Archive for the ‘Music’ Category

Empty Sky

Posted: September 11, 2011 by Bill Gauthier in Memoir, Music, Politics, Radio, TV
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Into the Fire

The sky was falling and streaked with blood
I heard you calling me then you disappeared into the dust
Up the stairs, into the fire
Up the stairs, into the fire
I need your kiss, but love and duty called you someplace higher
Somewhere up the stairs into the fire

I wasn’t there. I didn’t know anybody who was there.

But I was there. I saw it all.

On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was supposed to wake up at 4 AM. This was nothing new, I’d been doing so for close to a year now. It was my intention to be a writer and, while I was a stay-at-home dad, I found out that childcare was very busy work and writing didn’t figure into it at all. So I trained myself to get up before everyone else. This morning, for some reason, that didn’t work out. I woke up closer to six, made myself a cup of tea (I didn’t drink coffee), and shambled into my office. My life in 2001 wasn’t great, although the day before had been pretty good.

September 10th. Mondays were my wife’s day off (she’s my ex-wife now) from the veterinary clinic where she worked and we’d had a decent day. Our minivan, a Dodge Caravan that I loathed, needed some work and the dealership gave us a rental for free. The fact that my wife’s grandmother worked at the dealership probably helped that. It was a Dodge Stratus that we got, which we both fell in love with. Within a year, we’d trade the minivan for a Stratus, and within two years, I’d get one of my own. That Monday, we went to the Silver City Galleria in Taunton in the morning, in the afternoon I had an appointment with my gastroenterologist. I sat in the waiting room with a copy of the novel I was reading, Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. I had a colostomy bag that we were preparing to remove. Some weird guy kept coming into the small waiting room (now my doctor is in a big building, back then, it was a small building) and I kept imagining the guy was going to begin shooting people, or blow himself up.

Calm yourself, I thought. It’s just you’re overactive imagination again.

Shit like that happens, I argued.

I saw my doctor with no issues. Things like people walking into a waiting room with guns blazing or with a bomb strapped to them really happened, but not today.

So Tuesday morning, the good day was still in my head. Things were troubled, though. I had the surgery coming up in November, and the three-bedroom apartment that was owned by my wife’s distant family had been sold. The new landlord wanted us out but what could two people in their early-twenties, with little money and a three-year-old find easily? Luckily, the week before, we’d found a shitty little one-bedroom that we could use for a two-bedroom, and the landlord seemed willing to rent to us. Still, the stress it was causing, as well as the overall unhappiness I was feeling in the marriage. My writing career was nearly non-existent, with only two small publications under my belt. Unhappiness, overall, but there was still some happiness. My ex and I still had good days, my two best friends and I were working on a comic book together, and I had my daughter.

I sipped my tea, put the cup down, and checked my e-mail, maybe went on the web. I really can’t remember. I began writing at 6:30. I read what I’d written on the novel I was working from two days before. Six pages. I made small changes, a word here, a sentence there. The novel was about a slave family and their former owners, and was to span from the 1860s, when a slave escapes due to an uprising on the plantation and the dark deal he makes to a mysterious stranger, to the present, following the two families and the supernatural curse they both share. I was nothing if not ambitious. I began writing fresh copy. Back then, 2,000 words–or ten pages–were what I strived for in a session. On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I got 800. Four pages. And those came with difficulty. I averaged about 1,000 words per hour, so two hours took me to my goal. On this day, it took me just over an hour to get four bloody pages, and I remember not being happy with them. Who knew why?

Eventually, my wife got up and so did my daughter. The day was to look like this: My wife was going to take the rental car back to the dealership and pick up the minivan. Before heading there, she was going to drop by my parents’ apartment house, start the laundry we had, and then bring the car in. On the way back, she was going to go back to the laundry, switch it from washer to dryer, and then come home. I’d take her to work for around noon and come back home with my daughter. Around five o’clock, Courtney and I would go to my parents until it was time for my wife to get out of work. We’d go pick her up and go back home. I’d be in bed around nine or so, ready to get up at four the next morning.

That was how it was supposed to go.

As my wife was getting ready, we had The Today Show on. I brought the trash outside to the curb. The sky was blue and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. A plane flew overhead and I looked up, smiling. I can’t get away from the New Bedford Regional Airport. I grew up near it, and ten years ago, I lived right on one of the flight paths. This single engine plane flew overhead and I thought, Someday I’ll have to go on one of those. I’d never flown, but on the beautiful late-summer morning, it seemed like something to put on the top of my To Do List.

