ALL THE YOUNG PUNKS:
A
TRIBUTE TO
JOE STRUMMER
By: Lugar
Backwash
(With David
Kootnikoff)
Once upon a time I was in a band. A punk band. Tonight, after a decade of being apart, we're reuniting for a tribute gig in honor of Joe. Joe Strummer.
ThE rIgHt
PrOfILe
I
met Joe three times. The first time was in '79. The Clash had
come to play Vancouver and I saw him by chance on the street.
I had
just entered high
school and was harboring a gooey affection for all things hippie,
like Woodstock and faded denim. I recognized his face from
Creem magazine
and I
knew that along with the Sex Pistols, The Clash conveyed a
dangerous concoction of spit and menace known as "punk". Even Graham Nash, the
arbiter of hippiedom, felt morally compelled to condemn it. But here was a
real live star looking as sharp as a blade in combat boots and a
motorcycle jacket...I had to do something. So I asked him to sign the only
thing I had in my hand; a brand new copy of Deep Purple's 1974 opus,
"Stormbringer". He looked me up and down, chuckled and said, "Like
trousers, like brain." As he walked away, I glanced down at my trousers: I
was wearing Big Blue bell-bottom flares. I immediately turned around and
exchanged the vacuum cleaner riffs of "Stormbringer" for the short sharp
shock of "Give 'Em Enough Rope."
A VoLaTiLe
MoLoToV
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|
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Clutching my loot, I shot back to the placid
surroundings of my wood-paneled, shag-carpeted living room and carefully
placed the needle on the vinyl. As the opening caterwaul of "Safe
EuropeanHome" kicked in, something physical hit me; my face twisted into
contortions of awe and pleasure. Then my hands began to tremble as the
venomous spark of "English Civil War" and "Tommy Gun" exploded into the
room. Never had I heard, or felt anything like it before. The
foundation of my little anti-septic suburban world was collapsing before
my eyes. Joe's voice, rude and urgent, shredded through the speakers as
though his guts were in every syllable...as though my life
depended on it. Like most cataclysmic events, it was frightening and took
some time to sink in. After it did, and I was able to make sense of it
all, nothing was the same. From that moment on, I knew I wouldn't wait for
a green light ever again; I had to decide for myself when to stay or when
to go.
The next day I burned my flares and all my other Deep
Purple LPs. No more Elvis, Beatles, or the Rolling Stones; London was
calling and I was answering.
LeT FuRy HaVe ThE
HoUr
Not
long after, I formed a band, The Cheep Hoods, and changed my name.
No more fairy-fart titles, now it became Lugar Backwash; hard,
ugly...intense.
We
were a four piece with me on rhythm and vocals like Joe, Bongo Jazz
on bass, Toe Jam on drums, and our very own guitar hero, Astro
Rush on lead.
We didn?ft go to school much-we had Joe.
We wrote our own
songs,"Pissed Off (We Are)", "Time For A Little Violence",
and one for our teachers, the crowd favorite, "Scratchin' the Blackboard":
Scatchin' the blackboard
There's nothin' more to
do
Scatchin' the blackboard
Cuz we're sick of you!
But we also did a lot of covers- The Ramones, The
Undertones, even Blue Oyster Cult and of course, The Clash.
Our
first gig was at the Smilin' Buddha, Vancouver's own CBGB's. We backed
up Dead On Arrival (D.O.A.) and Shanghai Dog. I still have the
poster:
THE DAWNING OF A NEW
ERROR
WITH
D.O.A.
SHANGHAI DOG & THE CHEEP
HODS
I know, they spelt our name wrong. At least "Cheep" was punk and it was intentional. "Hods" was
just embarrassing. Unfortunately for us, it stuck. This was our first lesson
in the power of the media.
iNsTInCt...nOt iNTelLecT
I
met Joe again in 1985 during those fallow years when he was carrying the
Clash flag with a new gang of young punks. The venue was the PNE Gardens,
a 4000 seater that was usually reserved for livestock conventions
involving the plaid and wooly. It was a strange night. I had downed a
mickey of lemon gin before the gig and got kicked out for trying to stage
dive. But the fates handed me a second chance. When the doors flung open
to throw another poor sucker out, I shot back in like a greased pig.
Towards the end of the gig half of the crowd got on stage with the
band, including me. When the boys broke into "White Riot" I started
foaming at the mouth. I got next to Joe and put my arm around him
screaming, "Joe, you mobster!" We began to pogo together. It was pure
bliss...for a moment. Then it happened. I vomited all over his left
shoulder.
" Gor...?!?"
