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Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 11, 2004 || 9:09 pm

Dear Paul Simonon,

I’m sorry that you had to be the first (and indeed, the only) to suffer the shame. It has notathing at all to do with you. You couldn’t help it: Look what you were up against.

Yes sir, Pauly-doll, I am indeed apologetic that you carry the stigma of being the first (and again, only) bass player I’ve ever thrown over for a lead singer. In your very real defense, it could not be helped.

He was Joe Fucking Strummer, after all.

Love and Rockets,

Jett “Anybody Seen Joe?” Superior

These two put the 'lash' in The Clash.

So, the other day I was home throwing down a turkey sandwich (whole wheat, fresh spinach, spicy mustard) when the phone rang. Some guy identifies himself, starts firing off questions at me –albeit nicely enough– regarding our cable and some service upgrade he’s supposed to do and “Isthisthebestwaytogettoyourhouse, ma’am?”

This poor fella committed two distinct offenses: He started lobbing questions to me before I could suss out and get a grip on the situation, and that fucker Ma’amed me.

So the long and the short of it is, Maxim ordered an upgrade to our cable –specifically, a DVR box– and neglected to tell me. So there I was, giving this guy (SERIAL KILLER!! SEEEERIAAAALLL KEEEELLERRRRR!) unhealthy doses of my suspicion and the poor dude was just doing his freaking job. aside: Maxim got a spanking for a 411 offense /aside

Let’s hear it, everybody: “AWWWWWW, cable-tech-personman, AWWWWW!”

So the situation was cleared up with a quick call to the spousal unit and a genuine, truly heartfelt apology (albeit telephonic) from Your Gracious Hostess. When I got back home, there was a brand-new, shiny Bouncing Baby Black Box Of Digital Potential. Technology and I, I should remind you, are very passive-aggressive toward one another: It is a truly, truly love-hate, slobbery kinda relationship.

And, like a wonderful gift from the Cosmos, Maxim casually tossed off, “Oh, the first movie I recorded was Rude Boy.” I tore into him, snarling, and took him right there on the rug in plain view of that DVR box. With my Docs still laced.

Okay, not really, the kids were still awake and meandering about the domicile. But I wanted to.

That wonderful hunk of man, he’d christened the box in the best of all possible ways. Rude Boy. RUDE. BOY.

“You seen it before?” he asked, the dear lamb.

My eyeballs made a sound something akin to ‘AhhOOOOOgah’ all cartoony-style and popped four inches out of my head.

“You ever see that Grateful Dead movie ovair on the shelf?”

[ed. note: For those of you that are new around these parts and therefore unaware that we are an anomalic couple in that he is a smelly hippie and I'm a bonaFIDE punk rock girl, the previous was a rhetorical question.]

So I’ve been playing this movie for two days, pausing, rewinding, slo-mo-ing, droo-ooling, and just being generally agape at the screen which lovingly sends glimpses of Joe Strummer out to me. I’m so taken with Joe that I even find the way he sends a fat string of saliva to the stage –without even blinking– while performing endearing. Oh Mr. Mellor, would that all the guys were like you, chipped tooth, shorter than me and all.

Before I was aware of bands like the Sex Pistols and the Buzzcocks and The Slits and the (later but oh-so-yesssss) Dead Kennedys, The Clash came into my field of vision. They set the stage for much musical discovery in my formative years. These guys weren’t particularly outlandish in their mode of dress (they looked for all the world like tired schoolboys who’d shrugged on whatever fell under their hands upon waking) or hairstyle. They looked like anypluggedinbody else standing there strung up in instruments and sound equipment.

Until they started to play, that is. I can even tell you what I was wearing the first time I saw them; bare feet are conducive to electrified, wiggling toes and a blue, floor-length nightgown enhances (rather than inhibits) the throwing about of the body, propelled by sound. Here was music, here was Music, here was MUSIC all trucked-up and set tensely on “GO!” at any given moment, just like me. It quickly found a home beneath my breastbone, wrapped up all cozy around my heart.

I still wore plastic barrettes when I became a fan of punk. I still had a couple (barely-regarded, badly-treated) Barbies lying around. I still called my father ‘Daddy’ and assigned him godlike status.

Joe Strummer and company woke me up. I only wish I’d been afforded the opportunity to see the fellas live and in person while they were still together. What a time we’d've had.

(pee ess….the Pope, he wear Docs.)

9 worked it out »

  1. blamb 8.12.2004

    What colour are his laces?

     
  2. CNL 8.12.2004

    You got *THE DVR*???

    oooooohhhh!

    (See how I am? I get all hung up on the technology, and glaze right over all the other stuff. heh.)

     
  3. SmedRock 8.12.2004

    Ah the Clash, for 5 years I had the Combat Rock LP NAILED to my wall with a 13 penny nail. That happed the day after I picked up everything else they made on CD.

    Oh and DVR’s are da’bomb….

     
  4. skillzy 8.12.2004

    I’ve got my Best of The Clash CD’s in heavy rotation in the Saturncar ceedee player, and London Calling on standby at the turntable in the house. The other day a kid came in McDonald’s with a London Calling t-shirt on, and my daughter recognized it immediately. Gotta raise em up right, yanno.

     
  5. Skillzy 8.12.2004

    Pee Ess – since I don’t have a DVR, can I come watch Rude Boys at your house? And can I wear my jammies so we can have a cuddle party? All the cool kids are doing it.

     
  6. Jettomatika 8.12.2004

    blamb: I would think that if they’re not the standard Papal Whilte (as that link says his docs are) , they’d be blue.

    Wouldn’t you figger?

     
  7. tired aching hans 8.12.2004

    the clash..I actually said “no” to seeing them for “combat rock”. It was one of those touching moments between a father and son when you find yourself outside the show (which was right next to a different event we had just got out of) where my father asks: “so, would you like to go to this concert?” A young hans’s mind reels and answers ‘no’ rather than go to the show with his dad. *duh*

    chock that up with missing REM for “fables of the reconstruction” in 1985 at williams AFB NCO club as most notable concert d’oh moments.

    speaking of concerts, I am on a whopping 3 hours of sleep, having just attended last night’s stan ridgway show at the “world famous” rhythm room.

    It was a trully incredible show – under 200 people complete with a meet and greet afterwards. a far different experience from the stadium show I saw him at 13 years ago.

     
  8. red clay 8.12.2004

    i seen the clash. not the sex pistols, but the clash. and minutemen, the slits, the misfits, black flag during the 5 minutes they were good, the violent femmes when they were still angry (i am physically incapable of not mentioning the review. “gordon gano can empty a room faster than a methane explosion.”) yeah, yeah. i know he stole it. but so what? husker du, and rem before stipe started singin in english.the ramones.

    so many more. but what london calling let me know was there was life past the adolescent anger. cause mostly, the anger was just hormonal confusion. the hormonal stew makes you want to thrash round and kick people in the teeth. girls kilt my music career. you lose the anger , you don’t want to scream at crowds anymore. and then you start doin hank, and jimmie rodgers. fun to scream the fust few times, but then all you want to do is yodel. yodel blues and george jones, and who wants to mosh to that? girls will do it to you. a pretty girl will suck the anger out like poison. sugared with love and whiskey, she won’t even taste it.

     
  9. SmedRock 8.13.2004

    Their be widom in the suckin’ out the poison part. Amen. :)

     

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