Maybe everything that dies someday comes back

Everybody likes a good second-chance story. Especially me.

Asbury Park is smack dab in the midst of its own second-chance story, and it might be a grand one.

I was drawn there yesterday because it was a beautiful summer day and only 60 or so miles away.

Oh, and I wanted to see the Clarence Clemons memorial at the Stone Pony.

When I first went to Asbury Park so many years ago, it was fading, but still vibrant. The boardwalk was teeming, the rides rusty but operating, parking was hard to come by on a summer weekend.

But the weeds were starting to sprout unattended between the holes on the boardwalk's miniature golf course.

Over the past 25 years of so, the weeds won out. The boardwalk died. The rides were dismantled and taken to the scrap-metal graveyard. Asbury Park, or at least my romanticized image of it, went away.

Fast forward to today. That tilt-a-whirl down on the south beach drag isn't back, but there are signs of life everywhere. Shops and restaurants on the boardwalk. A mini-water park. A miniature golf course. An open Madame Marie's. And people. Hundreds on the beach, many more at the boardwalk, so many that there were lines at several of the eateries.

I met an older couple having lunch (boardwalk fries and lemonade). He was drawn to my Carolina t-shirt. Turns out he played basketball for Dean Smith for a couple of years in the early 60s. They’ve retired to Ocean Grove, a stone's throw from the boardwalk. They were delighted by Asbury Park's revival, but puzzled at what I was doing on the boardwalk all alone.

Over the past quarter century, Asbury Park has felt, lonely, deserted, and without hope. Yesterday. most of the loneliness seem to be centered near the flowers, messages and candles left in memory of Clarence Clemons that lined the outer wall of the Stone Pony.

I spend several hours walking aimlessly up and down the boardwalk, wandering.

And wondering about the power, and the possibilities, of second chances.

Teardrops on the city

One of the my favorite moments at any Springsteen/E Street show always occurred within 5 minutes of the beginning. The first song was often an anthem that allowed The Big Man to step into the spotlight for a brief solo: "Badlands," "Prove it all Night," even "Born to Run."

When that light hit Clarence Clemons, the crowd erupted and became one. It signaled the start of something very special, a communal affair where anywhere from 2,000 to 80,000 became a family and took a roller coaster ride of emotion and rock and roll salvation. Clarence Clemons and his monumental saxophone were an integral part of the greatest show in rock and roll history, and something that won't likely be seen again.

"Spotlight on the Big Man. Don't he look great? He's lost a lot of weight"
---Springsteen ad libbing the lyrics to Arthur Conley's "Sweet Soul Music," circa 1988

The last few years were not kind to Clarence Clemons physically. Struggling to move on stage, he would often only rise to play his solos, dance very slightly and then sit down.

And although that was still more than adequate, there were so many nights, so many memories:

The brilliant opening of "None but the Brave"

Playing the maracas over a bent-over-backwards Springsteen during the balls-out finale of "She's the One"

Playing the triangle (the triangle!) during the long spectacular intro of "Prove it all Night"

His powerful "there's a beautiful river" singing on the reunion tour version of "If I Should Fall Behind"

"Reviving" Springsteen, a la James Brown, during the "I'm just a prisoner of rock and roll" schtick

Chasing Springsteen around the stage with his saxophone during the uproarious "Rosalita"

Seeing him with the Red Bank Rockers in Wilkes-Barre, PA around 1982; as the lights went down he headed for the stage about 2-3 feet from us. My friend Bill McCoach started yelling: "Hey Big Man!" No response. "King of the World!" No response. "Master of the Universe!" No response. "Lean, mean sex machine!" With that Clarence stopped, looked at Bill, and said, "Right on."

"You better be good for goodness sake"

Countless nights of rock and soul perfection

The majesty that is "Jungleland"

Springsteen used to introduce Clemons with "you want to be like him but you can't."

How true. No one can, or could.

The E Street Band thrived on fellowship and camaraderie. Theirs was the sound of love, joy, of driving down a dusty beach road on that endless American night. Listening for the perfect rock and roll song on an AM radio.

And enjoying the hell out of the ride.

That ride is over, and Clarence Clemons' journey to The Promised Land likely means a stillness to the greatest rock and roll band many of us could ever hope to hear.

The secretary of the brotherhood...do I have to say his name?

Prayers for the Big Man......

Well they made that change uptown and the Big Man wrote a book

..and it's a stinker. "Big Man: Real Life & Tall Tales" was written with Don Reo. Who is Don Reo? Why, he is the mastermind behind the legendary show "Blossom" and apparently Clemons' good friend.

"Tall Tales" are the operative words here, as Clemons and Reo spin several yarns that are good stories, but essentially a waste of time and space. Why would anyone really want to read stories about fishing with Norman Mailer or a rainy evening in Texas with Dylan and Kinky Friedman?

Even if they are true (which I highly doubt), Clemons is missing a golden opportunity to give us some insight to a rock and roll experience unparalleled in our times. We learn precious little about Clemons' thoughts about being in one of the most popular and influential bands in history, nor much about Springsteen's persona or the creative process of the band.

Instead we get sex and drug-fueled escapades that, for the most part, are admitted fabrications (at least partially) -- all very strange for such a "spiritual" individual.

I would like to blame the name-dropping Reo for this mess, but Clemons is assuredly the culprit here. "Big Man" certainly didn't make me like or respect Clarence Clemons as a person very much.

Springsteen is correct when he says, "trust the art, not the artist."