5-14-84: Mercifully, the Final Chapter

What would you say if, completely unexpectedly, you found yourself face-to-face with one of your true heroes?

The answer in my case is, not much.

* * *

Our momentary fear of being beckoned into the long arm of the law for our midget blunt faux pas passed quickly, being replaced first by confusion and then giddy anticipation.

We were in a dingy, over lit, tiled hallway with maybe 25 other sweaty post-concert revelers. No one was entirely sure why they were here, but everyone made damn sure to act like they were.

With no particular fanfare, the Clash were suddenly in our midst. They materialized unannounced, drifting into the crowd the way we ourselves had moments before. There were no beefy security guards or laminate-wearing hangers on trailing them. It was just them and us.

Joe Strummer was 8 feet away, moving patiently but deliberately toward the exit, signing autographs and making small talk as he went. My first observation was that his mohawk was redder than it appeared under the stage lights. And, that he was a full head-and-a-half shorter than I.

And then: My GOD, it's JOE FUCKING STRUMMER! And he's right.......here......now.

He was upon me in an instant, close enough that I could detect the stale, acrid smell of cigarette smoke emanating from him.

This was my moment. I grasped for something memorable to say; something pithy, or topical. Something that adequately expressed how immensely cool it felt to actually be backstage and inches away from a guy whose words and music had freed my mind from the soul sucking oblivion of whitebread middle class America in the early 1980's.

Something that would make JOE FUCKING STRUMMER take notice.

In the end, the best I could do was, "Thanks, Joe." I might've even whispered it.

He nodded, glanced (up) at me briefly, signed my ticket stub with a green felt tip pen and mumbled an indecipherable, monosyllabic reply. He never stopped moving. Thirty seconds later, he had cleared through the awestruck gaggle and was out the back door, heading toward Cleveland, or Detroit, or Wichita Falls to do it all over again.

It was an exchange that ended in a flash. And nearly a quarter century later, I remember it like it happened this morning. I may sometimes forget my children's names, or my wedding anniversary. But I will never forget my five seconds with Joe Strummer.

***

CODA

I don't have heroes like that anymore. I'm either too old, or I just don't have the time. Regardless, it's been a long time since a poet or musician or writer or actor or anyone other than maybe the doctors who delivered my children have left me truly in awe.

Yet, here above my desk, little changed from the day it was spit out of the Ticketron machine 24 years ago, I have that ticket stub with the surprisingly legible green signature on it. It ranks among my prized possessions, less for what it actually is than for what it represents. It is a moment of time captured; a lightning bolt of chance, imprinted forever on a yellowing slip of paper.

The Clash disbanded following that 1984 tour. (Editors note: My bad here. They actually limped along into 1985.)

Joe Strummer died of congenital heart failure at his home in England on Dec. 22, 2002. I wept that day.

The following spring, the Clash were inducted into the rock 'n roll hall of fame.

If I were given the moment over again-if I could travel back in time and relive my brief encounter with him, with all of the hindsight and wisdom I could carry, I'd probably still simply say, "Thanks, Joe."

* * *

For those of you who've commented on the earlier Clash posts, noting that you were mere babes-in-arms when all this went down, or for all of you who were there but might have forgotten.....

THIS is what a rock 'n roll band looks like: