STRUMMER CALLING

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.

The night before was like every other Wednesday of my freshman year of college: Maybe drink a 40, maybe skip it if I had an exam in the morning—but always my roommate and I would make our way to Beauty Bar on 14th Street. When I saw the owner, Mike, he waved me over to his table. “Strummer!” he said. “This is DJ Scratchy. He toured with the Clash. You gotta tell him your Joe Strummer story.”

I’m nine months old. Joe Strummer’s doing an interview at WMMR in Philadelphia. The Clash are playing the Spectrum without Mick Jones. My parents drive there with me and catch Joe walking through the park across the street from the station with a friend. They hustle to catch up with him. “Joe, we named our kid after you.” My dad holds me in front of him. “Oh, littl’ Joe,” he says, giving my head a pet. “No,” says my father. “It’s a girl. Strummer.”

That was my Joe Strummer story from 1984. In 2002, the story was about to change. I was going to meet him, again. But this time we’d bond, become friends. Maybe I’d meet his daughters, Lola and Jazz, who were around my age at the time, and we too would become friends. Scratchy put me on the guest list, told me I’d have to tell the story to Joe myself. The Mescaleros were doing five nights. I waited outside the dressing room with my camera, the kind with film in it. Scratchy appeared, a strange look on his face. He was sorry, but he couldn’t get me backstage.

I couldn’t believe it. I was mortified, heartbroken, too unsure of myself to ask why, to negotiate, to beg. I went next door to a bar packed to the brim with what I thought were yuppies. I got myself a drink, sat alone at the bar, the devastation setting in as I thought of how I'd have to tell everyone on the planet, one by one, that I didn’t meet Joe. That I was wrong. That I’d somehow misread the offer, misread who I was and what I was capable of, one of James Joyce’s Dubliners, ruined by epiphany. A fireman a few drinks ahead of me started making conversation. So this is it, this is my Joe Strummer story. And then Scratchy appears, a religious icon come to life, parting the sea of weekend people to save me from death. “We’re going to Three of Cups,” he says. “Let’s go.” There’s a car waiting outside.

Three of Cups is loud, not as crowded as I’d imagined. People huddle around Joe, move when he moves. I’m shy and don’t approach him. The violinist, Tymon Dogg, is charmed by my annotated copy of Paradise Lost (occasionally, I did go to school). He tells me I gotta meet Joe. We rush through the sphere of intrepid fans hovering over his table. I meet Joe. I tell him I’m named after him. He can’t believe it. He hugs me, invites me to sit. I’m 18 and I’m shy. I don’t say much, and soon the fearlessness of my older, more seasoned peers puts me on the periphery, which I don’t mind. The night becomes a blur. No photos. I wake up in my dorm room the next morning unsure if it even happened. It did. And more, Tymon Dogg put me on the list. Another night.

This time I bring my friend Tina and we go to the dressing room. I show Joe my license. “Give it to him,” Tina says, and I do. Joe doesn’t want it. “You need that!” he says. But I don’t, really, so he keeps it. We pose for photos. The room swells. We get in the car with a few Brits who’ve known Joe since way back when. We go to Rocky Sullivan’s on Lexington. We drink and drink. The night becomes a blur. At 5 a.m., Tina and I decide it’s time to go. We head to the door and Joe stops me. “You!” he says, and takes my license out of his wallet. He waves to Bob Gruen. “Photo!” Joe and I huddle together for a photo and Joe holds the license up in front of us. Tina and I still can’t believe it happened, as the sun comes up at the diner on 18th and 3rd near her apartment.

I pick up the print from Bob Gruen a few weeks later. He’s getting a haircut in his living room. Everyone smokes a joint. I hope I impress him when I recognize the record he’s playing, Tyrannosaurus Rex’s A Beard of Stars. Bob says that when Joe’s in town you have to bring sunglasses with you because you’ll be out until daylight. I hope we can all do it again soon, but a few days before Christmas, Joe dies. Congenital heart disease. He’s just 50. When I tell people my Joe Strummer story, I tell them I met him just in time. I tell them he died with my license in his wallet. That November, Tina had been in Japan at a festival. She ran into Joe backstage. She told him that she met him in New York with the girl who was named after him. “Strummer?!” he asked, and pulled out the license. “Yes,” said Tina. “That’s her.”