Big Man

by Clarence Clemons

  “Doesn’t bother Bruce,” I said, as I watched the Boss lean out the window and put his arm around some biker chick while the guy she was with snapped pictures with an iPhone.

  “Bruce,” said Clarence, “can move a lot faster than I can.”

  After a few minutes we got rolling again and finally pulled into a fenced area behind the stage where the trucks were parked. The catering tents were up and the “dressing rooms,” a cluster of trailers way behind some temporary fencing, were ready, with guards posted at the entrance to the area.

  “You need to call this one the Tin Can of Soul,” I said, as we entered the trailer.

  Jennifer Jacobs had once again worked her considerable magic, and inside it looked like home. (Jennifer herself was running a fever with no other signs of distress. Several doctors had looked at her, and their best guess was West Nile virus.) Clarence had his doctor visit and began a now-abbreviated get-ready ritual. This one involved heat, ice, and a nap, in addition to the numbing shot at the base of his back.

  “The idea is that once the knees are fixed, the back will stop hurting ’cause I’ll be able to move properly again,” he told me.

  I left him with Victoria and set out to check out the crowd.

  The police estimate I got on the size of the crowd was slightly over one hundred thousand people. I walked up on the stage before Alejandro Escovedo went on and looked out at a sea of people. There were concession tents in the far distance, and all the space in between was filled with people. It was an amazing sight. They were mostly bikers but this crowd, at least near the front, was noticeably younger than, say, the Giants Stadium crowd. This group looked vibrant, happy, and more than a little tipsy. But there was none of that Hells Angels/Altamont feeling here. This felt more like a Middle America Fourth of July picnic than anything else. The one thing that was clear was that these were rabid Bruce fans and they were expecting a great show.

  Nobody was disappointed.

  I’d been in the habit of looking around at the shows for African Americans. Clarence likes to know if they’re his fans, and he likes to make sure they’ve got good seats or access to the pit if that’s what they want. They were few and far between, though. Rock music has never been big with black folks, and that’s just the way it is. However, many of the security people at the venues were black, and some of them claimed to be fans.

  I walked out of the catering tent and saw a young black woman in a security shirt sitting alone by the perimeter fence. I went over and said hello.

  “What are you doing over here?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m just watching the fence here in case anybody tries to climb over,” she said.

  “Does that happen a lot?” I said.

  “It did for Elton John,” she said, laughing.

  “I don’t think you’re going to get much action tonight,” I said.

  “That’s fine,” she said.

  I introduced myself and told her that we had just flown in from New York.

  “My name is Clarissa,” she said. “I was born and raised here, but someday before I die I’m going to see New York City. It’s one of my dreams.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  I had a brief fantasy of bringing her with us to the jet and taking her to New York that night, but I quickly dismissed it. There are some things that just don’t work no matter how cool they sound.

  “Are you a Springsteen fan?” I asked.

  Nine times out of ten the answer to this question from African Americans is an “Are you insane?” expression.

  “I sure am,” said Clarissa. “Since I was a little girl.”

  “Wow,” I said. “What’s your favorite song?”

  She answered immediately.

  “ ‘Jesse’s Girl,’ ” she said.

  I had a few words with my idol, George Travis. “What’s next, George?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Oh, I don’t know, something will come up.”

  “Do you have any idea what the next thing will be?”

  “Yankee Stadium,” he said. “There’s going to be a big celebration for the closing of the old stadium and the opening of the new one. I’m going to do that.”

  “You couldn’t find anything big to work on, huh?”

  “No, that’ll have to do,” he said.

  It was beginning to get dark when he finished, and I made my way back to the Temple of Soul.

  “Ask Danny if he wants me to wear black and gold or black and silver,” Clarence said to Lani, referring to Danny Clinch, the photographer.

  “I already did,” she said.

  “This woman is incredible,” said Clarence, turning to me.

  “You can never leave us,” Victoria said to Lani. “Even if we can’t afford you.”

  “In that case you’ll have to adopt me,” said Lani. “And put me in the will.”

  “Deal,” said Clarence. “So which is it? Black and gold or black and silver?”

  “He said he’s shooting black and white, so it doesn’t matter,” she said.

  “I know Danny,” said Clarence. “He’ll do some color, too. Let’s go with black and gold.”

  “Sold,” said Lani.

  Clarence was right. Danny did shoot several rolls of color.

  After the photo shoot I made my way out into the crowd to watch the opening of the show. There is such an adrenaline rush when the band hits the stage that you can feel it in the crowd. Tonight it felt like nitro as the guys took the stage in the gathering darkness to the sounds of roaring motorcycle engines and went into “Gypsy Biker” to start the show.

  There was a gigantic roar that seemed to come from another zip code when they recognized the first notes of the tragic biker song. It felt to me like the crowd was at the level other crowds don’t get to until three or four songs into the encore.

  There was a lot more to come, and by the time we got to the fifth song of the encore we were all in another place.

  Hours later aboard the plane home, Clarence was stretched out across three seats trying to relax his back. Bruce walked down the aisle and stopped.

  “C,” he said. “Come sit up front with me in one of the big seats.”

