Goodbye to the Big Man: Clarence Clemons

I’ve been listening to Born to Run in the car for the past couple of days as a sort of tribute to Clarence Clemons who passed away last week.   I played the album for my daughters who are sadly never going to get to see the E Street Band in all its glory, but last night one of them stayed in the car with me even after we arrived home so that she could finish listening to the album’s title track.  I consider this a mild victory as a parent, and one The Big Man would no doubt be proud of.

The album’s opening song, “Thunder Road,” arguably one of the greatest songs to open an album, reminds me of a Rock ‘n’ Roll History Class I attended at the Berklee College of Music back the fall of ’87.  One morning we watched a film that included a live version of “Thunder Road,” and when Bruce sung the words, “Well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk,” about half of the large class – many of them guitarists who spent hours playing harmonic minor scales at 180 beats per minute – broke out into laughter.  Such was the snobbery that underlay the school in the 80s.  Jazzheads mocked rockheads, and rockheads mocked rock ‘n’ rollers who didn’t play like Steve Vai. 

Since those days, I’ve heard many horn players scoff at Clarence Clemons’s chops in the same way, as if they can’t believe that such a hack managed to make the big time.

But I would argue that Clarence made his mark in ways other saxophonists could only dream of.  Clemons had a signature sound, filled with all the force and majesty required for a band that explored the themes of restlessness, disillusionment and redemption.  The E Street Band didn’t need virtuosos.  It needed members with power, presence and – perhaps most importantly – personality.  Clarence provided all three.  It was a match made in heaven, and there’s something to be said for playing distinctively, if not masterfully.  Clarence’s sound was indisputable. 

Even Bruce, despite the young guitarists’ mockery of his skills so many years ago, played ably enough to do exactly what the song required.  His solo during Jungle Land is just melodic enough to build the instrumental section into the bridge.  Nothing more, and nothing less.  A crazy finger-tapping solo would have sounded absurd.

Whatever Bruce Springsteen does in the future, I doubt he’ll ever tour with a band that calls itself The E Street Band again.  Sadly, that chapter’s over now.  I got to see them in ’84 at the height of their popularity, during the first (and preferred) leg of the “Born in the USA” tour, and again in ’99 during the E Street Band’s reunion.  Both concerts rank right up there with the best I’ve ever seen.

Even after hundreds of listens, there’s a verse from “Thunder Road” that never fails to give me chills:

There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away

They haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned out Chevrolets

They scream your name at night in the street

Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet

Name a popular artist today who can get away with lyrics like that.  And then when The Big Man takes over a few lines later, it’s pure pop magic.  Rock ‘n’ roll bliss.

Wherever you are, Clarence, keeping blowing away.  You will be missed.

Joining the 21st Century: My First Cell-phone

Technology has a way of making itself indispensable.   Perceived conveniences are quickly converted into perceived necessities (recently highlighted by the power outages we experienced this week: “You mean we can’t watch the baseball game tonight?!). 

Six years ago I still had dial-up Internet access and checked my e-mail maybe twice daily.  Now I sometimes check twice within the same minute.

In 2006, a friend of mine introduced me to a website called YouTube to show me a slide-splittingly funny skit from Sacha Baron Cohen’s character, Ali G.  Within six months or so, I was visiting YouTube nearly every day, and by now it’s so ingrained into my daily usage, I’d be hard-pressed to do without it. 

And now I’ve really joined the 21^st Century by purchasing my first cell-phone, nearly two decades after my father purchased his first mobile phone.  Yes, I was apparently the last man in America without one, and my daughters were unquestionably the last 13 year-olds on the planet without this All-Important-Basic-Right-Of-Every-Man-Woman-And-Child. 

My aversion to owning a cell phone over the years were met with a variety of responses:  one friend resorted to calling me Ted Kaczynski (known in most circles as the Unabomber).  Others were simply dumbfounded that I could function without one. 

“How do people contact you?”

“They call me at home when I’m at home.  Just like they did with you ten years ago.”

 “What if there’s an emergency and someone needs to contact you and you’re not at home?”

“Then they’ll have to call someone else.”

“How do you talk to people when you’re not at home?”

