The rangers had a homecoming in Harlem late last night. El Gran Rock está de luto. Ha muerto un héroe, un ser mitológico, el saxo de la furia salvaje, la apisonadora del Rock, el mastodonte negro de la E Street Band. El Rock de verdad, el Rock con mayúscula, el Camino del Trueno, ha quedado mutilado para siempre, porque un bestiario del Rock sin Clarence Clemons es un bestiario incompleto. Muere con él una época de héroes, de leyendas vivas, la era de todos esos chavales que buscábamos inspiración de verdad en maestros de verdad, una época que agoniza a cada día que pasa, y que no volverá, porque lo verdaderamente auténtico es irremediablemente irrepetible. Ha muerto Clarence Clemons, maestro entre los maestros, hermano de sangre de todo amante del rock, de la épica y de la celebración de la vida. Este mundo está muy lejos de los Dioses, pero generoso, Clemmons nos los acercaba con su saxo visceral, y cuando nos hacía falta, nos recordaba que la vida merece la pena, siempre y cuando sepamos apreciar su belleza, una belleza que está esperándonos ahí mismo, detrás de cualquier esquina de esta maldita y grandiosa jungla que es el mundo.

Gracias por todo, Clarence Clemons.


The rangers had a homecoming in Harlem late last night
And the magic rat drove his sleek machine over the Jersey State line
Barefoot girl sitting on the hood of a dodge
Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain
The rat pulls into town rolls up his pants
Together they take a stab at romance and disappear down Flamingo Lane

Well the maximum lawman run down flamingo chasing the rat and the barefoot
And the kids round here look just like shadows always quiet, holding hands
From the churches to the jails tonight all is silence in the world
As we take our stand down in jungleland

The midnight gangs assembled and picked a rendezvous for the night
They’ll meet `neath that giant exxon sign that brings this fair city light
Man there’s an opera out on the turnpike
There’s a ballet being fought out in the alley
Until the local cops, cherry tops, rips this holy night
The streets alive as secret debts are paid
Contacts made, they vanished unseen
Kids flash guitars just like switch-blades hustling for the record machine
The hungry and the hunted explode into rocknroll bands
That face off against each other out in the street down in jungleland

In the parking lot the visionaries dress in the latest rage
Inside the backstreet girls are dancing to the records that the d.j. plays
Lonely-hearted lovers struggle in dark corners
Desperate as the night moves on, just a look and a whisper, and they’re gone

Beneath the city two hearts beat
Soul engines running through a night so tender in a bedroom locked
In whispers of soft refusal and then surrender in the tunnels uptown
The rats own dream guns him down as shots echo down them hallways in the
No one watches when the ambulance pulls away
Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light

Outside the streets on fire in a real death waltz
Between flesh and what’s fantasy and the poets down here
Don’t write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of the night they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand but they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland



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