STRUMMER CALLING
A weird first name leads to the encounter of a lifetime.
I told everyone on the planet I was going to meet Joe Strummer. I got my babysitting shift covered, decided on an Electric Warrior T-shirt, and took the train to St. Ann’s Warehouse from my dorm in the East Village. It’s April 2002 and I’m on the guest list. The Mescaleros take the stage. I recognize the way Joe pumps his leg in time with the music, but he’s playing alongside a trombone and a violin. Not the snapshot I’d envisioned.
When the show ends, I loiter near a police barricade that blocks the stairs to the dressing room. Any minute and DJ Scratchy will appear and lead me by the hand to Joe, where we’ll hug and pose for pictures before a crowd who, though they’ve known him longer, will envy the bond I have with their hero. I was named after him.
