RIP Clarence Clemons, Saxophonist for Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band

Clarence Clemons dies of complications from stroke
By Tris McCall/The Star-Ledger

Clarence Clemons, who has died, performs at Giants Stadium in this 2003 file photo.
Clarence Clemons — the Big Man with the big horn — died today of complications from a stroke he suffered last weekend. He was 69 years old.
He was the spirit of the E Street Band, and the oaken staff that Bruce Springsteen leaned on. There have been many charismatic figures in the band, but none had the personal gravity of Clarence Clemons, the group’s Bunyanesque saxophonist.
Springsteen himself acknowledged this, always introducing Clemons last at concerts and adopting a reverential attitude uncommon among rock stars. It’s Clemons’ big shoulder that Springsteen was looking over lovingly on the famous cover of his "Born to Run" album. As his bandleader beamed at him, Clemons, black-hatted and bold, turned toward the camera and blew his sax.
Clemons seemed to be a character out of a storybook — or better yet, a widescreen movie about the triumph of a romantic gang of rock ’n’ roll renegades. Wildly popular among fans of the E Street Band, he was the sort of larger-than-life figure to whom legends accrued. Recognizing this, Clemons and Springsteen did much to play up those legends: "Big Man: Real Life and Tall Tales," Clemons’ 2009 autobiography written with Don Reo, combined genuine reflections with fiction in an attempt to capture the mythical quality of the musician.
Springsteen’s oft-told story of his initial meeting with Clemons felt Biblical: with a lightning storm raging outside, the Big Man tore the door off an Asbury Park club, strode onstage, and made magic. (Springsteen would later immortalize this meeting in "Tenth Avenue Freeze-out," a song on "Born to Run.")
Was this embellished? Most likely. But reality never seemed quite big enough to accommodate Clarence Clemons.
"Mere facts," wrote Bruce Springsteen in the preface to Clemons’ book, "will never plumb the mysteries of the Big Man."
Born in Norfolk, Va., Clemons was the son of a Baptist minister who had no love for raucous rock ’n’ roll. But at the age of 9, his family gave young Clarence an alto saxophone — and soon he discovered his lung power was formidable.


By young adulthood, he excelled at music and athletics and earned a football scholarship to the University of Maryland Eastern Shore. Injuries suffered in a car accident prevented the young lineman from trying out for the Cleveland Browns. From then on, Clemons dedicated himself to his horn.
Clemons called his instrument "a vehicle to move my spirit around."
"I don’t think it’s only my saxophone," Clemons told All Access Magazine in 2008, "it’s who I am. My spiritual guide … told me that my purpose in life was to bring joy into the world. He didn’t know about my music, he didn’t know who I was. He saw my heart, he saw my soul, and he saw my determination for this life."
On the tenor saxophone, Clemons developed a style that was considerably more than the sum of his influences: party-ready King Curtis, brassy Junior Walker, skronking Earl Bostic. Clemons could be tough, raspy and percussive, but as a carrier of melody, his shoulders were broad.
After playing with a number of Asbury Park outfits in the early ’70s, Clemons joined the as-yet-unnamed E Street Band in 1972. Along with bassist Gary Tallent, drummer Vini Lopez, organist Danny Federici, pianist Dave Sancious and Springsteen himself, Clemons was an original member of the group.
He was also the oldest, and it’s no exaggeration to suggest he was often treated as the in-house big brother. His saxophone became a pillar of the E Street sound, and helped anchor Springsteen’s storytelling in blues, jazz and gospel traditions.
"That night we first stood together," said Springsteen of Clemons during his Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction speech in 1999, "I looked over at C and it looked like his head reached into the clouds. And I felt like a mere mortal scurrying upon the earth, you know. But he always lifted me up. Way, way, way up. Together we told a story of the possibilities of friendship, a story older than the ones that I was writing and a story I could never have told without him at my side."
Clemons’ solos on songs like "Jungleland" and "Born to Run" were quintessential rock ’n’ roll sax rides — things of beauty and drama unmatched by efforts of thousands of imitators. But Clemons also took his support role seriously. On "Spirit in the Night," his graceful passages were part of a thick tapestry of sound. On "Hungry Heart," the E Street Band’s first Top 10 hit, his baritone sax tugged at the bottom of the track like taffy on the sole of a sneaker.

That wasn’t the only time Clemons swapped his trademark tenor for a baritone. In the early ’70s, he kept another tool in his shed: a lilting soprano saxophone; on more recent tours, he covered the top end with a pennywhistle. Reeds weren’t all he did — with the E Street Band, Clemons also proved himself an able percussionist and an enthusiastic backing vocalist, too.
With his instantly identifiable tone and passion for all varieties of popular music, Clemons was often in demand as a session musician. When E Street activities slowed in the ’80s and ’90s, Clemons had no difficulty finding work. He played on scores of records, including Aretha Franklin’s "Who’s Zooming Who," Twisted Sister’s "Come Out and Play" and Roy Orbison’s comeback "King of Hearts." In 1989, he joined the inaugural version of Ringo Starr’s All-Starr Band, where his charismatic stage presence and playful attitude fit in perfectly.
When Lady Gaga attempted to resurrect the glory of ’80s stadium rock on her recent album "Born This Way," she called in Clemons.
"The universe is there to give you what you want," Clemons told All Access about his multifaceted success. "You just need to be there to get it."
Clemons also released five solo albums under his own name. "Hero," a 1985 set produced by Narada Michael Walden, gave him a hit duet (with Jackson Browne): "You’re a Friend of Mine," a song, ironically, about the relationship between Clemons and Springsteen. Even on his solo sets, the sax player could not elude the shadow of the Boss.
For two years, Clemons operated Big Man’s West, a rock venue in Red Bank that became something of a clubhouse for the E Street team and affiliated acts. Springsteen himself appeared at Big Man’s close to 20 times. Although the club closed its doors for good in 1983 for financial reasons, its existence helped revive the Shore sound. Many of the musicians who’d rock the Garden State (and beyond) during the late ’80s took the stage at Big Man’s, including Jon Bon Jovi and John Eddie.
Stone Pony founder Butch Pielka warned the saxophonist about the perils of running a rock club.
"He offered me some advice in the beginning, like, ‘Get out of the business,’ " Clemons told The Star-Ledger this year. "My accountant agreed with him: ‘Just consider that you had a party for two and a half years, and invited all your friends, and you picked up the tab.’ That’s what it was like."
Clemons’ celebrity never quite faded. But in recent years, a series of debilitating ailments kept him out of the limelight. The Big Man was felled by multiple spinal surgeries and knee replacements. Undeterred, he continued to blow from his wheelchair. ("He’s always on time, he’s always in pain," wrote Don Reo in "Big Man.")
The musician lived long enough to see "Who Do I Think I Am?," a documentary about his life, air at the Paramount Theatre in his beloved Asbury Park this April. Hobbled by his health problems, he nevertheless took the stage at the Paramount and answered questions and signed autographs, smiling all the while.
Under the stagelights, surrounded by those who loved him, Clemons was in his element. Pushing 70, he rehabbed hard, hoping for a chance to join the E Street Band on tour in 2012.
He told Rolling Stone magazine in February that as long as he had a mouth, a brain and a pair of hands, he would keep on playing. Nobody who saw Clemons perform would ever have doubted it: his dedication was total. The saxophone was a conduit for his spirit, he assured us, and that spirit was a colossus.
Far beyond the boardwalks of Asbury Park, those big notes will keep echoing.