The pronoun didn’t mean much to me at the time — skimming the words “Clarence” and “died” in the same sentence had already triggered a rush of adrenaline that instantly clouded my focus — and I had to read it a few times to be sure I understood; a few of us over at Blogness on the Edge of Town had angrily dismissed a single erroneous report of his death earlier in the day.

It was a gorgeous Saturday, and just a couple of hours earlier, I was enjoying the sun and salty breeze as I drove through Belmar, laughing about the boardwalk ice cream shop aptly named “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out.” Unfortunately for my parents, who I was visiting for the weekend, I spent the next many hours, through dinner, through the drive back to their house, clinging to my phone, scouring Twitter and Facebook, checking texts and emails, to learn more. What more was there to know? Clarence Clemons, The Big Man, the Master of the Universe, would never again step into the spotlight and wail on his saxophone, I’d never again shake my head and smile ear-to-ear at his and Springsteen’s juvenile stage antics, he’d never play that “Jungleland” solo that made me lean back, close my eyes and actually try to sing the melody almost every time I heard it.

Yet my maniacal need to read, and watch and listen to every article and blog post and tribute about his life or death has not subsided since Saturday. Frankly, it’s exhausting. It’s also a bit alienating to my friends who aren’t part of the E Street Nation. I can understand that; it’s not personal for them the way it is for me. As we all know, not only does taste dictate what we listen to, but so do the memories that are inexorably linked to the music. I haven’t been listening as long as many of the friends I’ve found in the online Springsteen community. It’s been a mere 15-year obsession for me, give or take. I listened in high school, when I often felt like I was on the outside looking in, no matter how many friends surrounded me. When I was a scared, painfully shy college freshman, away from the security of home for the first time. As a depressed patient, recovering from a collapsed lung and several-day coma. As a young woman, leaving the apartment I shared with my boyfriend for another unfamiliar city. As a rookie journalist alone in the newsroom, writing deadline stories in the wee hours of morning. The E Street Band always kept me company. During those and so many other tough times, I loved its tragic, mournful sound. It suited my mood. But the music always managed to feel hopeful, too, and that hope seemed buoyed by the soaring sax solos.

It was appropriate that Sue was the one to tell me. Last summer I caught a charity show in Rhode Island, where The Big Man sat in for a bit with Steve Smith & The Nakeds. I was with Sue, one of the many great people I’ve met from the online music community. She and I went back to Rhode Island a week later, to see Clarence play a longer set with Steve Smith. We watched him take control of the stage as I’d never seen him do, and unsurprisingly his verbal message matched his music: he spoke of the healing power of music and performing, of the love he’d finally found with his fifth wife, and of the love between his son and stepson, who don’t even speak the same language. And when I asked him to sign my Born to Run liner notes and pose for a photo, he happily wrapped his humongous arm around me and smiled big.

Days later, I look back at Sue’s text and it seems telling. I’ve read so many beautiful words this week, by people who surprisingly know just how I feel. That’s where the pronoun comes in. I’ve been reading the far more eloquent accounts of people who understand why this man who should have been a stranger, wasn’t. He was their friend, and mine, and Bruce’s. For 40 years, almost a decade longer than I’ve been alive, we’ve managed to share him in a way that’s profoundly personal to each of us. If we absolutely had to lose him, I’m glad we shared that, too.

At the Stone Pony last night, those moves were just the tip of the iceberg. A few songs into his nearly two-hour set, he ditched his sneakers for tap shoes and hopped on the small, rectangular wooden slab on the stage, joking afterward that he clearly has too much time on his hands. Later in the evening, he and Greg Varlotta, the other half of this fantastic acoustic duo, held a tap-off during one of Lofgren’s staples “I Came To Dance.” (If you don’t mind turning your laptop sideways, you can get the gist of his moves from video I inexpertly shot. Please note the man standing next to me whom you’ll hear screaming “Woo! Yeah, Nils!” every 30 to 60 seconds.)

But Lofgren, who donned one of his own concert T-shirts, kicked off the show on the harp, and he and Varlotta each swapped instruments all night, jockeying between an assortment of guitars, keyboards and even a trumpet. Of course, they supplemented with a few pre-recorded tracks, but my attention was focused on Lofgren, who even managed to play guitar with his teeth. Their set included favorites like “Shine Silently,” “No Mercy” and “The Sun Hasn’t Set On This Boy Yet.” He played a Grin tune (I love Grin and am shockingly blanking on which song – anyone recall?) and a killer “Because the Night” (see below) was the only nod to his E Street work. He also trotted out a few new songs, including “Miss You Ray,” dedicated to Ray Charles and the many other musician friends who have died. He expects to release the new album in the fall. Good to hear there’ll be new material coming from an E Streeter, since Lofgren said earlier this week that Springsteen still hasn’t put together the next tour.

