The idea for The Great Cover-Up had its genesis in Champaign-Urbana, and has since spiraled out into other cities. I may be biased, but it’s tough to think of a town more fun than quirky Tucson in which to revel in such an extravaganza. Each year, a bunch of local bands pick a famous (or, sometimes, not so famous) artist from musical history and put together a 20-minute set based on that artist. Some of the acts deliver their own bizarre take on it (for example, last year’s massively metal set of The Doors), while others show meticulous attention to detail in recreating a favorite band or performer from years gone by.

The Tucson edition of The Great Cover-Up originated at Club Congress in the 1990s and now encompasses three clubs and some eighty bands. Yes, that’s right, I said eighty. Organizing an event of this magnitude—and with this many musicians—is a task worthy of Atlas, Einstein, and the Swiss Army put together, but everyone involved seems to have a positive, easygoing, “We can do it!” outlook, with none of the slouchy attitude that we sometimes associate with rock ‘n’ rollers. Or maybe it’s just Tucson’s upbeat vibe that makes the whole thing so very enjoyable.

I myself had the great pleasure of participating in the Cover-Up twice. In 2006 we did Siouxsie and the Banshees, and the following year a full-on New York Dolls (circa 1972) set, with PVC platform boots, makeup, wigs, and the whole nine kilometers. I have very dark hair, so the Siouxsie set entailed seven hours in the stylist’s chair to get my hair bright white (I was appearing as proto-goth Siouxsie bassplayer Steve Severin) because, like I said, some bands show meticulous attention to detail.

Our local musical artists work extremely hard to perfect a savagely short set for what is, effectively, a site-specific, one-time-only performance piece. And that’s part of what makes it great. It’s a give everything, do-or-die, all or nothing, brief flash of brilliance on stage, while you imagine yourself part of an adored band. And the whole thing is fantastic.

Another fabulous feature is the almost universal secrecy that shrouds who is covering which band. I know which local acts are playing tomorrow night, but I cannot for the life of me figure who is appearing as ELO (one of my favorites from the ’70s), and who is doing The Beach Boys. One of my spies did notify me who is presenting the Alice in Chains show, but in the interest of fun, discretion, and honor, I’m afraid I cannot share that tidbit with you. It’s going to be good though.

And one more thing: Proceeds benefit the Tucson Artists and Musicians Health Alliance, and tickets are only eight bucks. What could be better than that? So, turn off the TV, get a babysitter for the cat, and go out and support Tucson musicians who have busted their butts tightening up their favorite five or six songs into a 20-minute visual and sonic experience. I’m not kidding you—a few of the covers I’ve seen have been significantly better than the original bands.

Rock on, and see you at Rialto.

Some sweeping elitist views contain at least a nubbin of truth; could this be one of them? In a hi-tech world where Macs and page layout programs can be acquired cheaply and easily, and where print-on-demand (POD) outfits and vanity presses will happily crank out your life story, American novel, or self-help guide, almost anyone can be an author if they have spare time and some extra cash. Painfully simple paint-by-numbers design programs like Microsoft Publisher mean even a smart 10-year-old could theoretically put out an (admittedly short) autobiography grousing about how his parents forced him, daily, to suffer at a proto-Fascist private school, while forbidding him to stay up late and watch the sexy and alluring Diana Rigg in The Avengers on TV (I am quoting from my own childhood here). How tedious would such an account be for the average reader?

I doubt a lad with only a decade’s worth of life experience could share much in the way of insight or enlightenment, and consider how poor the design and typesetting would be. Actually, I don’t have to consider that because I’ve seen plenty of self-published books that have been put together so horribly I likely could have done a far better job myself, even as a ten year-old. Yet, I maintain that there is nothing wrong with self-publishing; quite the opposite in fact. It is a homespun artistic uprising akin to the magnificent and tumultuous punk rock revolution of 1976. Punk was a generation-defining social movement which accidentally gave birth to the fanzine—a Xerox-nourished zygote that slowly grew and mutated—decades later—into independent publishers and POD. The startling realization that you could do things yourself—put out your own record or publish your own counterculture “magazine” (I use the term loosely as most fanzines at the time were hand folded and stapled stacks of photocopied pages)—was fueled by the true original indie labels like Stiff Records in London. Without Stiff we would not have the punk anthem “Neat, Neat, Neat” by The Damned or My Aim Is True by Elvis Costello, and that would be a loss to the arts too bitter to contemplate.

Improved tech, and advances in low-cost printing allowed this proletarian putsch to alter the way in which words on paper were made available to the public, as did the epiphany that—truly—everyone has a story to tell and anyone can write a book. Well, I take that back. I’m not sure that many of today’s American high school teenagers can complete a sentence without using the word “like” at least twice, but you get my drift. Self publishing means Random House or Penguin don’t have to sign off on your book in order for it to live.

