Joe Strummer / 1952-2002
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- NATN Editors
THE WEB PRINCESS / Webmaster, Strummernews.com
When I was 15 years old, living in suburban Salt Lake City, Utah, The Clash changed my world. Growing up in one of the least culturally advanced cities in the United States and having been born the same year their first album was released, it's a wonder that I found their music at all. I spent summers off from school researching them in the downtown library, trying to find every article written on the band that I loved so much.
From that point on, they became intertwined with every part of my life. I traveled to Cuba, participated in numerous demonstrations, studied about the Sandinistas, discovered Reggae music and moved to New York City, all due in large part to the Clash.
What a cruel twist of fate I always thought it was to be in love with a band who no longer existed, but in 1999, Joe came back. Living in Utah at the time, I drove to Las Vegas to catch him and his new band the Mescaleros at the Hard Rock Hotel's "The Joint". Before the show we were standing in the lobby, and up walks Strummer himself clad in a flaming cowboy hat, but not before jumping around excitedly and pointing at the display of Bo Diddley's guitar and suit. He walked up to the front door, signed autographs and posed for photos. Inside -- as I watched him blaze through "I Fought The Law" -- I believe I had the first truly religious experience of my life. Having watched video footage of the Clash for seven years previous, seeing the man himself playing the riffs live was a moment unto itself.
Fast forward to 2002. Having moved to NYC and started a Joe Strummer Web site the previous year, I was elated that Joe and the Mescaleros were coming to Brooklyn to play 5 nights. The site was duly updated with every bit of detail on the venue, the NYC subway system and everything else you might need to find the place. Anyone who had the chance to attend these shows knows how special and amazing they were. It was a week-long party hosted by Joe Strummer himself.
Though I'd gone to different signings and had a few words with Joe before, I didn't officially meet the man until Friday night after the show. An old friend of Joe's named Michael and I were talking. When it came up that I hadn't met Joe yet, Michael immediately went to Joe and told him he must meet me. Joe obliged and it was then that I met him for the first time. Michael mentioned that I ran his Web site, and immediately Joe began asking me questions, "Where's that accent from?" etc. When he asked what my "internet name" was, I told him my e-mail address and his eyes lit up "Oh! You're the Web Princess!" And that was that. I was dubbed The Web Princess by Joe Strummer. After that he began running up to me throughout the night, introducing me to different folks from all over the place, "This is The Web Princess!" he'd say pointing to me. Apparently he knew about the Web site and the work I'd done and they had been looking for me since the shows had started. He called out for his tour manager "How many passes do you want?" In a state of shock I replied "Two, that's very kind of you Joe" to which he just shook his head and replied "No, it's no problem". The next night when I picked up my passes, I had the second religious experience of my life.
I followed Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros in July of 2002 on what turned out the be their last tour of the United States. The memories that stick out in my mind are watching Joe interacting with the fans. Tirelessly signing autographs hours after the gigs had ended. Making a fan like myself feel welcome by offering me copius amounts of Corona and smiling and imploring me to pull up a seat everytime I saw him, taking cash out of his pocket and buying myself and others drinks. The last time I saw Joe was in the airport at San Diego, leaning over a bar at 10:30 a.m. trying to convice the bartender to give him a drink even though it hadn't opened yet. We had already said our goodbyes and I watched this all from the distance, the bartender shaking his head while Joe jumped around. I laughed and walked to my plane.
He was interested in everyone and everything around him with an energy that surpassed all of the younger people there, and always played music wherever he went. Once, when there was no boombox present, he used a handheld tape recorder to play some kind of Mariachi tunes which where barely audible through the paper cup that was being used to prop it up.
A rumor earlier in the day on December 22nd that Joe had died of a heart attack was something I didn't want to believe. I waited up until 2:30 a.m. when I received the official confirmation and had to break the terrible news on my site. Then as the news broke on the Internet a few hours later, I broke down in tears. What else can be said about Joe that hasn't already been said? He was an amazing light to the world, and he continues to be a great teacher to me and so many others. I'm just starting to get into to world music now because of him. I know there will be more kids out there, even kids being born today who will get into the Clash and Joe's work and in that sense, he always lives on.
I got a call from my friend at Hellcat Records who had spoken to Joe in November. "I wanted to let you know that he had told me he wanted to do something special for you and the other Web masters to let you know he appreciated all of your hard work on the Web sites." I fought to hold back the tears. Of all the things on Joe Strummer's mind, he was thinking of his fans. They say that you should never meet your heroes because they'll let you down. What an amazing thing it is to meet your hero and have him continually amaze you with his generosity and grace. Thanks, Joe.