He gave a shout-out to all the moms and dads in the packed audience, noting how difficult a parent’s journeys is, and commended their decision to leave the house. He also sent love to innumerable friends and family members in the audience – which is probably what prevented him from signing autographs after the show as planned, according to staff.

So I didn’t meet Nils, but it’s always good to meet some of the @Blogness tweeps (who kindly saved me a spot up against the stage – thanks, @girltrueheart!) at shows. Afterterward, I wandered down the street to the Wonder Bar, where I also met Barbara, who you might remember as the woman who phoned into the Sirius Q&A to ask Springsteen whether he was having a midlife crisis.

Last day at the job back in December.

In December I left my longtime job at GateHouse Media, where I was the editor of the Somerville Journal and WickedLocalSomerville. That was a tough decision to make and while I was sad to end that portion of my career, I was stoked to begin the next leg at Brandeis University. While reconciling those feelings, my family kidnapped me for our quasi-annual vacation in Florida. My parents and uncle drove up to Boston from NYC and shoved me in the clown car before pointing it south and driving through the night.

A special breakfast was required to get through that trip.

We drove to Deerfield Beach, and my brother flew in from Oregon to meet us. Once together, we alternated between throwing on sweatshirts to hit the beach and calling airlines to circumvent the blizzard that awaited us back home.

The new job has kept me busy since the start of the year. Some of what I do is only noteworthy to the Brandeis community, while other stuff would be fascinating (in my humble opinion) in any environment – from one family’s struggle to get out of Czechoslovakia during the Holocaust to how a group of college professors and administrators formed a bluegrass band, from celebrating 50 years of the Peace Corps’ and Brandeis’ mutual growth to how MySpace elucidates our friendship choices. Gone is the adrenaline rush of breaking news, but I still meet interesting people and learn about new subjects every day, which has always been the best part of being a journalist. It’s been a good move for me, and one of its many benefits is in its regular business hours, which has allowed me to partake in even more of the arts and culture that usually fills this blog (however sporadically).

Justice Brandeis weathering the storm.

I managed to sit down and write a few lines about my near-Springsteen meeting in Asbury Park a couple of months ago – how could I not? – but there’s been more.

At the Brattle Theatre, I caught a conversation between local authors Andre Dubus III and Richard Russo. They were discussing Dubus’ newly-released memoir “Townie.” Among other things, it traces Dubus’ childhood as a small, geeky kid with glasses who said things like “not necessarily” and regularly got beat up. He eventually beefed up and went through a 13-year stint doing the beating.

Russo kicked it off by praising Dubus for writing so honestly about how good violence can feel, and asked whether Dubus thinks people are predisposed to feel that way. In response, Dubus quoted Tom Waits, who will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame tonight as I write this: “There ain’t no devil, only God when he’s drunk.”

The discussion encompassed some good, meaty issues like what happens when you can’t separate art from the artist. Russo was a big admirer of Dubus III’s father. He writes of his father, a weekend dad, in the memoir, and Russo admitted he’d never read senior’s short stories the same way again. It makes you wonder whether peering behind your favorite artist’s curtains is worth the risk of losing appreciation for their art.

They also delved into the difference between truth and fact. Russo shared that after writing an essay for Granta last year, part of a larger memoir he’s working on, he asked his wife and daughter to read it. His daughter told him that a conversation he wrote about did in fact happen, but not at her wedding as he wrote, rather at the rehearsal dinner the night before. Russo admitted that he had the chance to change it before publication and opted not to. He posed the question to Debus: Do we, as writers, care about the facts?

It was an interesting story, and an even more interesting decision. I’ve always been interested in the fallibility of memory, those times when you start sharing a story and don’t realize until halfway into that it couldn’t possibly have happened the way you recall, no matter how vividly you see and hear it in your head. And those are just the times you know you’re wrong.

Dubus put it this way: Suppose he and Russo were brothers recalling the same Thanksgiving dinner. Except Russo and his girlfriend made love before dinner, whereas Dubus got dumped. Russo may later recall it was a wonderful, delicious Thanksgiving meal, but Dubus might take issue with it. Who’s right? I care about the truth, Dubus said, but I don’t give a shit about the facts.

A week or two later, Suze Rotolo, the woman who appears on the cover of Bob Dylan’s The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, cited as the muse who inspired songs like “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright,” and “Boots of Spanish Leather, died. (Coincidentally, Freewheelin’, the album that launched Dylan’s career, was released just two weeks after Dylan’s appearance at Brandeis’ First Annual Folk Festival, Dylan’s recording of which will be released next month.) Praise for Rotolo’s book “A Freewheelin’ Time” made the rounds again, and I grabbed it from the library. I started reading, but stopped near the bottom of page 2: “The only claim I make for writing a memoir of that time is that it may not be factual, but it is true.”

