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“No. No, C, see it’s the “ba-baaa~”, not the “baa-baaa~”, I want it to end on,” Bruce emphasizes each “baa” with a fleeting hand motion. Clarence feels ready to strangle him.
It’s hour ten of the fifth day of the fourth straight month working on the latest album. Every single second of the record has been hard won, and it seems more and more like the battle they’re all fighting isn't so much with the music, but whatever tempest is happening inside their bandleader’s head.
Bruce has stopped explaining the minutiae of the sax solo he and Clarence had been working on for the better part of that evening, and is now drumming his fingers on the mixing board in front of him. His eyes are bloodshot and blinking rapidly–unfixed gaze telegraphing the turning gears inside his skull.
It was just the two of them in the small studio space at The Record Plant. The others had been sent home when Bruce decided to focus on the sax solo for Jungleland for the rest of the evening. Or rather, Mike Appel had decided to send the band home once it became evident Bruce was in his one-track sax mood.
Don't get it twisted; Bruce is a genius. There is nobody else in the world Clarence trusts more with making incredible, life-affirming music, and he loves having Bruce to himself.
However.
Right now, his bandleader is running himself ragged. Clarence has seen this pattern before. The obsessive compulsive patterns where Bruce’s brain keeps spinning itself through the same motions over and over again. It makes for a miserable session, and makes the bandleader pretty bad company.
Mike and their lone sound technician have made themselves scarce, taking a well-deserved break as the two musicians hash out the solo, piece by painstaking piece. Bruce is back to gesturing with his hands the subtle shift in the middle part, and all Clarence can do is try to keep up. He’s on his third try of following Bruce’s erratic instructions when the bandleader snaps.
“No! I can- It’s like this,come on-!”
Bruce lets out a noise of frustration and does the unthinkable: he reaches for Clarence’s sax. The older man watches as if in slow motion as Bruce’s arm stretches out, his fingers unfurl, and his index and middle finger brush against the gleaming gold finish of the saxophone.
Clarence’s hand is on Bruce’s arm before he even registers himself doing it. He hoists his sax high and deposits it safely out of reach. Hand still on his bandleader, he marches Bruce out of the recording booth.
“C?! Clarence, come on! I wasn't- I just wanted to-” Bruce protests and flails his arms all down the end of the studio space. Clarence can hardly hear him for the rush of blood in his ears.
“No, you weren't.”
“Clarence, I wasn't gonna touch it I was just- you weren't gettin it!” Bruce petulantly huffs as he’s dragged to the entryway. Clarence stops. He hasn't really formed a plan for where he was going with this, but when he looks down at Bruce, still weakly wriggling in the strong grip on his bicep–more just trying to signal his discomfort than actively trying to get away–he’s reminded of a particularly fussy kid past his bedtime.
He readjusts his hold by twisting his fingers into the shirt collar behind his bandleader’s head–not choking, just letting him know he wasn’t going anywhere without Clarence’s permission. Instead of letting them out of the building, he promptly steers Bruce towards the darkened area filled with excess equipment. Shoving a drum kit and amp aside, he plants Bruce facing the corner.
“If you're going to act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one,” Clarence announces. “I’m gonna go out and get us some food. You are gonna stay here and cool off.” He turns on his heel and exits the building without seeing Bruce's reaction.
–
The worn metal door slides closed with a barely-oiled squeak behind Clarence. He wipes his shoes on the small worn welcome mat before hefting the warm paper bag of cheeseburgers and fries in front of him as he reenters the recording space. It’s silent as expected, but more abandoned than he anticipates. Of course, there is no E Street Band to greet him, but he’d hoped his band leader would have stayed–even if just to scowl at him for his earlier stunt.
Once Clarence had exited the building–and smelled the refreshing scent of exhaust and humid blacktop–he’d finally been able to lower his shoulders. Suddenly, the damn sax solo didn’t seem so all-important, and just crossing a few streets and grabbing some food became his number one priority.
Trudging away to the nearest burger joint, Clarence felt he was finally able to shake off his frustration, and the closer he got to collecting their order of fries and bun-covered patties, he thought he might actually survive this album.
The bags make a crunching noise when sat on the tiny, mismatched table by the brown leather couch. The ‘fancy’ couch relegated to whatever big-shot deigned to stop by. Considering the ‘big-shots’ congregating around them, the couch is damn near pristine. Well, except a few love bites here and there, courtesy of the gang’s smoking habit. Clarence is about to sink down into it, until he spots a shadow in the corner of his eye.
Oh.
In the corner of the room he spies a skinny, slouching man in a pair of ragged jeans and a navy t-shirt. Clarence stares. The figure shuffles in place but remains still, facing the wall.
Clarence tentatively walks over to Bruce. His bandleader seems to be breathing heavily but regularly. Calm. Clarence grasps a slim shoulder and Bruce startles, looking up at the older man as if in a trance. He swallows once. Twice. He lifts his head to spy over a large shoulder to where Clarence’s sax had been set aside. A pained look flashes in tired eyes, and Clarence knows he feels guilty.
“I brought us some Big Joe’s.” That gets Bruce’s attention. He still seems to be in a bit of a daze, but his eyes light up a bit at the mention of food.
Clarence walks back to the couch. He begins unwrapping the burgers before realizing Bruce still hasn’t joined him–remaining standing in the corner and regarding the saxophonist with an unreadable expression.
“Bruce, it’s ok. I’m not mad or nothin’ anymore. Come here and grab a burger,” Clarence reassures him while patting the empty space on the couch next to him.
That seems to snap Bruce out of whatever spell had come over him, and he finally shuffles towards the smell of fast food.
They eat in silence, with only the occasional noise of chomping fries or slurping milkshakes. Clarence eats slowly, chancing glances at Bruce devouring the burgers like he’d never had a decent meal in his life. Clarence looks him over, and realizes with a start that his friend is definitely looking skinnier than usual. Considering Bruce is already a twig who can’t afford to lose what few pounds he has, this is concerning. He knew the stress of putting together the album was taking a mental toll on them all, but this is the first time he’s seen the physical damage it was doing to Bruce.
And yet…
While Bruce looks bone-tired as usual, the crease between his brows has disappeared, and his shoulders are no longer strung up to his ears–now hanging loose and relaxed. He catches Clarence looking and sheepishly offers him a fry smothered in ketchup. Clarence accepts, pondering the situation as he chews.
Throwing their empty wrappers and containers in the trash, they get back to work. Mike and their sound technician re-emerge from their own break, and are surprised to find both musicians actually making headway with the solo. Clarence lets his creativity flow, and Bruce nods along, satisfied with the progress. Clarence even catches his bandleader smiling softly at one point, as they finally capture the sound playing in Bruce’s head on tape.
They can finally call it a night.