Back inside, eating my morning cereal, I was watching Today with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer. They had their outside shots of the crowd outside and I thought, Damn, I have to go back to New York. I hadn’t been since I saw The Late Show with David Letterman in August 1995 and it was high time for a return. I took out the schedule I’d printed from the bus station I worked at on weekends. I decided that I would mention it to my two best friends, Toby and Jorj, when they came over to work on our comic book that Friday.

My wife and daughter left and I shut off the TV, and went back into the office. I was surfing the web and not paying attention to much. Time passed. At around nine o’clock, the backdoor opened and I jumped, not expecting my wife to back already.

“Oh my god,” she said. “You’re not watching the news?!”

“No,” I said. That was ridiculous. She knew that the TV stayed off when I was alone. The internet had become my drug of choice.

“The radio said that a plane crashed into the World Trade Center!”

I stood up and came out of my room. “What? The World Trade Center? In New York?”

“Yeah,” she said, rushing into the living room.

“Where’s Courtney?” I asked, close behind.

“In the car,” she said. “I still have to bring the car back, but when we got back into the car after starting the laundry, the radio said a plane crashed into the World Trade Center. I had to see it.”

She turned the TV back onto Today and I saw the Twin Towers, both of them ablaze, one with a giant plume of fire coming off it.

“It looks like they’re both on fire,” I said. I’d been thinking that a small plane, like the one I saw just an hour before, with a really inept pilot had made a major blunder. Earlier that summer, a paraglider had attempted to fly over the Statue of Liberty but had become stuck on the torch.

“Maybe the fire jumped from one building to the other,” she said.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “Those towers look close on TV but they’re pretty far apart.”

What neither of us had noticed in the few seconds that it took for us to have that dialogue after she turned on the TV was that no one was talking on the television.

Matt Lauer fixed that. “Um…uh…it appears a…second plane has just crashed into the World Trade Center.”

We looked at each other.

Things were different.

The Rising

Can’t see nothin’ in front of me
Can’t see nothin’ coming up behind
I make my way through this darkness
I can’t feel nothin’ but these chains that bind me
Lost track of how far I’ve gone
How far I’ve gone, how high I’ve climbed
On my back’s this sixty pound stone
On my shoulder’s a half-mile of line

Come on up for the rising
Com on up, lay your hands in mine
Come on up for the rising
Come on up for the rising tonight

She went back out with Courtney to finish the errands, radio on. I sat down. I watched. At some point they came home. I watched. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. You know what happened, you were there, too.

As the events unfolded, and one horror became another, I watched TV, mesmerized. What was there to say? I didn’t know anyone in New York back then. No one I knew was supposed to be flying anywhere from Boston or anywhere else. I knew no one in Washington D.C. back then. All I could do was watch. I’ll never forget the wide New York streets filled with firefighters walking toward the Twin Towers, and not long afterward, the first tower’s collapse. Soon, they went back to that street, and it was vacant but for the dust and the reporter (I feel like it was Anne Curry, but I might be wrong), and a few firefighters stumbling back, blood trickling down their faces, looking lost, vacant. I’ll never forget when the first tower fell, the way Matt Lauer interrupted a conversation he was having with Tom Brokaw to report that it appeared a piece of one of the towers had just fallen off. Even as it was happening, it seemed inconceivable that the entire building would come down.

I distinctly thought of people hiding in the bushes, waiting for unsuspecting passersby such as myself, my wife, my daughter, to come out and shoot us, or cut our throats.

I wish I could say I was surprised by the attacks, but I’d been hearing and reading reports all summer of Osama Bin Laden’s threats toward the United States. People seemed to think he was serious. On CNN, not two weeks or so before, I’d seen a special on the Taliban and Al Qaida, and I worried.

Nah, I thought. They’ll never get to us. They’ll never cause harm. Our government will be on top of it.

They’d tried before, though, right? Back in 1993. I remembered the people leaving the World Trade Center with their little soot mustaches after they’d blown up a van in the in parking garage.