I’ve enjoyed reading a number of music memoirs in the past year or two, including Clarence Clemons’ “Big Man: Real Life & Tall Tales,” Patti Smith’s “Just Kids” and Rosanne Cash’s “Composed.” I’ve enjoyed them all but can’t ever shake my wonderment at what’s real and what’s invented, even if accidentally. The question floating in the back of my mind each time I sit down to write is whether I’ve confused a detail or somehow conflated stories.

I also stopped at Newtonville Books recently for a joint reading by Wesley Stace (aka John Wesley Harding) and Jonathan Coe. It was a terrific, informal reading with a beer-filled cooler, complements of the owner, and the two authors, clearly fans of each other’s work, took turns reading from their news books, “Charles Jessold, Considered as a Murderer” and “The Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Simm.” The reading included Wes’ guitar performance of some of “fictional music” from the book. An attendee asked why Wes, when he’s such a dramatic reader of his own work, doesn’t have record an audiobook. The answer, which was unsurprisingly blunt, was that it wasn’t worth his time. He mentioned how his friend and partner in Twitter repartee Rosanne Cash said recording the audiobook for “Composed” was weeks of grueling work for only a few hundred dollars pay.

From Andre Dubus III's "Townie"

I had been tooling around the bookstore before their reading when I picked up a copy of “Townie,” and read the first couple of pages which I hadn’t had a chance to do at his event. I was amused to see his epigraph: “‘And the boys try to look so hard.’ – Bruce Springsteen.”

There’s been music outside of bookstores, too. I’d read a lot praise for Amy Petty on music blogs, but hadn’t really checked her out. My friend and I decided to give it a go at her Passim show a few weeks ago but failed to buy tickets ahead of time. The show was sold-out, but we had the good fortune of some no-shows whose tickets we gladly nabbed. Her own songs are beautifully haunting, and I can say following her cover of “Land Down Under,” that she’s the only person who can make the word “plunder” sound pretty.

The same friend and I went all the way out to The Narrows Center for the Arts in Fall River (which more or less requires a time machine) to see the Ryan Montbleau Band last weekend. This show was also sold-out, and the fact that we bought tickets a few days ahead of time didn’t help us any. They had no record of my existence, let alone my ticket, and after some of the worst customer service I’ve ever received (“If this were the House of Blues, they’d have told you to get the fuck out a long time ago.” A letter has been written, but I don’t anticipate a response.) we left. We did, however, discover a sweet little Portuguese restaurant called Sagres beforehand and went to listen to a local weekend warrior band afterward at the Mexican place next door.

The next night I decided to head back to campus to hear Simon Shaheen, a famous Palestinian oudist whom I wrote about for Brandeis last week, and his band. (If you can believe it, another friend decided to join me at the last minute only to arrive and find it, too, sold out moments earlier.) I won’t pretend to understand Arabic music, but it was fantastic to hear and watch. Sitting on a chair at center stage, he’d lift the oud up and bend his ear to meet the wood as he adjusted the strings. This went on and on. He shared that sometimes he’ll tune his oud for 10 minutes and, especially in places in the Midwest, people applaud. So we did.

Making it a full-on arts weekend, another friend and I saw “My Name Is Asher Lev,” which I read years ago, at the Lyric Stage. Great show in a cozy theater, directed by one of my new colleagues.

It’s been great to enjoy so many performances with friends, and there are more are on the horizon…

That’s what we heard someone scream as my dad and I walked from the car to the restaurant. We were in Asbury Park for the 11th annual Light of Day show at the Paramount Theatre, and we had already dropped my mom and uncle off at the restaurant next door before going on a hunt for parking. On the way, we stopped to take a few BlackBerry photos of the lit up “Greetings from Asbury Park” sign, but were too cold to linger much longer.

I noticed a small crowd – maybe a dozen people – eagerly waiting on either side of the theater’s driveway as we walked past. “These people actually think they’re going to meet Bruce Springsteen now,” I said to my dad, and we both laughed.

Springsteen had been the “surprise” guest at these annual Parkinson’s Disease fundraisers for seven of the previous 10 years. I was hoping he’d be there, too, even assuming it, but what were the odds I’d actually meet him?

Just then security began asking the folks at the driveway to move aside. Dad and I continued walking. We obviously weren’t in the way from all the way across the street – or most of it; we were walking in the street, not on the sidewalk, dodging snow and ice.