The Web Princess is the webmaster for Strummer News. Please check out the site's touching memorial page.
RUTH WITMER / NATN Contributor
It is a gangster-era dance hall. Across the ceiling is the optical illusion of a starry sky. A mirrored ball hangs down flashing erratic sparks of light, which disappear into the shadows of molded arches around a cavernous floor. This is the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago. It is August 13, 1982. I am leaning on a wooden barricade in front of the stage. I'm loaded down with cleverly concealed camera equipment, one piece taped to my rib cage. I am here to see The Clash. It's more than that. I owe Joe Strummer a debt, and I don't know how to repay it except to stand at his feet and applaud.
It's been a year or two since Thomas Leach loaned me a copy of London Calling. He has a lanky grin behind blond bangs. His musical taste is impeccable and he hands off this double-album with an impossibly high recommendation. Like him, I am a teenager. But I've grown ancient and tired on this street where alcohol functions non-stop as a sleep aid and a rocket fuel for rage. I try to be gracious about many things. But for some time now, I've felt the bones in my ankles turn to match sticks and start to splinter under the burden of adult scenarios I don't understand.
I promise Tom I will return his album soon. Side one spins and I sit stunned as it explodes into a white light of possibilities that never occurred to me until this moment. Right away there is Joe Strummer, a dark angel, marching up and grabbing me by the collar. "Right," I feel him say, "I've got some things to tell you. Pay attention." When the turntable winds to a stop I know two things have changed forever. First, there are words that for as long as I live will never mean the same things again -- words like anger and fear, music and politics, responsibility, strength and hope. And second, the bones in my ankles will not betray me -- they have turned to solid steel.
I am at the Aragon now, and with no fanfare and little warning The Clash stomp on to the stage and into the opening chords of "London Calling." There is a crush of bodies and I'm smashed chest first into the barricade at Joe Strummer's feet. Mick Jones is bouncing to my left, Paul Simonon is lunging to my far right. The sharp, metal corners of a hidden camera body do not cushion the blow well. I feel a dull crack, suspect I have broken a rib and don't care. I watch Joe carefully for something under two hours as he spits and wails through "Spanish Bombs," "The Magnificent Seven," "Janie Jones" and more. I don't know how someone can expend that much energy standing in one place. I think he will crash through the stage or burst into flames. Something is clear about him in his mohawk and fatigues: he speaks for us, he is with us. And if there were a revolution to be had anywhere in Chicago this night, we would win it for him. Or we would lose it -- but nobly, on the right side and with such grace as to write ourselves all into legend behind him together.
I am soaking wet, black and blue, my hand is bleeding and it hurts to breathe. I feel, and no doubt look, like a crime scene photo. I am having the best time. I remember the camera under my clothes and at this late hour as things draw to an end, I feel I have nothing to lose by raising it. A security guard shakes his head and yells politely in my ear that he doesn't want either of us to get in trouble. I hold up an index finger and mouth the word "one?" His eyes narrow, he looks over his shoulder at the other pre-occupied guards. In this chaos, I think a girl with a camera is the least of their problems. He blocks their view and firmly mouths the word "one." The camera is up, focus, click and down. Somewhere at the end, Joe rasps, "Thank you and good night." Without thinking I yell back, "Thank you, Joe." And he disappears into the smoke, under the illusion of stars. The one piece of negative film is developed and never printed. It is what it is: it allowed me stop him in his tracks and take him home.
Years away from the Aragon, the past is still a live wire. It sparks at my feet. I walk wide circles around it and pass on opportunities to see Joe Strummer in other incarnations. It is nearly 20 years before I buy a ticket to see him and the Mescaleros in Cleveland. It's the right decision; my debt to him is still not paid. He redefined everything that needed redefining. I owe him more. He is intense and chatty on this Ohio stage. The age range in the crowd is wide. Everyone likes everyone and everyone loves him. I am glad I came. He jokes that he visited the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame and they made him buy a ticket to get in. He thanks us at length and says, "Good night." Standing at the back of the club, I clap hard and think about how I will return here someday when The Clash members are ushered into the Hall and don't have to pay admission. To
myself and from a distance I say, "Thank you, Joe," and he disappears behind the stage.
It is December 2002. I am searching through boxes for something. There, tucked away in a stack of mismatched memories, is the ticket to the Aragon show. I forgot it only cost $10. I sit and think about that night, that voice, those songs. I lose track of what I was just looking for. I think about how, perhaps, some debts of gratitude can never be repaid adequately. Nevertheless, The Clash's Hall Of Fame induction ceremony is in March and, of course, I have to be there for that round of applause.