But I knew, the law of averages dictated that sooner or later one of Them–the Outsider, the Enemy, the Ones Who Hated Us–would launch an attack and succeed. One needn’t be a rocket scientist to know that. Shit, one only had to pick up some of the Tom Clancy brick-turds to see that he thought it was plausible, and considering I learned how to operate a Russian submarine thanks to the 100 or so pages of The Hunt for Red October I could get through, that meant something. So how come our government wasn’t ready? It wasn’t like Oklahoma City where there was that “homegrown terrorist” who could possibly fly under the radar. This was from outside. Was it because George W. Bush had been in office for nine months and had taken several vacations already? Was it that the FBI, CIA, Clarice Starling, the JLA, JSA, and the Avengers weren’t talking to one another? What? How?

But it happened. The two planes into the Twin Towers. The plane into the Pentagon. The Towers destroyed. Fuckin’ destroyed. And the people. I remember watching the 9/11 Jumpers (as they have become known as) as they decided (some say, which I tend to agree with for most of the people) that they would not be taken, that they would go themselves. One last Fuck You to the People Who Did This. There was also the plane down in the field in Pennsylvania, reportedly passengers who decided to thwart the terrorists themselves, “Let’s roll.”

The horrors. I cried many times that day. At one point, Courtney asked, “Daddy, why are you crying?”

“Because some bad men did some terrible things,” I told her.

She didn’t understand. I looked into her deep, brown eyes, at her chubby little cheeks. She was so smart. So beautiful. How could I explain this to a three-year-old? How did I explain it to her as she got older? Why did I need to? Because. The world had changed. We had changed.

At least for that day.

Empty Sky

I woke up this morning
I could barely breathe
Just an empty impression
On the bed where you used to sleep
I want a kiss from your lips
I want an eye for an eye
I woke up this morning to an empty sky

That afternoon I checked the mail. In the front hall was an envelope without a stamp from the Bristol County Sherriff’s Department. It was an eviction notice. We realized why the new landlord hadn’t cashed the last few rent payments. The motherfucker. I wish my ex and I had had enough brains back then to cancel those uncashed checks. The fucker would’ve deserved that. But the letter seemed rather insignificant compared to the events that had transpired that morning. After all, we were safe. Our friends were safe.

Courtney and I went to my parents with the radio on. We watched the news at my parents. At eight, I picked up my wife and went home. I watched more. My wife and Courtney went to bed. I stayed up watching the news. How could I sleep when there might be more of Them out there? I heard silence outside. The planes going and leaving the New Bedford Regional Airport, a place my father used to bring me with a bag from the nearby McDonald’s to watch planes take off and land, were grounded.

I turned off the TV and went to bed at one o’clock that night.

The days and weeks following are a blur of the surreal and the tragic.. On September 12th, I remember seeing on the TV something going down in Boston at the Prudential Center and the Westin Hotel and watching it. What I didn’t know then was that I may have caught a glimpse of my future-wife in the crowd. Pamela worked at Copley Place in Boston and was on lunch when the buildings were evacuated. Of course, it was nothing. Same thing happened on a train. I eventually finished American Gods and began the second collaboration of Stephen King and Peter Straub, Black House, which came out days after the terrorist attacks. I soon hit my own corridor of death during this period as people I knew lost grandparents and parents. I had surgery in November. One of my best friends disappeared as he married a woman who hated me and didn’t want him doing anything with anyone. There was good, though, too. My best friend met his future wife.

Time passed.

Ten years passed. A lot has happened to me. I went back to college, my writing career truly began, my marriage dissolved, I fell in love and fell out of it, I met Pamela and fell in love (this time for good) and moved to Boston until the economy dived and she lost her job. I began working at a school, first as a sub, then as a teaching assistant, and finally as a teacher. A lot has happened to this country. Bush used 9/11 as an excuse to wage war on a country that had no ties to the tragedy. We found ourselves embroiled in two wars, siphoning out money at a ridiculous rate and he was re-elected to do more damage that even the smarter, wiser new President is having a difficult time fixing. Our economy nosedived. A lot has happened to this world. Many countries that were allies fell to the wayside between 2003 and 2009, some still haven’t answered our calls. War has torn up the Middle East and terms like sleeper cells, Al Queda, and many others have become part of the world’s lexicon.

You know, you’ve been there. In light of what went down in New York and D.C. that day, it seems ridiculous recounting what I went through as I’ve struggled through this memoir.

Why does it matter what you were doing? I think. You were at home with a three-year-old, you were safe.

