Springsteen scholars and related Backstreeters far nobler and wiser than yours truly will sound off in the coming days about the importance and grandeur of the late Clarence Clemons, the sax-blowing Big Man who, at the age of 69, died Saturday from complications related to a recent stroke. But since his blaring, soulful style has been threaded throughout my life and career, I thought it’d be best before I hit the sack (and wake up to Father’s Day) to offer a few thoughts and recollections, some more supernatural than others.

A few years ago, I had the pleasure of interviewing Clemons for the St. Petersburg Times. (You can read that story here.) He was a good guy, loyal employee, loved his Boss, and I was struck at how he refused to dish any dirt, even playfully, about the man who signed his paychecks. He was not just respectful; he was in a certain awe of Springsteen, and he wasn’t going to ding that epic relationship now to some faceless rock writer on the tinny end of yet another long-distance phone chat.

I told Clemons that the first time I ever really “heard” him play was when I was in college. My roomie, a smartass Long Island guy named Kevin, was a Springsteen freak who would spin it all 24-7-365. I remember thinking that the Big Man’s brass, on “10^th Avenue Freeze Out,” on “Jungleland,” was the very sound of rock ’n’ roll: ripping, horny, unabashed. Hot, very hot. I wound up covering a slew of Springsteen shows – including his Super Bowl stint in Tampa in 2009 – and the sound I remember from those gigs, the one that still resonates, wasn’t the singing or the drumming but that fallen-angel sax. It was edible, tangible – you could pluck the notes out of the air and take a bite.