Wincing, he gagged and pushed me
away. I limped off the stage, dribbling all down the front of my
Sandinista t-shirt.
PoLiCE & ThIeVeS
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The next year The Cheep Hods played a music festival at Expo '86. We were all lagered up and Bongo decided to upstage everyone by dropping his pants in the middle of our cover of Blue Oyster Cult's mighty "Godzilla":
Oh no, there goes Tokyo
There goes Godzilla!
Unfortunately for some, Bongo was neither a boxers nor
briefs kind of guy; he was as white and bumpy as a newly plucked chicken.
Within seconds the plug was pulled and the festival was cancelled. Bongo
was arrested and hit with one count for public indecency. The next
morning, The Province newspaper printed a photo of Bongo wearing a
Canadian flag wrapped around his loins. He became a legend.
The
Cheep Hods took some flak for ending the festival before all the other
bands had a chance to play, but some things are more important. We had
made a point that was bigger than any one band alone. Corporate music
festivals suck. If you can't handle a guy swinging his tackle, look the
other way. Who needs the police to enforce taste? What kind of animals are
we?!
WhAt ArE WE GoNnA dO
NoW?
Soon after the Expo 'incident' Astro dropped
a brick: he was quitting the band to run a mini-golf course in
northern Ontario. For a
moment we were lost. Our very own guitar hero leaving us for mini-golf!
Like Joe and Mick Jones, Astro and I had come to our Rubicon and
there was
no turning back. Mini-golf was his future and I decided an acoustic summer
tour would be ours. As a three piece we signed on to play throughout
rural
B.C. on the "granola circuit", so called because the audiences were made
up of luddites and indie-boho types in dreads and nose rings. What we
lacked in dynamics we made up for in broken strings. The crowds loved us,
especially "Reggae Spaghetti" our 30 minute 'dub' jam, but without Astro
and electricity we were like a tire without the air, or the Clash without
the energy. And without energy, what else is there?
QuE?
After
the acoustic tour The Cheep Hods languished for a little while until I met
up with Joe again and had an epiphany. It was the early 90's and Joe was
with a band fronted by an accordion- The Pogues. He had been recruited as
a replacement for Shane MacGowan and was heralding the next big thing;
folk/punk. I was working the stage at the venue and I met Joe after the
gig. This time he was legless and quoted the poet Garcia Lorca at me:
...Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of
sorrow!
Oh, black bull? He was out there, alright, like a guru or
avatar, I figured. But something was getting through; he was projecting
his soul and I was on his wavelength.
I received a message. What
The Cheep Hods needed was something novel, something that didn't require
too much technical proficiency or equipment. I decided it would be the
spoons.
WeDdInGS, pArTiEs, AnYtHiNg
I
immediately put an ad in the local musician's weekly and began
scouring folk gigs and clubs
looking for our
soon-to-be spoon player. After a while, I eventually found my man
playing his spoons and clogging away in a little French-Canadian bar
called "Montcalm's Revenge." The clogging bit was something I hadn't
expected but it fit in perfectly. All it takes is a wooden plank and
a
pair of work boots and voila! you have a novel percussive instrument.
Guy
St. Pierre was a bit shy at first, but with a little nudge he agreed to
come around for a rehearsal.
We set up two mics for him, one at
his knees for his spoons and the other at his feet for his clogging. It
was magic! He became our new member, Pierre St. Poutine. Mixing the
grassroots elements of folk with the D.I.Y. ethos of punk had rejuvenated
the Cheep Hods. It was absolutely proletarian, and totally radical. After
we began playing around town, festivals of all kinds began calling us to
perform. In our wake, other punk bands started incorporating folk
instruments into their line-up like bagpipes and kazoos. Rarely had any
city experienced such a musical renaissance. "Weddings, parties, anything" was
our battle cry and the offers came pouring in.
DeAtH iS a
StAr
Then they stopped. A punk band fronted by a spoons virtuoso
has only a limited shelf life, I sadly discovered. The Cheep Hods decided
to disband. Joe was right;
The thief of life
Moved onwards and outwards to love
Age. I got married and started a family.
A MiRroR iN yOuR sOuL
Which brings us to the present. Washington is loading those bullets again, the Stones are playing China and Joe is dead: long live Joe Strummer. The Cheep Hods are on in five minutes in tribute to the only band that mattered. Joe has reunited us all- Astro is back, Pierre St. Poutine is still aboard and even my own baby boy is pogo-ing along with his mum. We've written a new song for Joe. It's called "The Roots Rock Rebel":
Long after the angels have cast their net
And all the
sinners have paid their debt
The Roots Rock Rebel will still shine on
Westway to the world and forever beyond
Oi.