But I didn’t know that. On that day, no one knew that. As far as anyone was concerned, there were more and varied attacks looming. My job as a writer is to capture a moment and relate it. To tell the truth. That’s what I’ve done. As the 10th anniversary of that tragic day has arrived, I don’t see what the problem is in talking about it, in relating where we were. The documentaries fascinate me. I sit in tears watching them, not wanting to continue, unable to turn away. Some of the stories I’ve heard are burned into my gray matter just as the events of that day are. I’m fascinated by it, I’m horrified by it, I’m saddened by it.

But in the midst of all that tragedy, I’m inspired by the stories of the people who survived, by the people who helped them and died helping others, and by the people who faced courage in the face of seemingly insurmountable horror.

They rose up and survived. And if they can beat that, then we can beat anything.


On September 13th, 2001, around seven o’clock, I heard the familiar buzz outside. My heartbeat quickened. A sound I’d heard all my life except for the previous two days seemed alien, menacing. I went to the window. A twin engine plane flew in toward New Bedford Regional Airport.

Tears came to my eyes. I smiled.

The sky was empty no more.


Lyrics to “Into the Fire”, “The Rising”, and “Empty Sky” written by Bruce Springsteen and appear on The Rising (Columbia, 2002).


Elvis, MTV, & the Future of Rock ‘N Roll

Posted: August 25, 2011 by Bill Gauthier in Music
Tags: , , , , ,

August 16th marked the 34th anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death. His death is a milestone for me because in a strange way: I was born eight days later. I suppose those who were born on the actual date and all of us born the week or so preceding and succeeding his death are all in the same boat on this, especially if their parents were fans. My father, born in 1941, was an Elvis fan. He wasn’t a fan in the sense that he owned every album or went to concerts or read books about the man, but when an Elvis song came on the radio, he’d listen. He liked Presley’s voice. My mother, born in 1950, did own some of Elvis’s music, but she was more of a Beatles girl than an Elvis girl. By the time she was a teenager, Elvis was already past his craze period and the British Invasion was in full swing. Still, she loved music (and still does) and to dance, and Elvis was a part of the legacy of rock ‘n roll and she knew it. The news of his death shocked them as much as it did the rest of the world. Dad went out and bought magazines, newspapers (mostly National Enquirers) in the days and weeks following Elvis’s death. (I recently received many of these papers).

The local newspaper for August 17, 1977.

I don’t know why I disregarded Elvis for so long, and am still not much of a fan. Perhaps it was natural, being part of being part of The Next Generation and all. You always think that the preceding generation’s idols are old and not worthy of your adoration. Maybe it was the history of the King of Rock ‘N Roll and his descent into (seeming) madness, wearing capes, visiting Presidents, etc., that made me disregard Elvis. Maybe it’s just that I don’t dig him. Whatever it was, I realized this past week (I’m writing the first draft of this on August 19th) that I’ve never really given Elvis a chance. The generational thing only stood up until my teenage years, when I “discovered” The Beatles and have since made many other such “discoveries,” from The Rolling Stones (Mom isn’t a fan) to the power of Motown to Billy Joel, Elton John, and (you were waiting for this) Bruce Springsteen. So that leaves the other two reasons (excuses?) on why I’ve resisted Elvis so long. So this week when I really put the subconscious to work on this (yes, I consciously put the subconscious to work) the closest to an answer I have came: I’ve grown up in the shadow of Elvis’s death and I don’t like it.

I’ve always known Elvis was dead and that he died right before my birthday. I knew that even before I knew my birthname was William! (For the first three or four years of my life, I was called Billy almost exclusively). My mother would often say, “Maybe you’re the reincarnation of Elvis.” This was silly because she doesn’t believe in reincarnation. It became even sillier because I have no musical ability whatsoever.

Alfred Wertheimer's classic photo "Going Home", 1956.

When I was sixteen or seventeen, I saw an Elvis calendar at the bookstore I worked at and the cover captured me. It was Young Elvis, and presumably taken while on the road. He’s sitting and looking at the camera. He was a good looking young man, and was young enough to still have that hungry look that people so respond to in artists. But there was something in the eyes that moved me. It was as though, on the road, maybe in the height of Elvis-mania, as he was knocking down walls of music, taking Black music and bringing it into the living rooms (and, even worse to the old folk, the bedrooms) of White teenagers of the 1950s, he knew what would happen. His eyes almost say to me that he knows his life will never be the same, for better or worse, but most likely worse.

