When I was growing up or rather when I wanted to start growing up I loved the Clash.
Their music and image spoke directly to me. The songs of rebellion and common man versus the world screamed to the young man kicking inside of me. I remember seeing the first album simply called "The Clash" in a rack at Peaches Records and Tapes in St Louis, MO. I was with my Uncle Donnie who was visiting a friend that worked at the store.
The cover blared their logo in a salmon red color and a photo of the band in scratchy, ratty black and white of the band made me feel like all four members were looking at me, daring me to cut loose and go wild.
I was only 8 but thought my uncle Donnie would buy the record. He loved to buy music every chance he had. Like a little boy wanting a toy from his parents at K Mart, I asked my Uncle to buy me this Clash record.
"Whoa, Dago! You like punk? Who gave you this? "(My mother's siblings often called me "Dago" which I learned is an ethnic slur against the italians. My fathers people are sicilian allegedly.)
My uncle was taken aback that I showed interest in an LP by a punk band
"I saw it on the rack. They look cool."
"Yeah. People are talking about them. My buddy Al is really into them. "(Al was my Uncle's dealer and later my Uncle after he knocked up my Aunt. Different story.)
"I want to hear this. Will you get it for me? Please? I don't have any money."
I put extra saccharin in the "please" hoping that Donnie would spend the nearly six dollars that the store asked for purchase.
I don't recall what happened after that. I might have gotten the record or probably Donnie brushed me off. Time has erased the next segment.
The whole point of this was that from an early age I was really into music; much earlier than this failed anecdote. I loved everything about the Clash up until "Cut The Crap", the record they did without Mick Jones. It broke my heart. Hearing it was like trying to use only 20 letters of the alphabet. Worldwide and by band members themselves, its described as actual crap. The leader, unofficially though, cause the Clash were ungovernable was Joe Strummer. He was the cool guy in the middle with the mohawk and the bouncy leg who sang each word like it might kill him to not do otherwise. His howl and conviction spoke to me. The way the band sounded, looked and the way they did business impressed me in the small trailer in the Carolinas where I studied this music and what its power held. Joe and I shared the same birthday. That had to mean something, right?
Stories of the Clash sneaking fans into their gigs and fighting with brutal security made me dizzy with hope that there were heroes as such out there.
The Clash were booked to play the US Festival in 1983 in Devore, CA. My pal and I got stuck hitchhiking outside of Memphis, missing the the whole show (and Oingo Boingo, Men At Work and INXS.) The Clash demanded one million dollars because Van Halen got one million dollars. Joe suggested that all the bands donate 10% of their fees to charity and David Lee Roth blew a gasket. They were my kind of band . I might have been a terrible hitch hiker, but I was a devout Clash fan.
So flash ahead to what I do now and where I have been in my profession career. We were traveling in Australia on a trip right before the end of the century and I met Joe Strummer.
I walked right up to him and introduced myself. Just hi and my name. No title, no signifying reason to be cooler to me than others, I was merely a human interacting with another human.
He was kind and engaging from the first hello.
When he looked at me it was as if he threw blinders up around the rest of the world.
We stood for a few moments and he introduced me to his wife and a few others in his party.
It appeared that we would be sharing shuttles in each city and thusly some quality airport time.
A few rides into it he cakewalked into a seat by one of the party who was so high on opiates. SO HIGH. I kind of cringed a bit, worried that this doped up goof would offend Joe or just say something completely embarrassing.
Sure enough it took about five minutes.
"Joe. Do you like prog rock?"
Um, mumble, mumble. Maybe. (I couldn't make out the exact exchange.)
"Joe. How about Rush? Genesis? Did you know Freddie Mercury? Elton John?
Joe stammered and made some cracks, genuinely funny cracks back at him as if to entertain those of us peeking in on the high versus not high conversation.
"Joe. You know what's good for your hair? Sprite. I pour some in every day."
We all cackled. It might have been the fifteenth statement that started out with "Joe" as the first word. I remember Strummer being the perfect straight man.
He one linered the space cadet into eventual silence and we all got off at the next hotel or airport.
Eventually, it was my turn. One day, I got on the bus right behind him as a matter of happenstance. We both sat across from one another and bid good morning.
All I remember of that interaction was me saying this:
"Joe, I apologize
He smiled, cocked his head as if listening to a transistor radio, gave a smirk and said, "Well played, Gus. Let me have it."
Thirty minutes later we got to the hotel in Perth. I don't remember a thing of what I said or what he said in particular. I hate myself for not doing so but I was so drawn by the calm and cool that this old man exuded from his quiet stories could barely pay attention to what he was actually saying. This is not entirely true, he had some great tales of riots and shows. I quizzed him about Kosmo Vinyl, Bernie Rhodes, Ray Gange, Don Letts and others in the pantheon of the Clash universe.
At the hotel I got a call from Joe. Would I be willing to ask one of the guys if he'd switch rooms with him? As if? I would throw him out into the street if he kvetched one bit. To be fair he thought it was as cool as I did.
He went on to make sure I knew it was so his daughter had fresh air, that it wasn't some prima donna demand. (Not that he had to. I now had received a phone call from Joe Strummer. One my band gave them his room! What a day!
Sitting at home in my office, I remember mostly about the dozen or so brief chats with Joe Strummer from THE CLASH is that he REALLY seemed into whatever you were saying. It was not some sort of fake, I just want to touch your boobs so I am listening OR one of these people that only waits for you to stop talking so they can start. Almost a week into our acquaintance he asked me about my daughter by her name, inquiring as to her well being. I felt as if he were really there and present.
We finished the tour and never saw one another again. My travels and his never married up.
A few years later, he passed away on his couch, reading the paper.
I am glad we spoke and I won't ever forget hearing his voice on the phone.
Joe Strummer had called me. Me.
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