believe that we must have stood together in other, older times, along other rivers, in other cities, in other fields, doing our modest version of God’s work.

Clarence was elemental in
my life and losing him was like losing the rain. In his last days, he moved slowly to the stage but when he got there, there was a big man in the house.

On returning to New Jersey and work, I reentered the studio. My producer Ron Aniello was there working on
Wrecking Ball
. He gave me his condolences and said after he heard about Clarence’s death, he didn’t know what to do. So while he was in
LA, he had carefully pieced together Clarence’s solo from a live take to fit our new version of “Land of Hope and Dreams.” I sat there as C’s sax filled the room.

SEVENTY-FOUR

THE
WRECKING BALL
TOUR

Clarence once mentioned to me during a negotiation that he should be paid not only for playing but for being Clarence. I said no and it was funny, but he had a point. Was there another one? Nope. There was only that one. In truth he
was
paid for being Clarence, as he’d been the most highly remunerated member of the E Street Band since close to its inception.
So what did we do now? That was all that was on my mind as our tour approached.

Ed Manion, our longtime Jukes/E Street/Seeger saxophonist, was a great player and an all-around good guy and would get the job done. But “the job” was tricky. It was less of a “job” than a position of faith that had some distinctly shamanistic requirements. There was a fellow out in Freehold
whom I’d played successfully
with, who had C’s tone down, was great onstage, but . . .

I received a small collection of DVDs from guys who could play rings around the moon, but we didn’t need John Coltrane. We needed a to-the-bone rock ’n’ roll saxophonist. I sat in bed going through them one morning as Patti sat at my side going, “Nope, nope, nope, nope.” Out of curiosity I even went on the Internet and checked out the
top “tribute” bands to see how they were handling it . . . No.

Jake

Though he traveled with the band for the better part of the
Magic
/
Dream
tour, I’d never really heard Jake play ’til Clarence’s funeral. There, he did a lovely version of “Amazing Grace.” He was physically big like C. He and his brothers, to the unknowing eye, could appear to be a misplaced tribe of Maori warriors. Jake was bespectacled,
sweet and soft too. Somewhere along the way, a mama had been good to him, and he carried with him the limitless sunshine that was C’s specialty on a good day. He was talented, a good songwriter and singer. He loved music, was young and hungry, and I could perceive inside of him the beginning of a star.

After C’s death, many months went by. Jake and I stayed casually in touch and though we both
knew what we were thinking, it was appropriately never mentioned. On the street I was confronted regularly with the same question from friends and fans. “Whaddyagonnado?” That’s how it always came out. One thought, one word, one critical, life-defining, all-important, existential “I gotta know NOW ’cause it’s driving me CRAZY that this thing I loved might no longer be there!!!” question. “Whaddyagonnado?”
My answer was always “We’re gonna think of something.”

Steve on Jake: “He’s black. He plays the saxophone. His name is Clemons. He’s the guy! He’s the only guy!” Steve dismissed my other candidates as . . . white.

I knew what he meant. He was saying that “thing,” that world, that possibility that Clarence symbolized going back to the early days of race-divided Asbury Park was tied to his overwhelming
blackness. It was. And that “thing”
was
a critical piece of the living philosophy of the E Street Band.

I agreed that Steve was right but by definition, there being only one true Big Man, one true Big Man whom neither chops, nor size, nor the blackness of night could replicate, it didn’t really matter . . . maybe. I knew the band had changed the minute C breathed his last. That version of the
E Street Band would be Never No More! There would be no
replacing
Clarence Clemons. So the real question was, “So what’s next?” Next . . . now.