That still didn’t get me to listen to him. To be honest, I’m really listening to him for the first time right now. I have Elvis Radio playing on my SiriusXM Internet Radio. Now, that’s not to say that I have never heard Elvis music, or even like it. I love “Jailhouse Rock.” “Hound Dog” isn’t too bad, either. I like “Are You Lonesome Tonight” and “I Can’t Help Falling In Love with You” and “Blue Christmas.” I know “Blue Suede Shoes.” Yeah, that’s probably about it. I’m finding I like his rockabilly songs.

The talk of the anniversary of Elvis’s death came from my subconscious this morning dragging with it the dying beast that is MTV. Even though I’d heard plenty of music before we got cable (like I said, my mother loves music–there was always music on in the house) the first music to turn me on was from the pop heyday of MTV.

We were one of the last people I knew who got MTV because we just didn’t have the money for cable. When we finally got it, the two channels neither Mom nor I could wait to dig into were MTV and HBO. I was about six years old. This was the time that Michael Jackson released Thriller, and in the immediate years following, MTV introduced me to Hall & Oates, Madonna, Huey Lewis and the News, Cyndi Lauper, Billy Joel, Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, The Cars, Mick Jagger, David Bowie, Tina Turner, Billy Idol, The Go-Go’s, Prince, “Weird Al” Yankovich, and others that I’ll remember after I post this. But goddamn! did MTV change things for me. All of a sudden, my mother was buying music (45s and then cassettes) that sort of interested me because I’d seen it on TV. And there was an attitude to the videos that were so…rock ‘n roll. In the post-punk early 1980s, there was a feeling that every artist on MTV, and the VJs, and whatever guests they had on (did I mention Van Halen above? No. Well, now I have) was giving a big ol’ “Fuck you!” to The Man, whomever that may be at the time.

For me, being six years old and seeing Twisted Sister yelling into the camera that they weren’t gonna take, no, they weren’t gonna take it, they weren’t gonna take it anymoooorrrre was amazing, especially since I was always in trouble at that time. Always. I was my neighborhood’s Dennis the Menace or Bart Simpson, and though my love of movies was the center of everything, the attitude that came from MTV orbited and fed me. Who needed Elvis when you had MTV?

Of course, I wasn’t aware that I was witnessing the death of rock ‘n roll radio. I wasn’t aware that I was witnessing the homogenization of music into something that only the beautiful people could do, that the radio–which was already broadcasting more and more stations with less and less programming–would begin to base their format on the slickness of MTV so it could sell more advertising. I wasn’t aware that Michael Jackson’s success would take that brand of pop music–big shows, giant dance numbers, strange costumes–and dominate popular music even nearly-thirty years later with acts like Lady Gaga and Katy Perry.

The modern pop concert includes singing, dancing, and shiny costumes.

It took a while but eventually success did to MTV what it did to Elvis. MTV had a good fifteen years where it did what it set itself up to do: play new music and introduce different forms of music. Maybe I’m giving it a gift of those last five years of the fifteen, because the introduction of the game shows and series on MTV began as early as the late-1980s, but I don’t think so. Yo! MTV Raps was instrumental in the rise of rap music and brought names like Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, Naughty By Nature, and–most importantly–Public Enemy into the living rooms of kids like me, who found something in the music that spoke to them, just as MTV helped the hair bands of the mid-80s, the metal bands that grew from there, and the grunge movement. The video for Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is actually better than the song and it helped propel what became known as alternative music (which is a bullshit name, I say. Alternative to what, precisely? It may smell like Teen Spirit, but it sounds like rock ‘n roll to me).

Of course, while video killed the radio star (c’mon, you’ve been waiting for me to fit that in since I began writing about MTV), even the monolithic power of TV couldn’t withstand the power of the next technology that would turn the media on its head and the populace further into lemmings content with whomever is spouting nonsense the loudest. With the internet not only becoming popular, but becoming more accessible with each passing moment, the way people got music changed.

But you know this. You know the power of the internet because you’re reading this.

I just replaced my old, deadish iPod with a fancy new iPod Touch. Part of the future of music.