  “You’ve got big seats?” said Clarence, who was wrapped in a cream-colored terry-cloth robe that Jennifer Jacobs had made for him.

  Bruce shrugged.

  “Of course I do,” he said. “I’m Bruce Springsteen.”

  Everyone within earshot laughed along with Bruce.

  “They’re wider but they don’t recline,” said Barbara Carr, who was sitting in front.

  “But they don’t recline,” said Bruce.

  “I’ll stay here,” said Clarence.

  “Good show, huh?” said Bruce.

  “Yeah,” said Clarence. “Was there any fucking song you didn’t play? We could go back and do another one if you want to.”

  Bruce laughed.

  “It’s funny,” he said. “After the third song I was exhausted. I was thinking, I’m not going to make it through the night.”

  “Wrong,” said Clarence.

  Wrong indeed.

  This felt like the show that would never end. For everybody but Clarence this was good news.

  Bruce got into a groove and simply didn’t want it to end. He was framed by huge photographs of himself riding Harleys over the years. He seemed to channel that biker spirit in a hell-bent-for-daylight performance that was actually awesome. He was on fire, intense and energetic like some kind of supersonic gypsy.

  “Out in the Street” followed “Gypsy Biker,” and the third song, the one that exhausted Bruce, was “Radio Nowhere.” “Promised Land” followed, and I looked up at my friend as he stepped forward to play the solo, and I listened as the crowd roared in recognition and the joy of sharing the experience with Clarence. This happens over and over when he saunters forward, looking like the coolest man in the world, and steps into the spotlight. I think that in those moments he actually is the coolest man in the world. The connecti
on that these massive crowds around the world feel with him is directly attributable to who he is as much as what he does.

  Then came one of those turning points that happens in all the shows. This was the moment when everything got shifted into a higher gear. Bruce picked a sign out of the crowd, held a brief conference with the band, and with a Spanish countdown, launched into Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs’ barn burner, “Wooly Bully.”

  From there on out it was a big, freewheeling rock and roll festival. Bruce and Steve communicated with guitars on “Murder Incorporated” in a secret language that everybody understood. Steve had a great night. His singing on “A Long Way Home” was deeply felt and soulful. The show was great. All the way through to “Seven Nights to Rock,” the old nugget from Moon Mullican, the man who inspired Jerry Lee Lewis.

  Then the encore began. It started with Bruce asking for Jason to come backstage. I figured every guy and some ladies in the building named Jason would charge forward. But there was only one Jason whom Bruce was looking for—Danny’s son, Jason Federici.

  “This is the first time we’re closing a tour without Danny,” said Bruce. “So I’m pleased to be joined by his son Jason.”

  Then they played “Sandy,” the song most closely associated with Danny. It was a touching moment that found a lot of people with tears in their eyes.

  After that they charged through a musical juggernaut. “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out,” with all the little pretties raising their hands once again, followed by “Glory Days,” “Born to Run,” and “Rosalita.” I thought the show was over and took a few steps toward the back of the stage.

  “When he went into ‘Bobby Jean,’ ” said Clarence later, “I wanted to kill him.”

  After that they did “American Land,” and once again I headed for the limo. Once again I came back to see Bruce now do a change of pace song: “Thunder Road.” His eighth song of the encore is a slow song. (It took me back again to the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium in 1974, when they opened for Dr. John and played a ballad, “New York City Serenade,” as their encore.) Then another shift of gears into “Dancing in the Dark,” and I felt certain the show was over. It had to be over.

  It was not.

  Apparently Bruce had taken Steve’s suggestion to heart, and they closed the night with the biker anthem “Born to Be Wild.”

  We left quickly. With a hundred thousand recently fueled bikers surrounding us, it seemed like a good idea.

  “When skating over thin ice,” Clarence likes to say, “our safety is in our speed.”

  I waited for him backstage and helped him down the stairs. He put on the big white robe that Jennifer had made for him and paused only to greet the woman who sat guarding the ramp to the stage. She was a big fan but could only listen to the show from a folding metal chair.

  “Next time come to see me,” said Clarence.

  Then we were in the limo again, surrounded by motorcycle cops zooming out of the parking lot and coming dangerously close to the cheering fans who were lining the road. There were people waving all the way to the airport.

  We got on the plane and were airborne in minutes.

  All of this produced an adrenaline rush that made me feel like I could’ve flown without the plane.

  On board there was fried chicken and hot dogs and Milwaukee brats and lollipops and ice cream and cookies. I am not making this up. It was the menu from every kid’s birthday party in the history of time. I found myself wishing the flight were longer. I would’ve been perfectly content if we had just continued to fly all around the world forever.

  Sometime during the flight Bruce wandered back through the plane like he always does, and I got to tell him the story of Damon Wayans and Steve Van Zandt in Spain, where Damon had no idea who Steve was. And when he saw Steve onstage said, “Wow, Bruce must be a big Sopranos fan.” Bruce laughed and shook his head.

