Big Man, Big Loss

October 31, 1984.

The greatest night of my life.

I was 17.

And for four hours that night, I was in heaven.

I didn’t know it when I got there.

I didn’t know much when I got there.

But when I left.

My life was changed.

Forever.

I had become a man.

Thanks to Bruce Springsteen.

And the E Street Band.

At the LA Sports Arena.

It was my first Bruce show.

I had a chance to see Bruce in concert in 1981.

When I was 14.

But I passed.

Young and stupid.

I really didn’t know much about Bruce in 1981.

In fact, I didn’t know much about him until 1983.

That’s the year I walked into my 11th Grade English Class.

And on the first day, we learned about poetry.

My teacher handed us two pieces of paper.

On one sheet was a poem titled “Jungleland.”

On the other was a poem titled “Born to Run.”

I was well aware of Born to Run before he handed me the paper.

But I didn’t know the words.

Sure I would sing the song.

When I heard it on the radio.

But other than the first line or two.

The rest was mumbles.

I had no idea what the song said.

And I certainly had no idea what it meant.

To so many people.

After we were done reading the words on the paper.

My teacher brought out his cassette player.

And played us the poem in its natural form.

A song.

I had heard Born to Run before.

Many times before.

But never had I actually HEARD the song before.

The words.

The meaning.

It was incredible.

Jungleland was a different story for me.

I knew nothing about it.

I don’t think I had ever listened to a nine minute song before.

In its entirety.

But that day we did.

All nine minutes.

And 38 seconds.

From the opening keystrokes on the piano.

This was like no song I had ever heard.

It took me to a place I had never been.

And I didn’t want to leave.

The passion with which Bruce sang was unmatched by any artist I listened to at the time.

Or since.

And the music surrounding the lyrics was the definition of perfection.

About four minutes in, we heard something you don’t hear in a rock n’ roll song.

A sax solo.

Not just any sax solo.

This was the “Big Man.”

Clarence Clemons.

At the time that didn’t mean much to me.

I had no idea who Clarence was.

I had barely heard of the E Street Band.

But I realized quickly this was no ordinary band.

And Clemons was no ordinary sax player.

But listening to the music was one thing.

Seeing it in person was something else.

I have been blessed to see a lot of concerts.

Literally hundreds of them.

Many great ones.

Many not-so great.

But there is no concert like a Bruce Springsteen concert.

I knew that the first time I saw him.

October 31, 1984.

Back then he was playing four hours.

Every night.

But Bruce is 61 now.

And he is clearly slowing down.

His show I saw last year was “only” three hours.

But every night he gives you everything he’s got.

And so does his band.

A band that has pianos and guitars.

Keyboards and drums.

And the signature sax.

The sax of the big man.

6-foot-4 big.

250 pounds big.

The chemistry between Bruce and his band is special.

The chemistry between Bruce and Clarence.

Is perfect.

Was perfect.

Clarence died yesterday.

After a massive stroke.

For millions of Bruce fans around the world.

This is the day that the music died.

Bruce and Clarence were friends.

They were colleagues.

They were band mates.

They were what made me love music.

And poetry too.