Which leads me, finally, to the future of rock ‘n roll. My definition of rock ‘n roll is pretty similar to that of the classic Billy Joel song: It’s [all] rock ‘n roll to me. As has been the case with everything since just before 2000, the chasms between different music genres are growing. In the same way that people who like one genre of literature, one political viewpoint, one social idea, one religious belief can block out any opposing or different idea or viewpoint because in the this age of 300+ channels on TV, access to the internet, various periodicals that only deal with a single topic, lovers of a specific musical genre, or a single musician, never has to deal with The Other Stuff if they don’t want to. Terrestrial radio is so concerned about making money from ad revenue, that you essentially have pop, classic rock, R&B, hip-hop, oldies, and talk radio–which is predominantly right wing propaganda and nutcases. And commercials. So many commercials. NPR is primarily the luxury of big cities. Of course, internet radio and satellite radio are better choices for diversity. Being a subscriber to SiriusXM, I can attest to how much I love it. There are so many ways for me to hear new music in a variety of genres just by switching stations. Still, wanna know what my favorite station is? E Street Radio. Which means I listen, predominantly to Bruce Springsteen, just like I would on iTunes or my iPod (which has the SiriusXM app on it). Still, I have been adventurous and tried out other stations, like Little Steven’s Underground Garage, which could be called Rock ‘N Roll 101. It is very diverse and I’ve heard a lot of great music from that station. The Spectrum is another great station. I played the Real Jazz station the other day, too. (Since I’m dealing with music, I won’t mention the non-music stations I listen to, but I’m sure you can figure it out).

It’s in the satellite and internet radio where I think the future of rock ‘n roll lies. That and social media sites. MySpace was once good at discovering new music. Now Facebook and Twitter are pretty good. But let’s face it, the way music is listened to, and the way musicians are going to get the brass ring, are going to be different than they used to be. Record/CD sales are at an all-time low and every artist who is asked about how sales are will tell you that their income comes from performing live, rather than sales of their music.

Which makes me wonder, will there ever be another Elvis Presley? Could there be?

Not to be a Negative Nancy, but I don’t think so. I hope I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine a family sitting and listening to the same music on the radio, watching the same new star on TV, and having the way music is presented change because of that one person. We’re living in the future now, a future that seems to be paved by the plastic and silicon of technology, and I don’t know that any one person can warm that cold, artificial terrain.

The Big Man

Posted: June 29, 2011 by mediabio in Music
Tags: ,

It’s funny how things are sometimes. Bruce Springsteen has been around longer than I’ve been alive but, like everyone else, that only really registered when I became an adult. My first introduction to Springsteen and the E Street Band was when I was around six. MTV was huge and music videos were all they played, and here came this guy named Springsteen with a song called “Dancing in the Dark.” That was soon followed by “Born in the U.S.A.” and “Glory Days.” To me, these were the first songs by the man they called The Boss. Besides Springsteen, there were two people who stuck out in the band: Steven Van Zandt–who I called “the guy who looks like a pirate,” and whom my grandmother loved–and Clarence Clemons. How did I first learn Clemons’s name? I don’t remember. But the image of this big, black man with the sax who just walloped sound stuck.

Time passed. I can’t say I was a fan but I respected a lot of the music that Springsteen released over the years. It wasn’t until around 2000 when I was given a CD of Greatest Hits (1995) that I began to really listen to Springsteen, and even then, I mostly stuck to the songs I knew. I liked it enough so that when Christmas 2002 came, my ex-wife bought me The Rising. Still, it wasn’t really until 2003 that I began to walk down the (thunder) road toward fandom.

It began the summer when I realized that my first marriage was falling apart. I put on Greatest Hits to write to and up came “The River” which includes the question, “Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true or is it something worse?”

The line gave me goosebumps. It still does. I began to listen to the lyrics of Springsteen’s music. In 2005, after the separation, “Dancing in the Dark” hit me. My whole life I’d thought it was a happy song, and then I listened to the lyrics. Oh, man! And that was where I was! Around that time, having only 20 channels, I would watch a lot of PBS after I got home from the bookstore at night. (Actually, I’d spend most of my time on the internet, but would sometimes turn on the Glass Teat when I was eating my late supper). One summer night, PBS was showing Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band Live In New York. I was mesmerized by what I saw. It was also around this time that Springsteen was re-releasing Born to Run for its 30th anniversary with a new documentary, a concert from that time, and other assorted goodies. I got the set for Christmas.

That’s when I became a fan.

