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The Boy Scouts really are good training for being a journalist (or pseudo-journalist, or pasty-faced blogger, however you want to refer to your intrepid Seattlest contributors as): Like those scouts with their trusty Swiss army knives, rule one is "Be Prepared." Alas, last night, we were decidedly not prepared.
Admittedly, who could blame us? We've been hassled at more than one club's door for trying to carry in a voice recorder, and why bring a notepad to a concert? After all, it's those fleeting moments that stick with you until the next morning, when you sit down to peck out your couple hundred carefully chosen words, that are worth repeating, not some high-falutin' stream-of-consciousness narrative you try to jot down in the midst of the event in a bad imitation of Hunter S. Thompson. You're supposed to be paying attention to the show, not your own narcissistic prose.
So long story short, we showed up expecting the same old rigmarole: name on the list, watch the show, never see our erstwhile hosts, try to snap some shots, and head home for a highball of Jameson and then sleep. And so, just past eleven last night, we found ourselves standing backstage at Chop Suey, in front of the green room door, with nary a tool of our putative trade on our person (even our camera had crapped out at this point), as the tour manager for Carbon/Silicon waited to escort us in to meet Mick Jones.
Damn!
Secondary to this, but no less important, was the question of what exactly we should ask. Our initial impulse is the same as anyone else: What was Joe Strummer like? How did it feel laying down the tracks for London Calling? What was up with Big Audio Dynamite? (Actually, we did ask that last one, but more in a "You went from guitar-driven punk to whatever BAD was back to guitar-driven punk. Explain" sort of way. Answer: "The Clash was punk. We thought Big Audio Dynamite was punk.") But experience has taught us that the only artists who want to talk about the past and tell war stories are the ones who are being forgotten, who want to reclaim a little bit of the lime-light, bask in their memories of past fame. Carbon/Silicon may not have singles climbing the Billboard Modern Rock charts, but a lack of notoriety is the least of Mick Jones' problems. We're sure he would have indulged us a bit, with a weary look of resignation, and told a couple old anecdotes that feel all too well rehearsed from repetition. But we decided to spare him the trouble and stick to the present.
Lanky and balding, face glistening with the last bit of post-concert sweat, and drinking a bottle of Heineken, Jones was sitting next to us on an abused old couch in the green room talking about touring small clubs again, about the joy he and Tony James (Carbon/Silicon's guitarist and founding bassist of Generation X) had being in front of the people again. Eventually, our conversation turned to the strangely large number of couples who, nearly twenty minutes after the show, were still making out in Chop Suey. We pointed out how after all these years he was still getting guys laid, apparently, which he chuckled at and made some comment about how that was the point, right?, before launching into an explanation of how you got girls in his hometown (he amusingly chose to specify: London). Point one was DIY, that was what it's all about; I didn't catch point two, point three was storage space (flats are expensive in London), but the important thing, he stressed, was the DIY ethos. Self-sufficiency. The legacy of punk, a movement and style he played so central a role in creating when he, Paul Simonon and Joe Strummer were first introduced in a trashy flat in Shepherd's Bush over 30 years ago.
Choosing to quit while we were ahead, we excused ourselves after only a few minutes, likely offending the equally friendly Tony James in the process (our discussion with him extended no further than a "hello-goodbye" handshake; besides inquiring if he'd run into Billy Idol lately, we had nothing to ask).
Outside Chop Suey, past the rope the club had put up to hold off the admittedly few people still waiting for the chance to snap a shot of Jones, we wandered off into the bitterly cold night, strangely moved by the experience. Of the show itself, what's there to say? A couple aging punks performing music that's pretty by-the-book? We wish we could say it's phenomenal and you should totally go buy The Last Post, their first full length album (a lot of their music is available as free mp3s here), but the truth is that most of you, like us, will be less interested in what these legendary musicians are doing today than in their past achievements, and compared to The Clash, what doesn't pale in comparison?
So to home and our highball glass we went, wondering (and at the same time, knowing) exactly why we were so star-struck with a man whose musical prime was long since past him, whereas we've met and been perfectly comfortable with a number of the hot young bands who get the kids at Pitchfork all riled up. Idol worship? Perhaps. But have you heard London Calling? Nothing more needs be said.
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