The Day the Music Died

I remember the first time I heard the Clash with a clarity that I’m sure rivals the memories my parents have of hearing of JFK, MLK, or Bobby Kennedy’s assassinations.  My young life was irrevocably affected by this culture shift as I’m sure my parents’ lives were by theirs.

If I could type with my eyes closed I would do so to recall the exact details of the event.  I was in grade 7.  It was January 1981 and I was in Bon Accord Junior High in Bon Accord, Alberta.  We had an inside lunch that day, probably because the temperature, with wind-chill was most likely somewhere in the vicinity of -30 or -35 and the school board didn’t want to get sued for allowing their students to succumb to frost bite.  I had a cool teacher that year; a young, new teacher, Miss Albrecht.  She allowed us to use a turn table so we could bring in records on inside days.  We just had to agree and take turns on the music so there was no “fighting” for the use of the record player.

Agreement on music that year was actually pretty easy.  Who didn’t want to listen to Back in Black¸ Dirty Deeds, CODA, or The Long Run?  There was something decidedly wrong with you if you didn’t like ACDC or Led Zepplin or The Eagles in 1981.  Hell, we even let Bob Seger have a turn on the table.  Really, there was only 1 rule – NO DISCO!  I think Brent Pawluk made that rule and he was the one who spun the wax – no one could get near it.  He was our lunch hour DJ.

He was the lunch hour DJ who, tired of the ACDC and the Zepplin, he brought in the record, imported from England, he got for Christmas that year – either he ordered it with xmas funds or someone had the foresight to know it was something he would like.  Either way, Brent brought London Calling to our lunch hour music sesh on a frigid January afternoon and changed my life forever.

When those now infamous riffs, the opening to the title track, hammered into my head I was instantly intrigued with the sound.  I had never heard anything like it and never knew I needed to.  I was a Tom Petty fan already and knew I loved raw guitar sounds.  The first time I heard Joe Strummer’s guitar I knew I had found a music that was me. A music separate from my parents, separate from Elvis and The Beatles, even separate from The Stones whom I loved so much. 

This music was mine and mine alone.  It was angry and determined and rebellious in a way that Elvis and The Stones only wished they could be and Zepplin and The Beatles never could be.  The songs brought up important social issues like racism, classism, and the impact on society of greed and consumerism. 

What our parents taught us was bullshit, according to The Clash and other punk bands.  The punks looked bad ass, had great hair and makeup and were all about fucking shit up and making the world better.  There was no patience for sit-ins and pot smoking of the hippy generation.  The punks were going to force change or light it all on fire so they could star anew.

I wanted that kind of rebellion.  I wanted to hold the Molotov cocktail in the new Revolution, I wanted to fight along side the Sandanistas, and force the rich to take care of the poor.  I wanted government to stop bullying the sick, the old, and the mentally ill.  I wanted the world to take responsibility for the fucking mess it had made of the world I inherited!  I was sick of feeling afraid of the looming nuclear apocalypse and I wanted a guarantee that when I graduated from uni I would have a job – if I wanted one.

The deeper I went into the music, stories, and legend of Joe Strummer and the Clash, the more I learned that this music, this band, and this man was everything I wanted, all of those things I listed – and much, much more.

Some 30 years after my first hearing of London Calling and 10 years after the death of Joe Strummer, I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this band and this man were/are the only band that matters.  They/he is/was my voice, my platform, my words.  I have the fuel and the strength to be what my husband has dubbed me: “a righteous warrior” because in Grade 7, on a frigid January afternoon, Brent Pawluk brought a record to school and said to me:  “hey, I have a record I want you to listen to because it’s fucking cool and I think you’d like it.”

Thanks, Brent.

Thanks, Miss Albrecht.

And

Thanks Joe/John.

I don’t want to imagine what would have happened to me if you hadn’t saved me from Disco.

Blessed be all of you…lots of kids thank you.