My flippant response was typically, “I don’t really want to talk to anybody anyway,” figuring that characterizing myself as a misanthrope would end the questions. 

But in truth, I just didn’t want to be tied to yet another piece of technology that I was living without quite comfortably.

I never wanted a cell-phone.  I couldn’t stand the moms who walked down the aisles of Target talking loudly to friends about personal issues.  Couldn’t stand the guy at the park who couldn’t tear himself away from his phone long enough to watch his son go down the slide.  Didn’t like my wife glued to her Blackberry when we were on a trip.

That all changed last year when a few logistical mix-ups with my daughters led to elevated blood pressure and unnecessary outburst by yours truly.  After negotiating with the girls about the issue for a while, last December I purchased three cell-phones with unlimited texting, one for each of us.

Expectedly, within a short six months, I have become tethered to the little beast. 

I love it.  I’m not crazy about talking on the cell-phone – the quality is poor and I don’t like being interrupted – but texting has now become a way of life, and though my fingers go at about half the speed of my girls’, I now send upwards of a dozen texts a day, more if there are logistical issues with the kids.  Now I can finally get a response from my wife while she’s tied up at meetings.  In January, I was able to give my daughter highlights of the Packers/Falcons playoff game while she was at a party.  And I’ve been able to keep in touch in a fun, quick way with friends.

In short, I’m now addicted to yet another electronic device.  Add it to the list.  Hell, I even caved last year and joined Facebook. 

What’s next?  I figure my next holdout is using Groupon.

“You haven’t used Groupon?  How do you shop?!!”

I’ll get there.  Just give me a few years to judge your addictions first before they become mine.

Exorcist Essay radio broadcast on 89.7 WUWM Milwaukee

Press play to listen to my essay broadcasted on 89.7 WUWM's Lake Effect program on June 20, 2011.

June 20, 2011 Still Haunted: The Exorcist 31 Years Later

Paul Heinz

Still Haunted: The Exorcist Thirty-One Years Later

Recently, I saw a man dressed like Johnny Depp’s Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland.  He had the white makeup, the frizzy orange hair and the oversized bow tie, and looked kind of creepy, but not nearly as creepy as a different image the costume jolted from my memory: that of Linda Blaire as the possessed girl in The Exorcist, a film regularly voted as the scariest movie of all-time.  You’ll get no argument from me.  I haven’t seen the film in over thirty-one years, but I’m still afraid of ouji boards, furniture that moves inexplicably and pea soup. 

For reasons I can’t quite understand, CBS chose to air an edited version of the 1973 thriller on primetimeTV in February of 1980.  I was eleven, and edited or not, the horrific images I witnessed on our 19-inch Sony scarred my little brain enough to haunt my dreams for the next three decades.  I still can’t think about the movie without feeling like Satan is nipping at my heels.  My sister, who had watched the movie two doors down at a friend’s house, was so terrified to come home that night, my mother had to stand on our front porch and shout out, “It’s okay, Ellyn.  I’m right here.  You’re almost home!”

I’d first been made aware of The Exorcist when I was six.  My family lived in Menomonee Falls, and the nearby Victory Drive-in Theater on Lisbon Road was showing the film uncut, in all its devilish glory, which was fine for those who chose to pay their hard-earned money on a two-hour fright fest, but not so fine for the unfortunate residents of nearby Honeysuckle Lane and – get this – the eerily named Blair Lane (talk about omens!).  These two roads bordered the back property of the drive-in theater, which meant that families who stepped outside to enjoy a warm summer evening were instead greeted with a giant possessed girl’s spinning head and projectile vomit – all from the comfort of their own backyards. 

I imagine parents tucking in their children that summer saying, “Sleep tight.  And whatever you do, don’t look out your window.”  Had I lived in one of those homes, I’d probably be reading this essay to you from an asylum. 

Why my mother allowed me to watch such a disturbing film is a topic probably best left for my therapist, but in my mother’s defense, I should come clean and admit that even though I was petrified after watching The Exorcist on that Tuesday back in 1980, that didn’t stop me the following night from watching the network debut of a different movie.  You guessed it.  The Exorcist II.