  “That’s funny,” he said. “I just sit around watching TV, and if I see somebody I like I say, ‘Find out if this guy plays an instrument. I’m thinking of putting him in the band.’ ”

  We flew on through the night while most of America slept. Sometimes when I’m at home and I awaken during the night, I wonder if the band is on a jet somewhere in the world going to or coming from a show somewhere. Clarence calls the people who tag along on these trips clingons, and I guess I’d been one of them. I was reporting on what was happening and I could tell myself that I had a higher purpose, but in fact I was just lucky to be Clarence’s friend.

  “We have just exploded into the air,” said Bruce over the plane’s intercom, just after touchdown in Newark.

  “I just want to thank everybody, starting with the captain and crew here, and everybody on board for a fantastic show and a fantastic tour. I want all of you to get a lot of rest ’cause I know you’re all exhausted. Plus, I’ve booked us another show in two days.”

  He got off first, then stood at the bottom of the stairs to greet and thank everybody on the plane for taking this journey with him. I was with C, and I watched as he and Bruce hugged.

  “You were there for me night after night after night,” said Bruce.

  “And I’ll be there again,” said Clarence.

  It was four o’clock in the morning in New Jersey. It was the end of the ride home. The scene was surreal, with the lights from a nearby hangar illuminating the tarmac where this truly motley crew milled about next to the plane surrounded by more trucks and vans and the one big limo. It was the end of a long, long trip. This, the most recent segment of it, started a year ago, but the journey itself was much older. This was the culmination of decades of travel and music and friendship and money and fame and joy and pain. This was one of those points in time where you stop to catch your breath and maybe look around to see how far you’ve come. Maybe even risk looking back a little and then, if you’re not too scared, ahead.

  Marathon Key, Florida

  Clarence

  I sat on the back deck of my house and looked out over the Gulf of Mexico. Victoria was in the house getting ready to go out for the evening. The plan was to eat and then find a little bar somewhere with live music where I could sit in and play. The horn was in its case by the front door. I always sat here between tours and surgeries and hurricanes. I had just returned from Atlanta where I laid down the horn tracks for the new album, to be called Working on a Dream.

  When I walked into the studio Bruce seemed thrilled to see me, and you could sense his excitement about the new music.

  It was like the old days. Just the two of us in the studio. Of course, we’ve had a lot of practice and it didn’t take as long.

  In fact, I completed my part on six songs in one day. Bruce sat in the booth behind Brendan O’Brien and listened and smiled. Somehow we communicated once again in our unique way through music.

  I loved the new stuff. It was amazing… fantastic. It was still rock and roll but so much more complex musically. He’d done it again.

  In two days, I was going to leave for New York and the first of the knee replacement operations. I wouldn’t be back here until sometime near the end of November. The rehab process would be slow and difficult. It would be good to look at this knee shit in my rearview mirror. I knew that it would eventually make my life better.

  I miss Danny. I miss him every day.

  Back in the day, we were on the road in Boston. Bruce, Danny, and I were sleeping in an attic that had some beds in it. It was a house that belonged to Jim Cretecos’s mother. We were working a place called Paul’s Mall, opening for David Bromberg. He had this song called “Red Haired Boy,” and we had this red-haired roadie named Danny Gallagher who was convinced that David was making fun of him. Danny was going to kick his ass. Bruce had to calm him down and tell him that the song wasn’t about him.

  Anyway, Mad Dog started out sleeping in the room, too, but his feet stank so much that we threw him out. He went downstairs and slept on the couch. He snored like a motherfucker, too.

  So we were up there and Danny w
as asleep. Side note: nobody could sleep like Danny. We had this tour bus once with bunks in it. We went around a corner, and Danny fell out of the upper bunk and landed on the floor—and didn’t wake up. He just lay on the floor, snoring.

  Back to the story. Bruce and I lay there bullshitting. As I said before, Bruce could tell these amazing stories. Ghost stories and shit like that. He was really, really good at it. So he was telling some story, when all of a sudden Danny bolted upright like he was possessed. His eyes were wide open like saucers. We were terrified. Then he said, “Chevy coma soma doma!!” and fell back down, out like a light. Bruce and I just looked at him. We were scared shitless. And then we started laughing.

  Throughout all the years since then, we’d repeat that phrase. It became like a secret language. I’d be talking to Bruce and before he’d hang up, he’d say, “chevy coma soma doma” and laugh. Danny always claimed that he knew what it meant. That some secret had been revealed to him in his sleep.

  I went to Danny near the end. It was the last time I saw him alive. I was hoping that I could make him laugh, so I asked him what it meant. I told him that this was his last chance to share the secret. He just smiled. He didn’t tell me.

  I plan to ask him again when I see him.

  Looking Back from Islamorada

  Clarence

  A book?” said Jimmy Buffett. “You can’t write a book. You’re a musician!”

  We were in the bookstore on the side of the road in the Keys, where Jimmy was signing copies of his latest book.

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I forgot.”

  “Stick to what you know,” said Jimmy, signing another copy. “Play the horn and keep your mouth shut. Don’t make waves.”

  “That’s good advice,” I said.

  “Damn right it’s good advice,” said Jimmy.

  “How come you didn’t follow it?”

  “I’m exceptional,” said Jimmy. “See, I can do the whole music thing but I also have a literary bent. So much so that I say things like ‘literary bent’ in casual conversation.”