In a few days, there is this e-mail waiting for me from a friend at the New York Times. Judith sends her condolences and a link to the Times obituary for Joe Strummer. I sit stunned in a white light of disbelief. I feel another dull crack, but this time it is my heart. And I can think of nothing to say except, "Thank you, Joe. Thank you and good night."
BEN FRENCH / NATN Director
It's been two weeks since Rob wrote this wonderful tribute for our site and nearly four weeks since Joe's death. But I still can't seem to shake my sense of incredible loss.
I was lucky enough to meet Joe and see him perform in my hometown just nine months ago after a lifetime of worshipping his music. The performance he and his Mescaleros put on was nothing short of astonishing. I had just returned from a trip abroad earlier that week and I was sick with a God-awful head cold. But the concert was still among the ten-best I've ever seen in my life.
Earlier in the day, Jonathan Cohen and I interviewed Joe in a hotel pub on Gramercy Park. I asked him if he thought he was on a roll, and without hesitation or arrogance he responded with a firm "Yeah, I'm on a roll."
As I stood watching him on stage, he walked the talk. The man was magnetic. When he took on an audience, his energy turned him into a giant. All his new material -- most of which I'd never heard before -- just blew me away. And his old songs touched a place deep inside my spirit. Despite my illness, I felt as alive as one can feel. Joe rocked Brooklyn hard that night. And he shook me to my core.
I thought seriously about going to the remaining three nights of his stay in town, but I just told myself he'd be back. I subsequently went into a Clash/Strummer listening kick that lasted thru the summer -- just trying to get my fix of Joe.
I was on vacation with my family the day I heard he died. I saw a headline in a shitty newspaper and immediately started feeling the effects. As I told Rob after reading his article, the thing that really bothered me that day -- the thing I couldn't relate to anyone with me and the thing that still haunts me now -- is the fact I am not going to hear his voice live again. And when I registered the headline, tears welled in my eyes knowing I was never going to see him again.
I raise my cup to Joe. This is my thanks for giving me The Clash, London Calling, Combat Rock and the rest of your old albums -- music I started learning when I could barely walk, music that still gets me singing today. And here's a special cheer to Sandinista -- your most under-recognized album, which I know you held dear. And finally, here's a toast to your new work, especially your amazing Global A-Go-Go, which I've been consumed by since your passing.
You were a legend Joe. I'll miss ya.
JONATHAN COHEN / NATN Associate Editor
I was a latecomer to The Clash, even though I can clearly remember watching the "Rock The Casbah" on MTV at age 6 and wondering who the hell these people were and why they felt the need to torment me with an armadillo.
At some point, I wised up and began to realize what a revolutionary group The Clash was, and how truly influential its sound has been to the next generation of rock bands. I was the beneficiary of Sony's Clash catalog reissue in recent years, and slowly but surely I soaked up these songs and was pleasantly surprised at how much they resonated with me.
In the spring of 2000, I attended SPIN magazine's 10th anniversary blowout in New York. Joe and the Mescaleros were one of the first bands to play that night, and even though the room wasn't even full, they summoned a level of energy that I had rarely experienced. They absolutely rocked, whether it was on old Clash songs or their own material. At the time, I thought to myself that this was one of the best sets I had seen in years, maybe ever. But for some reason, I never made the effort to see the band again in the ensuing weeks and months, perhaps just assuming that the opportunity would present itself anyway.
Luckily, about two years later, Ben French and I were given the opportunity to interview Joe while he and the Mescaleros were in New York for a multiple-night stand in Brooklyn. We were ushered into the bar at a hotel in Gramercy Park to find Joe sitting at a small table, with a pint glass of beer, equipment for hand rolling cigarettes, and a strange looking beverage in a plastic cup spread out in front of him. He looked like he needed a long nap, but his enthusiasm for rock'n'roll never waned throughout our conversation. He had no illusions about his place in rock history -- he simply wanted to go out every night and rock the roof off of whatever venue was hosting the show.
As Ben and I traded off questions, I couldn't help but get a little starstruck by the fact that Joe Strummer was sitting an arm's length away from me. The more he discussed how much he was enjoying working with the Mescaleros, the more excited I got to see the group play later that night. I also got a kick out of the fact that in between sips of beer or puffs of his cigarette, Joe would glance at the oddly colored drink on the table. At one point he told us that someone suggested he purchase it to combat the jet lag, but it sat there, barely touched. It was as if those around Joe began to worry about the wear-and-tear of his lifestyle and were trying to interject subtle hints that he look out a little more closely for his own health.
