Would-be fame seekers:
The final band submission deadline for Austin's South
by Southwest Music and Media showcase is Nov. 15.
Call (512) 467-7979 for details on how to get the love.
I saw Joe Strummer the other night, as alive as you
or me.
Last Tuesday's Roseland Theater shakedown by the rock and
roll genius who stoked the blast furnace of The Clash
made for something of a climactic moment in my life. I spent
most of my teenage years memorizing every growl and twill
on The Story of the Clash, years before I became
way too cool to cop to buying greatest-hits compilations.
Strummer's incredibly thin solo catalogue (those late '70s
years of sparking riots, cutting epic albums and lugging
pop softie Mick Jones' weight must have worn on him)
made me despair of ever clapping eyes on this British bulldog,
so his swing through Rose City had me in a fever.
If Princess Di's crash-up proved anything, it proved
that we Americans harbor some disturbing royalist switch
in our reptile brains. We may talk an egalitarian, republican
game, but give us some half-important Limey to love and
backflips ensue. From the moment I strolled into the Roseland's
cavernous interior, it was plain that Strummer's call was
the punk-rock equivalent of a royal visit. Delegations from
numerous subcultural tribes turned up to pay their respects
to the squat godfather: worker-pride skinhead types, neo-'77
leather boys, saucer-eyed teenage girls, coiffed mods and
gently graying types who looked like refugees from a Midwestern
creative-writing school.
Strummer himself plainly felt his old punk bones rattling,
investing his raw-throated vocals with all the soul that
marked the Clash's most hair-raising moments. Fronting a
laddish, très anglais backing band of fellas
who were about 11 minutes old when London Calling
dropped, Strummer would not be caged. Heckled by some joker
up front, he dropped his guitar and dove into the crowd
looking for action. Nervous security dudes soon escorted
him back to the stage.
Aside from that brief foray into the masses, Strummer left
it all up there. He no longer pulls off the antic leg-pumping
of his 20s, but he stalked his domain like a meat-starved
panther, spitting the lyrics of his surprisingly good new
songs with the same venom he lent to the liberal dose of
Clash classics. During his earlier promo appearance at Music
Millennium, he offered to put the whole crowd on the guest
list in light of the hefty $21.50 Roseland cover. If that
didn't mark him as punk 'til death, the stream of sweat
and spittle hanging from his face by set's end did.
The encore climaxed with the spaced-out Cockney reggae
meditation "Straight to Hell." As Strummer lilted lyrics
inspired by the surreal terrors of recent history--"Y'wanna
join in a chorus/ Of the AmerAsian blues/ When it's Christmas
out in Ho Chi Minh City/ Kiddie say papa-papa-papasan take
me home"--I gave the 20th Century a goodbye kiss. Death
or glory, kids.
Daydream
Nation Special Correspondent
John Graham reports:
As old lefty Strummer played to Generation Next, the
hippie haven up the street (i.e., the Crystal Ballroom)
hosted the Spitfire Tour, where Everclear's
Art Alexakis joined Jello Biafra, Exene
Cervenkova, Michael Franti, Kennedy and
Krist Novoselic for a night of spoken-word semi-lectures,
insurgent chitchat and liberal proselytizing. Lake Oswego's
wise-cracking Kennedy provided the sole voice of the Right
(though adversity-steeled Alexakis wasn't offering too many
spiritual hugs, either). Emcee Franti (of Spearhead
and Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy fame) owned the
show with his smooth banter, a cappella raps and overall
effervescence. Biafra was also a fave of the idealistic
youth--if not the reason most kids dished out 15 bills in
the first place--but his bit was essentially a Cliff's Notes
version of previous routines. After he finished, the event
transformed into an extended Q&A session, with earlier
diatribes replaced by a more useful dialogue. The world
wasn't saved, of course, nor were any radical solutions
proposed, but in its own tiny way, Spitfire did take one
minuscule step forward for mankind--even if mankind probably
took five steps back the next day.
NOTES:
Speaking of idealistic youth, the Glass Factory saga
continues. Fresh from a markedly uncopacetic go-'round with
Fire Inspector Mike Olley, Glass Factory owner Todd
Patrick faces a bill of up to $10,000 to make code-mandated
improvements to the would-be all-ages club at 309 SE Pine
St. While Patrick hopes to wrangle in-kind trades and labor
donations to bring the tab down to around $5,000, he's also
soliciting help from the punk and indie crowds the Glass
Factory hopes to draw. To drum up cash, Patrick's offering
a three-month pass to the club for $50. For further details,
email theglassfactory@hotmail.com.
'Tis the season of giving, almost, eh?
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Willamette Week | originally
published November 10,
1999
|
