…And last but not least…do I have to say his name? Do I have to speak his name? Do I have to say his name? In this corner: the king of the world, the master of the universe. Weighing in at 260 pounds, the Big Man, Clarence Clemons.

That’s how Bruce Springsteen touted the venerable saxophone player during the band introductions that arrived at the midway point of the typically robust performance of “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)” captured on the majestic Live: 1975-1985 box set. I listened to Springsteen’s music at near-obsessive levels during my high school years, paying special devotion to the five LP live collection after it unexpectedly arrived under the Christmas tree. I figured, presciently as it turned out, that it would be the closest I would get to seeing the band of Jersey-boy-led brothers perform one of their legendary stage marathons. For all that listening and all their leader’s clear devotion to celebrating the band members as important parts of the show, I never really saw the E Street Band as much more than sidemen, not quite interchangeable, but not especially memorable either. One member was the exception, however. That was, of course, Clarence Clemons.

This was, admittedly, in part because Springsteen seemed to see him that way. He’d introduce Clemons with the exuberance of a little brother who never stopped idolizing his older sibling. Clemons seemed to be the primary focus of Springsteen’s interplay with the band, and The Boss rarely seems happier in live videos than when his towering cohort moves briefly to the forefront. There was a live performance of “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” that was dropped onto a b-side and made the rounds of rock radio every holiday season. It’s cheesy as can be, in that manner that only Springsteen can indulge in and still seem cool, but wholly worth it to me for the moment when Springsteen’s introductory stage patter includes the hope for Clemons that “maybe Santa will bring you a new saxophone.”

Beyond that affection–or maybe helping to inspire it–was the feeling that the yearning wail of Clemons’ saxophone provided the piercing soul of many of Springsteen’s finest songs. Springsteen has always been dangerously enamored with the sleek pomp of rock ‘n’ roll. Those burnished sax parts that Clemons delivered were an extension of that. Indeed, they wound up being the perfect indulgence, a signal strong enough to ricochet off the back walls of the arena and deliver the music to voluptuous Valhalla where judgment and criticism seemed downright churlish. The notes he blew out of his shiny brass were true believing announcements of his boss’s hopeless romance with the overwhelming bigness built into rock ‘n’ roll. If you couldn’t hear the clarion call in the sax solo on “Jungleland,” well then you didn’t really believe in the power of rock ‘n’ roll to change the world, or at least set it spinning a little faster for a minute. And, if that was the case, what were you doing buying records in the first place?

Clemons seemed to love his place on that stage, reflecting Springsteen’s passion for the music they were playing without the need to get mired in the same sidebars into seriousness that the guy at the main microphone felt compelled to follow. He so radiated joy that even his few excursions into solo work reflected his bountiful spirit. His most famous single in this capacity was a duet with Jackson Browne that was a simple wisp of a song celebrating friendship, but the largely ignored (and, honestly, not especially good) follow-up was such a distillation of hopeful, generous energy that it was entitled “I Wanna Be Your Hero.” I remember seeing the video once (and only once) and my recollection is of Clemons walking down a street singing the song’s cliched statements associated with cardboard heroes (“I don’t think he’ll bother you/ No need to thank me ma’am”) with a giant grin across his face, overjoyed to just be in the moment. That memory may not be accurate, but it suits my overall impression of Clarence Clemons. He was a guy who had a pretty great job and clearly loved doing it.

Seeing him in recent years, hobbled and walking with a cane, was a hard reminder that music may endure forever, but musicians don’t. Sad as it may be to see someone like Clemons go, he leaves a legacy behind that can be heard by dropping a needle, pressing a play button or clicking on a song. In other words, the good news for all of us is that the old records still play.