5-14-84, Pt II

(Okay. I guess this beast is going to stretch to three parts. Thanks to those who stick with it, I don't know why you would. Part 1 can be found here.)

The first thing I noticed when we stepped out of the parking garage were the ladies in furs. Several of them, heading in the same direction we were.

Cloaked in expensive pelts and reeking of too much perfume, they perched their wrists daintily in the crooks of their respective well-dressed husbands arms. I shook my head and blinked hard, wondering if perhaps the moon tea had already started working its peculiar magic.

Was there a new punk dress code I had failed to note in the pages of 'Creem' or 'Trouser Press'? A "be-the-rich' ethos that escaped my attention?

In a flash, I remembered. While we headed one direction to see the Clash, Milwaukee's hoi-polloi were heading the other, gathering in the adjacent, much larger sports arena for an evening with Frank Sinatra. The Chairman of the Board and The Only Band That Matters, seperated by mere yards of brick and steel. It was a one time, chance summit of hepcats and mad punks.

In a flash of blazing white light, the show was on. The Clash stormed from the wings and burst without hesitation into "London Calling." We were ten feet from the stage apron, close enough to feel the heat from the lights and the pulsing kick of the bass drum. There was a palpable wall of sound, the sound of an aircraft taking flight, sound so thick and loud I could feel it rattling my teeth.

I'd love to say I remember every detail, every song. I don't (thankfully, I found the archived setlist yesterday.) I remember that it was a long, powerful show. I remember making a couple mad dash beer runs during the 'Cut the Crap' numbers. I remember thinking that if this band was Clash-lite, the real version would have damn near killed me.

But I vividly remember Joe.

He hovered over us like a derelict apparition, skin translucent, wearing a sleeveless white work shirt, camoflauge pants and motorcycle boots. He wore sunglasses, and sported a ferocious looking mohawk. He never stopped moving.

He prowled the stage like an angry panther, stomping his boots, shaking his head, raising his right fist to the heavens before pounding it into his chest. He brandished his battered Telecaster like an AK-47 locked and loaded for battle. When he sang, his face furrowed into a mask of righteous indignation, veins bulging in his temples. He mopped his brow dramatically with an open hand, fell to his knees, sang from his back.

It was far and away the coolest fucking thing I had ever seen.

The whole thing ended too quickly, leaving us stunned and stone cold deaf in the unforgiving dull glow of the Auditorium houselights. The crusty old ushers were in no mood for malingerers, and rushed us swiftly toward the exits.

Neither Kev nor I could quite turn off the buzz that quickly. We wanted just a little more. We decided to head over to the loading dock, where the semi-trucks and band bus were parked, hang out and maybe catch a glimpse of Joe on his way out.

Then as now, I do not abide standing idle very well. After ten minutes, I grew agitated and suggested we head out for a beer. Kev advocated for another couple of minutes patience, surreptitiously rolled a joint, and sparked it to life.

Almost simultaneously, the back door banged open, and a gruff looking security guy called over to us.

"Hey-you wanna come inside?"

Assuming we were very kindly being busted for our minor marijuana indiscretion, we considered bolting down the street, but thought the better of it. Kev snuffed and tossed the evidence, and we headed toward the open door.

"I'm blaming it all on you," I mumbled nervously. I don't recall Kev laughing at this.