That’s when we heard the more urgent “STOP!” By the time we looked up and saw they were talking to us, an SUV was reversing out of the driveway and was already at a 45 degree angle in the middle of the road. I was standing about a foot away from the driver’s window. I looked up and squinted in the dark. I WAS LOOKING AT BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN. I froze. I tried to talk, but I couldn’t. I didn’t wave or smile or try to get him to roll down the window. As a journalist, I’m not easily starstruck, but if you’re reading this you already know my weakness. He stared back at me for a moment, and it wasn’t until he threw it into drive and began speeding away that I grabbed my BlackBerry to shoot the dark, indecipherable photo above.

The show was incredible, with Springsteen appearing as the guest of four other acts, then returning at midnight for his own 90-plus minute set with Joe Grushecky & the Houserockers. You can read all the fabulous details in my post over at Blogness on the Edge of Town. But what made it even more poignant was having my family with me. They know how much music, especially Springsteen’s, means to me, and finally decided to see it for themselves. They aren’t big music consumers, and my dad has made a hobby of insulting Springsteen – possibly because he doesn’t like the music, and certainly because he enjoys my reaction. It must have pained him to admit later that “Springsteen isn’t so bad live,” earning him the Understatement of the Year Award.

Believe it or not, I had a fantastic time. Learned a lot, checked out some art and music, met interesting people, explored. I stayed in Playhouse Square, where my hotel had a pretty awesome happy hour, and wandered around downtown. When I asked a barista at Phoenix Coffee whether there were any fun bookstores or record shops nearby, he seemed apologetic and began explaining the continuing evolution of the city’s downtown before offering to grab a phonebook. I walked down to the Arcade, Tower City Center and Public Square, which offered beautiful architecture and about a bazillion homeless people begging for change. I spent time in the gardens and museums at University Circle, then missed a turn on what became a long walk to Little Italy (finally ate a family-owned restaurant where the waitress was gleeful about having purchased an accordion for the restaurant and begun lessons). Hardcore geek that I am, I even took a trolley tour. But the real highlights?

Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum is beautiful in and of itself, an interesting I.M. Pei-designed building right on Lake Erie. In a small, round room in its basement, black and white photos of Elvis Presley line the walls and a documentary about the King plays. Some of the photos are terrific – especially “The Buddha,” a picture of Elvis sitting Indian-style on the floor at the RCA Victor studio, listening intently to playback of his recordings – but the video didn’t really have my attention until I heard this: Elvis kept demanding additional takes for “Hound Dog.” Even the band thought they nailed it by their 17th try, but Elvis persisted. They ultimately recorded 30 takes, with Elvis choosing the 28th for his album. Remind you of anyone? Hearing this just a week or two after watching “The Promise: The Making of Darkness on the Edge of Town,” and knowing what a tremendous influence Elvis had on Bruce Springsteen, again made me contemplate what drives successful artists to such obsession.

Later I made my way up to the top two floors of the museum to see “From Asbury Park to the Promised Land,” the soon-to-be vacating Springsteen exhibit. All the Springsteen artifacts were great – the infamous hybrid guitar, the (tiny!) clothes he wore during shows or album art shoots, lobby posters for some of his earliest bands, scrapbooks his mom and first manager’s wife put together of his early press, even a newspaper’s response to his mother’s request for copies. The best part, by far, was Springsteen’s notebooks, filled with song lyrics, many scratched out, edited, decorated with doodles, obscured by phone numbers. I only wish that they were in better view and light. I’ve always loved to learn about his editing process, fascinated by subtle changes in syntax. But reading what I could of the notebooks was an exercise in dissonance – lyrics to songs I know and love, written out as verses of another (song I know and love). There were far too many edits to mention, but one tiny detail gave me pause. Springsteen eventually switched a line or two of Born in the USA from a story about the narrator to one about the narrator’s brother; and I wondered how long he had lingered over the pronouns.

On the first of the two Springsteen exhibit floors there’s a listening station located just below a large sign indicating the “rules” for The Upstage. It includes 24 tracks: the first eight are from Springsteen’s audition with the record company, the middle eight are from the infamous 1974 Harvard Square Theatre show, and the final eight are from the Agora ‘78 show (The next day I passed what I believed to be The Agora and confirmed it with the shuttle driver. “Yes, ma’am. A lot of famous people got their start there but now don’t even think about coming back.” A pause and then, with a little surprise, “You’ve heard of The Agora?”). I’ve listened to and/or own the first and last sets but not the middle. I put the headphones on, dropped my pocketbook to the floor and danced as much as one can while still physically attached to a wall. (LOVE “I Sold My Heart to the Junkman.”)

Other visitors wandered through the entire floor and left while I was still listening. I caught a few people staring. When I made it up to the second (top) floor of the exhibit, I was surprised to see the “MTV Unplugged: In Concert with Bruce Springsteen“ show with the other band playing on a huge screen (in fairness, there was an E Street video downstairs, albeit on a small screen). I stopped to watch for a few minutes before inspecting the remaining goods. Each time I thought I was done and headed for the stairs, I got sucked back in by another song on the video. Part of the appeal was in watching the people around me spellbound by it, some even starting to dance as well. It was as if only the people who really cared even made it up to the top floor.

The next day I walked down to East 4th Street for dinner. When I heard a couple of women at the bar mention Boston, I chimed in. The woman sitting next to me had moved from Medford, Mass., for her job with Herb Chambers (where I bought my first car) a week prior, and had lived in Somerville (and read my newspaper) for 24 years. Like everyone else, they were surprised I wasn’t there on business, and inquired as to whether I’d visited the RRHOF. I told them I had, but was thinking of returning the following day to check out the floors I missed (I had given up after five hours and only four floors on my first visit). The second woman looked excited and suddenly asked if I had a business card. I wasn’t sure why – did they want to join me at the museum? – but I handed her a card anyway. She picked up her cell phone while the Medford woman and I began chatting again. When she put it down, she told me there should be tickets in my name at the RRHOF box office the next day. I must have looked about as confused as I felt because after a beat she added: “My husband’s the director.” True to her word, there were a couple of VIP tix, which even granted admission to the U2 3D film, waiting for me the following day. Pretty sweet.

Cleveland Museum of Art

The Cleveland Museum of Art is a beautiful museum in the midst of a $350 million renovation and expansion. That makes it a bit trying to get around, but well worth the trouble. Beyond the collection – which includes a surprisingly cool Arms and Armor exhibit – I was intrigued by the staff. As I walked through one gallery, the security guard came over to ask if I’d seen a particular painting. He knew I did; I was the only person there and he watched me circle the room, counter-clockwise, stopping at each painting in turn. He told me that it belongs to the museum, but it’s usually in storage. “I’ve worked here a long time and I’ve only seen it two or three times,” he said, walking toward it and prompting me to follow. He talked about its beauty, marveling at the detail and dwelling on the mystery behind one subject’s eyes. I had admired the painting the first time I saw it – it reminded me of some of my favorite 17th century Dutch paintings – but he wanted me to linger over it. The tragic part of this story is that I can now remember neither its title nor its painter. But I’m still glad I gave it a second look.

Beachland Ballroom

I’ve heard/read a lot of good things about the Beachland Ballroom, so I figured I’d check out Chuck Prophet, whom I like by association, but whose music I’m not terribly familiar with. I thought there’d be some fun shops or restaurants nearby, and maybe there were – but it was already dark and everything was closed. Quiet. I had done a LOT of walking that day, and was generally exhausted, so it was a huge relief to find a seat. It looks like an old gymnasium and it was mostly empty when I arrived (about 1o minutes before showtime), except for some folks several decades older than myself. I thought we might play bingo. The tables and chairs look a bit like Passim’s, but with a lot more standing room in the back and along the sides. Nice, intimate, cheap venue with some good beer (really dug Great Lakes Brewing Co.). I sat one table away from the stage. Prophet and his band turned out to be great – pretty funny, too – even if his hipster clothing suggested massive awkwardness and irony. I headed out by around 11:30, though, as my eyes were literally closing on me. I mentioned how quiet the neighborhood was to the cab driver and he said “Yeah, well this is the hood!” Uh, seriously, sir?

It’s a cool, rainy evening, and I’m driving from Cambridge to Brookline, with my friend Steven in the backseat and Sister Helen Prejean in the passenger seat beside me.

She’s asking me why I’m Bruce Springsteen fan. This is typically where conversations devolve at parties, where eyes begin to glaze over, but as I drive, I can feel her staring intently at me. No intimidation, just warmth. She’s interested. So I briefly tell her that I started listening to his first two albums, Greetings from Asbury Park and The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle a lot in high school, and I’ve been a fan ever since.

But that’s not really an answer, so she prods a little more. “What happened in Asbury Park?” she asks, as if we were discussing a historical event, not just an album, which actually seems about right. She wants to hear about my favorite songs, to know what they’re about and why they speak to me. I pause, unsure how to respond for a moment. It suddenly occurrs to me that no one’s ever asked. Fellow fans already know why, and other people don’t really care. So I begin to explain the songs first spoke to me because of the stories they told – the specificity of the characters, the setting, the plot – but I was soon pulled in for all sorts of reasons.

Obviously, neither this conversation, nor this meeting, happened spontaneously. Sister Helen was in town for last night’s joint fundraiser at the Brattle Theatre for The Dead Man Walking School Theatre Project, for which Steven works, and Massachusetts Citizens Against The Death Penalty. She needed to get back to her hotel after the event and he asked if I’d be willing to give them a lift. Sister Helen had already mentioned Springsteen briefly in her talk, as he wrote the title song for the film, but as we hopped into my car Steve told her I was a huge fan, and it would make my night if she could tell me a good Springsteen story.

She indulged me, telling me about meeting him, Patti and their kids, comparing him to “Matthew 25,” which I don’t pretend to understand, and speaking with great admiration for him as both a person and a musician. She sounded in awe as she talked about his post-Katrina performance of “My City of Ruins,” and of his Seeger Sessions work. She even lauded him for raising his children right and teaching them to help others.

Of course, we talked about more than Springsteen. She told us some backstory on “characters” from the film, about her own cameo in it, about Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon. She shared some experiences from her early days learning about death row. She talked about the importance of writers who help get the word out, since reading gives people quiet, contemplative time in a too-often thoughtless society.

The fundraiser itself consisted of a Q & A with Sister Helen, a signing of her books “Dead Man Walking” and “The Death of Innocents,” and a screening of the film, which Tim Robbins adapted from the book. I had been meaning to see the film for about 14 years, so this seemed as good a time as any.

Earlier that evening, Sister Helen walked into the theater and sat down behind me. Quietly and to no one in particular, she said “Anyone know anything about this film? I hear it’s a downer.” Steven introduced us and then she went to the front of the theater to say a few words about the film, which she described as a great window into the subject. In order to get someone’s attention, she said, you have to tell them a story. She spoke of how, on her travels abroad, people always ask why Americans are so wedded to the idea of vengeance, but she maintains we’re not – we just don’t think about it because the death penalty directly impacts so few of our lives.

She returned to sit behind me, squeezing my shoulder as she passed. “We have to make sure Deb doesn’t fall asleep,” she told Steve. That certainly wasn’t going to happen. The film was moving, even more so than I imagined. (I can be a tough nut to crack.) There were moments of violence or distress so jarring – particularly when juxtaposed with Susan Sarandon’s exceptionally serene portrayal of Sister Helen – that I jumped in my seat. Repeatedly. When I did, I was very aware of her sitting behind me, and wondered if she noticed or if that was the desired impact.

I’m not a big fundraiser attendee, at least not when I’m off the clock. There are reasons for this: I’m not politically active and I don’t have any money. But Sister Helen was right. The death penalty isn’t something I often think about, but maybe now I will. Especially now that I’ve heard a good story.

OK, that’s a bit of hyperbole, not to mention plagiarism (but how could I resist?). He and longtime collaborator David Lindley had quietly taken the Bank of America Pavilion stage last night, each with just a guitar. Lindley sang lead on Warren Zevon’s “Seminole Bingo” (“Carmelita” came later) with a word or two from Browne about gambling (coincidence that he’d kick-off a Massachusetts show this way?), then Bruce Springsteen’s “Brothers Under the Bridge,” (a song about homelessness that “didn’t get much radio play.”)

Browne rambles a bit, offering a warning, maybe an apology, for having gotten sick just two months into the tour. He had debated whether to cancel the show – the crowd screams ‘no!’ – and informs us he’s gotten the best medical treatment possible. Jokes about Browne’s resulting high and celebrity users ensue. He says something like “If you hear a strangling noise, I just want you to know it’s not hurting me,” and launches into an old favorite, the title track of the first Jackson Browne album I fell in love with, “For Everyman,” and ouch. It may not hurt him, but it sure hurts me. He’s struggling.

“It’s like singing with someone else’s throat,” he says. “Maybe I just need to get to know this person better.”

I think he’s telling us that Lindley will be back later with the band, but Browne’s the one who walks off stage. It occurs to me momentarily – horrifyingly – that he might not return. Lindley is an incredible musician and can seemingly play anything with strings, but lengthy solos bore me.

Three songs later, Browne returns with a full band for an electric set. We hear him sucking on a lozenge (for the duration), but he sounds a hell of a lot better. He sips from a metallic thermos. There are still some tough moments, and even when he reaches the notes without cracking, his voice sounds more gruff than usual.

This is the most lackluster Jackson Browne performance I’ve ever seen. Knowing he was on the brink of canceling but soldiered on, however, impresses and excites the crowd. His voice is at its worst – which frankly, isn’t all that bad – but he receives a surprising number of standing ovations from a mostly older, sit-down crowd. We apparently award points for effort. “You’re very generous,” he says a couple of times, aware of the incongruity.