The concert that night was without a doubt one of the best I have ever, ever seen. Joe was a marvel of charisma, and his band barely missed a note. My friend and I found ourselves "time traveling" on a number of occasions, as if the pure power of the band's music had warped us back to London in the late '70s, when The Clash first began blowing minds. Although I am no photographic wiz, I somehow managed to come up with some pretty awesome images of Joe rocking out (pictured on this page).
Flash forward to late December 2002. I was sound asleep in my childhood bed in Ohio when my brother burst into the room: "Joe Strummer died." I didn't even know what was happening. I ran into the other room and began surfing the Web in hopes that he was wrong. When it became clear that he wasn't, I didn't know what to do. I pounded my fists against the desk. I wanted to punch a hole through the wall. Joe seemed so excited about what lay ahead of him. And now he was gone, way too soon.
In weeks since, I have been listening to The Clash and to Global A Go-Go non-stop, to the point of annoyance to the people that sit near me at work. It has been the one thing to give me comfort: Joe left such a storied musical legacy behind that we will always be able to remember him fondly by dropping the laser on "White Riot," "Janie Jones," or "The Magnificent Seven."
Thanks for all of it, Joe. You will be sorely missed.
RODEO ROB / NATN Contributor
Joe Strummer is dead.
Man, I don't think I'll ever fully accept that. Joe Strummer can't be dead. How can a man with his energy, spirit, legacy and potential be dead?
How can Keith Richards, Mick Jagger, Ozzy Osbourne and other rockers who tormented their bodies with more booze and drugs than Joe Strummer ever could have, still be alive?
How can someone with so much left to give be dead?
I know, life's not fair. And I have no way of really trying to capture the raw emotion I felt when I heard the worst news I've received in a long time.
"I heard the news," my friend wrote me that Monday morning. "I heard on the radio about Joe Strummer and immediately thought of you."
"What news," I thought. "What about Joe?"
I snooped around on the Intenet, because even though my friend left the basic hints that he was, in fact, dead, I needed confirmation. Maybe he just got into an accident and is in a coma, or maybe he quit music for a life of peace and harmony as a monk or something. Certainly he's not dead.
Then there it was, right on the front of both the New York Times website and on Yahoo! News. "Clash leader Joe Strummer dead at 50," read one headline. "Punk rocker Strummer found dead," another said.
I couldn't get to his Web site, because half the world was also trying to find the same confirmation I was. If he was really gone, it would be on his Web site.
And after a few clicks of the reload button, there it was:
"Joe Strummer died yesterday."
Simply stated. And perhaps most appropriate, as it was sudden, shocking, completely out of the blue. As if God himself stepped in and said, "That's it, Strummer, I need you up here. Now."
I didn't know how to feel. I mean, this is a man whose music and lyrics literally held me captive for my entire adolescent life. I remember having a few friends in middle school, but they didn't know much about the Clash, so I didn't have time for them. I remember getting chills every time I saw "Rock The Casbah" on MTV, or heard any tune on the radio, or found even the slightest blurb about the band in Rolling Stone.
To say I was obsessed is putting it lightly, and I'm not going to even attempt to go any further than that now. Whatever I write will not do it justice.
Neither will any tribute, or any pithy quotes from rockstars who claimed The Clash wrote the rulebook for them. Bands don't write books, they add chapters to the book that's already been written.
And they certainly don't write any rules. Bands like The Clash broke the rules. Men like Joe Strummer were bound to no rules. There was no law, just possibilities and the future.
Few rockers were as serious as Strummer, yet few were as down to earth and, well, real. He'd chastise his fans who he felt did not realize the seriousness and importance of life. It's your future, he'd say. Grab it by the throat. Don't tell me I'm great, do something with your life.
He was always looking forward, always looking for something that probably wasn't out there, but that wasn't stopping him.
Listen to "Mega Bottle Ride" from his last album Global A Go-Go and you'll see what I mean. He writes about crashing into the "Fourth Dimension," only to find out that "it had certain similarities" to this one, like no smoking anywhere and people "Balkanizing" themselves even further.
But don't think that when he got there he didn't try to make a change.
"Don't think we didn't dance to records by the fifth dimension," he said.
Somehow, I think that lyric outlines everything great about Strummer. No matter where he was, he looked for more. For that next dimension. He was never satisfied.
And no words, no songs, no tribute could ever satisfy his legacy.
Thank you, Joe. You taught me about life, and I can never repay you for that.
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