In the years that followed, I became more and more a member of the E Street Nation. Six years later and I still listen to Springsteen more than anything else. I’ve seen two concerts with Bruce and the band (out of three in my life–I don’t get out much). The first concert I saw was on November 18, 2007. The following night would be the last night the E Street Band’s organist Danny Federici would play a full set with the band. He left the tour to fight melanoma. He made one more appearance in 2008 and died about a month later. I was sad, but not as sad as I am today.

Springsteen with the late Danny Federici and "The Professor" Roy Bittan, November 18, 2007.

When I heard the news of Clarence Clemons’s stroke just over a week ago, I was shocked and saddened. Being the kind of person who is predisposed toward the dark, I had a bad feeling. He was 69 years old and hadn’t been in the best of health. During the week as reports came that he was recovering swifter than expected, I felt happy. Maybe he would be on stage when I got to see them for a third time, in the time known only as Someday.

On Saturday night, three days ago as I write this, I checked my Yahoo! News, something I do with an OCD-like passion, to see that Clarence Clemons had died, the news breaking only 30 minutes before my check.

My heart broke. The Big Man was gone.

In the days that have followed, there have been many people eulogizing Clarence Clemons. Yesterday I heard Howard Stern and his crew doing so, replaying some tape of prior interviews with The Big Man, including one where Clemons was trying to pick-up Stern Show sidekick Robin Quivers. I watched a video of NBC News’s Brian Williams talking about Clemons. There have been others. So many others.

Much has been written and spoken about the sound of the E Street Band being held together by Clemons’s saxophone. I won’t go into details because I don’t think I can. The sound though…goddamn! I’ve always liked the sound of the sax, but in this man’s hands…

I’ll never forget going to my second show in 2009, which was something that hadn’t been planned. My wife’s friend won VIP tickets for us and it just happened to be the day before my 32nd birthday (and one month–exactly–before Bruce’s 60th). My wife and I were sitting in VIP seats that were eye-level with those on the stage. When the pre-show music coming stopped and the crowd went crazy, the band began coming out on stage in twos. I don’t remember the exact order, but I know who came out last: Bruce and Clarence. It was obvious Clarence was in pain. They had a chair onstage for him and it looked like Bruce was helping Clarence along. Bruce kissed Clarence on the cheek and they went their separate ways.


And the entire band broke into an explosion of music that I would swear should’ve been heard throughout Massachusetts and probably even the rest of New England. They were performing “Night,” a track from Born to Run that has the sax woven throughout.

Let me tell you, that sax on record is great. In person, it’s amazing. And every time Clarence played, or did anything, the audience went nuts! When I saw them in 2007, the performed “Jungleland,” a ten-minute song with a three-minute sax solo and I nearly cried. Tears came during the solo, something that can happen while listening to the recorded version if I’m in the right mood.

Clarence wasn’t just a sax player, he was an ambassador of rock ‘n roll. Even if people didn’t know much about Springsteen or the E Street Band, they knew Clarence by sight and many even knew his name. Part of it was from doing other things, but he had a presence on stage that wasn’t just about the music, he was constantly smiling. He was an icon.

As I sit here typing, tears in my eyes, I’m listening to E Street Radio on SiriusXM. They’re replaying Sunday night’s Clarence Clemons remembrance. I’m going to cry some more today. I’m happy to have been able to see him perform twice. I have seen the original E Street Band. And, best of all, I will be able to listen to his gift forever.

R.I.P. Clarence "Big Man" Clemons


I wrote this last Tuesday, June 19th. Today, June 29th, Bruce Springsteen has posted his eulogy to Clarence. You can read it here.

So music has never been my strength in terms of keeping up with pop culture. I’ll know some names but often not the songs themselves (of course, with the comments section, you can always hip me to some new music). I knew of Katy Perry‘s first big splash with “I Kissed A Girl” and even heard the song (I love the acoustic version she performed live on The Howard Stern Show), but the sound was…well…not to my taste.

This week, someone on Facebook linked to her new song “California Gurls” and I decided to watch it. This was good, because it meant I had a MediaBio Quickie to share with you!

The song is catchy and Snoop Dogg‘s parts are good, but the things that captivated me are the story/visuals and Katy Perry.

The concept was cute and sexy and strange and funny and, and, and–




Here it is. I’m going to get myself some cotton candy. And whipped cream.