The banter continues, and I struggle to understand much of it. I hear the song lyrics just fine, or perhaps just think I do because I know what’s coming. He’s talking about the various climates in which they’ve played, I think, and jokes that “Polyester is a real commitment,” in the heat. This is his chance to pimp the contest he are Lindley are judging – the best polyester shirt photo receives free tickets to a NYC show. “Like everything I love, they don’t make these anymore,” Browne says.

He threads the polyester comments through the show. This is an interesting juxtaposition with his brief, late-show sermon on the importance of preserving the water supply and the ills of plastic bottles. Really!? He continues with an appropriate “Rock Me On The Water.”

It’s nice to see the Pavilion well-packed with a friendly crowd. The place was easily half-empty for every show I saw last summer, including Browne’s performance. I’m wearing a Springsteen and the E Street Band T-shirt, which proves to be a conversation piece throughout the night, and the woman sitting next to me instigates the numbers game, as all Springsteen fans do. She wins by a landslide (30-40 shows)!

The setlist was pretty standard, with no real surprises: “Shape of a Heart,” “Take It Easy,” “Running on Empty,” “Doctor My Eyes” and “The Pretender,” as well as some recent, poppy tunes like “Just Say Yeah” and “Off to Wonderland.” But it was a beautiful Boston night on the water with good music, so why complain? At least we got a show, which Buffalo won’t for now – he’s apparently canceled that show on his doctor’s advice.

At Twin River Casino Thursday night, I had my second chance to see Clarence sit in with Steve Smith & the Nakeds, after a fun but failed attempt to meet him at a fundraiser last weekend. Eternally hopeful when it comes to all things E Street, I slid the CD in my bag again.

I know what you’re thinking. Wouldn’t a signed album have been cooler? A memento of the night I met the Big Man that could be prominently displayed for all the world (or the dozen or so people who semi-regularly visit my apartment) to see? Well, yes. But what the plan oozed in enthusiasm it lacked in forethought. It didn’t even occur to me until later, and would have involved taking the album down from the wall on which it is framed and hung, removing it from its encasing and toting it around all night like an idiot (no offense whatsoever to the woman who brought her Red Bank Rockers album).

The whole endeavor seemed childish, maybe even a bit stalkerish (yes, we add suffixes to soften the blow). But it’s not like I’m trying to invade anyone’s privacy or disrupt their lives. I don’t want to be a nuisance. I just wanted to look into his eyes and give my heartfelt thanks for creating music that has helped me celebrate the best times and weather the worst. I’m sure that’s nice to hear, but it’s probably the most cliche, unimaginative thing to say to a musician in the one minute you’re likely to ever have with him. That doesn’t, however, make it any less true. I’ll spare you the details.

So I trekked to Twin River Casino, where the room looked better fit for PowerPoint presentations than a rock concert, but it was nice and small, and the sound was surprisingly good. We were late, but still had our choice of great seats in the center, behind a small, half-empty reserved section. As soon as Steve Smith introduced Clarence during a requisite “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out,” dozens of people rushed to the small, seatless area between the reserved section and the stage. I expected security to intervene, and when they didn’t, I joined the crowd. I’m used to the push and shove at concerts, but here the only place fellow revelers pushed me was to the front. Trying to navigate around some dancers, I had inadvertently wound up on the wrong side of a rope. But a man noticed, moved out of my way and offered a hand to help me around the partition. Once standing in front of him, another man turned to me. “Do you need to get in here, sweetheart?” he asked. The room was set up so that even I, at 4′10, could see from almost anywhere, but I smiled my thanks as he gestured for me to move ahead of him. I was now a couple of feet away from the Big Man, but the man behind me was unsatisfied. “Here, why don’t you move all the way up,” he said, and nudged another gentleman to move over, as he applied some pressure to my back. I stepped forward again. I was dead center, looking directly up at the Big Man, my hands resting on the stage. We made eye contact a few times. I inspected his physical condition, making my expert assessment on his ability to tour again, then danced for a couple of songs before returning to my seat. My friend Sue was recording a few minutes of “Hot Fun in the Summertime” from there, during which he briefly rose from his stool. He talked about the healing power of the stage, the crowd, and thanked everyone for their love and support. Like last weekend, he talked more about his wife, and how he finally got it right on his fifth marriage. He sounded happy.

It was a great two-hour set (guessing?), including some familiar, and a bunch of new-to-me, music. Until a few weeks ago, I’d never heard of Steve Smith & the Nakeds, even though Clarence has apparently played on all their records and written some of their material. One song was even penned by Nils Lofgren. A very enthusiastic trumpet player stands out in my mind.

When it was over, Sue asked if I wanted to hang back and stalk a bit, but before I could answer Steve Smith announced the Big Man would be out shortly to sign…whatever. We were second in line, behind a group of people who gave him a bottle of tequila as a gift. He signed my liner notes, and graciously allowed us each to take a photo with him. I was glad he was sitting; otherwise it would be tough to get us in the same frame. He smiled big, wrapping his arm around me, and I said my simple “thank you” and walked away happy.

Sue’s video.

No, no, it wasn’t me (For this, the world owes me a debt of gratitude. You’re welcome). But I recall my brother singing and playing back this one song over and over again. His shrill, kindergartner voice is so entwined with my memory of the song, that I can think of nothing else after hearing Survivor’s Jimi Jamison perform it at a benefit show last night. I texted my dad this afternoon to see if the recorder is still in my parents’ basement. If it is, I can only imagine a tape is still in there, and what else would be on it?

Of course, “Eye of the Tiger” wasn’t the only flashback. The Rock ‘n’ Jock Charity show was a smorgasbord of 80’s delights. Steven Smith & The Nakeds, with their special guest Clarence Clemons of the E Street Band, kicked-off the festivities in a giant tent on at the Warwick, R.I., Crowne Plaza Hotel property. There were round tables throughout and gold bunting. Most of the guests were gray-haired, and just talked and walked around through the show. It could have been a summer wedding. The outfits were amazing.

Clarence came out to a predictable “… changes made uptown and the Big Man joined the band” on “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out.” I’ll be honest – he was good, but not great. There was a nice “Paradise by the C” (video from last night there, but embedding disabled). Which is more than could be said about the sound system. But it was nice to see him able to get on and off stage with relative ease after all his surgeries. I had been convinced that in such a small, relaxed setting, I’d have the chance to meet Clarence. I’m never one for autographs, but I couldn’t help but bring a copy of “Born to Run” with me. Alas… I think there’s a reason why the headliners went on first instead of last. I assume Clarence (who was playing on his wedding anniversary) was out of there pretty quickly.

The show continued in this reverse order, from best to worst. Next was John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band, which I’ll admit is a guilty pleasure. They only played three or four songs, replaced by… I can’t remember whom. Jimi Jamison. Orleans’ Larry Hoppen. Etc. It was a cheesy but fun burst of nostalgia, until Mike Reno came out for the final set. He was a caricature of the aging rocker, and a reminder of how far some of these guys have fallen from fame. Perhaps a little sad, if it weren’t for the obvious pleasure the musicians were taking in the event. Also a worthwhile exercise in trivia. Example: Did you remember that Reno and Ann Wilson sang “Almost Paradise” on the “Footloose” soundtrack? Well, we didn’t. Dear lord, that was bad.

It’s a good thing no one from Mike & the Mechanics was on hand to remind me of those Pocket Rockers that Fisher Price put out later.

Here’s a sampling of the original versions of some of the songs played last night. I’m sure more video and photos of last night will pop up (When I asked one of the many photographers there who he was with, expecting him to say the Providence Journal or something of the like, he looked uncomfortable and said “the drummer.”), but so far I haven’t seen any.

To sum it up in just a few words: it was great and worth the wait. But in fairness – my memory of that last show at least slightly exceeded the reality of this one. Maybe I’m a victim of everything’s-rosier-in-in-hindsight thinking this time around instead of my usual last-is-best disease. They were on their game, but Fallon’s mic needed to be turned down a bit, for starters. At least IMHO. Several friends and acquaintances were there that night and we all had different reactions to the sound quality: from superior to inferior to I-didn’t-notice-one-way-or-the-other. Fascinating how we all hear so differently.

Also interesting that they played so many songs from the new album – and all to stellar reception with the audience enthusiastically singing along. How many bands can can get away with that?

Of course, Fallon was his ever-charming self. He introduced his friend – one Andy Diamond – the first promoter to book the band at the New Brunswick bar on which “Diamond Church Street Choir” is based. He brought Diamond on stage, where he gave him a hug, and sang a bit of the Golden Girls theme to him as he walked off. Then he started preaching to the choir, telling us how cool Fenway is (and trying to convince the Boston crowd to go across the street to check it out?).

They played some decent covers, too. There was Pearl Jam’s “State of Love and Trust,” which was OK, but doesn’t compare to their great cover of Lucero’s “The War,” for which an otherwise irksome opener, Tim Barry, joined Fallon on vocals.

And while the Boston Herald critic enjoyed that one, too, he apparently didn’t share my enthusiasm for the rest of the show. Someone seems a bit angry, and for a change – it’s not me.