Passionate though I am about giving freedom to words, and much as I delight in the nuances of the English language, and even though I have encouraged many friends (and my World War II veteran father) to record and preserve their unique experience of existence through do-it-yourself literature, I will also be the first to admit that many self-published books are not that good. In fact, many are downright diabolical. Hence, no doubt, the comment from the nice lady organizing the authors’ event in New York. In the old days, if a publisher went to the considerable expense of putting your book out, some professional, somewhere, with some knowledge of writing thought it was good, or would at least make some money. To self publish a book today, the only person who needs to think it’s any good is the author, and that can be dangerous.

I could have replied to the New York book event lady and listed the 100-plus articles that I’ve written for “real” publications, or my contributions to other “real” published books, but why bother? I also might have explained that I could, quite easily, have found a recognized publisher for my recent book: Meteorite Hunting: How To Find Treasure From Space, but I didn’t want to. There were three reasons for this hard line attitude: artistic control, timetable, and money.

As the first two seasons of my television series Meteorite Men started airing around the world and we began the preliminary plans for a third season, I realized there was one thing that many or most of my viewers wanted. They yearned to find their own meteorite. After being deluged with literally thousands of emails from hopefuls who thought they had discovered a valuable space rock in their yard or driveway, we put together an online guide to meteorite identification in the hope that we’d be able to curtail those inquiries through education. Answers to basic questions about meteorites, along with simple tests that the would-be space rock hunter could carry out at home, were clearly presented on my flagship website. The idea backfired disastrously. The meteorite ID guide became so prominently indexed by Google that it did nothing but generate more inquires. Lots of them. So, if all these people wanted to find their own space rock I would show them how to do it, and how to tell the difference between valuable meteorites and common terrestrial rocks.

Between the end of the Meteorite Men Season Two premieres and the start of production for Season Three we experienced a lull back at company HQ. A lull for us is much like a busy 40-hour work week for your regular office employee, but—by our standards—things were quiet. My staff amuse themselves by pointing out that every time we appear to have things under control at Aerolite Meteorites LLC, and our work load slows to a relatively normal pace, I quickly dream up a new and massive project which, once more, puts us back under the gun. And so it was with the book. I can’t help it. I don’t like to be idle.

I would be on a tight timetable. If I was going to produce a book, it was vital that it be in hand by late January of 2011, when the annual gem show opens in Tucson. Tens of thousands of rockhounds would descend upon the Baked Apple during those first two glorious weeks of February; many of them would be Meteorite Men fans and, hopefully, some of them would want my book. So, I rose early each morning during that comparatively lazy December and January with the firm intention of writing two chapters per day. Some days I only managed one chapter, and some days I edited existing chapters, but I worked at a furious pace, and I got it all done, start to finish, in 31 days. As I am a contrary fellow, the very first thing I did was design the cover. The first chapter I wrote is the last one in the book. Next, I wrote the Afterword and then the Acknowledgements, which go at the beginning (some writing teachers like to poke fun at would-be authors who write a list of “thank yous” first and then never get any further with their book, so I did that just to spite them), and finally the middle part, which required some real work.

My editor friends, Dr. Larry and Nancy Lebofsky, kindly agreed to suspend their own personal lives in order to assist me in completing my high-speed magnum opus. I gave them just over a week to work through the entire manuscript, and I felt that was a bit like dropping an anvil on a friend’s pet, but I’d made up my mind that the book’s official publication date would be February 1—my birthday (you can do fun things like that when you are the publisher). The mother of my Director of Operations is an English teacher who happens to be a hell of a good copy editor. She went over the manuscript three times (I did pay her), and my excellent friend Chris Cokinos, author of the brilliant work The Fallen Sky: An Intimate History Of Shooting Stars, wrote a marvelous introduction pretty much overnight. My Meteorite Men co-host, Steve Arnold, read through the whole thing in a day or two, made some helpful suggestions and wrote a fabulous back cover blurb for me. My friends really pitched in to help.

The Meteorite Men attend a book signing during the Tucson gem and mineral show. Photo by Suzanne Morrison.

Imagine having an agent take your manuscript to one of the big publishing houses in New York and say: “Hey guys. I need you to have this edited, typeset, and printed in a few weeks. Get to it.” That’s an amusing mental image. The major publishers take months, or sometimes years, to move a book from manuscript to final product. It’s okay, they’re big companies, I’m not knocking the way they run their businesses, I just don’t want to deal with it. The typical first-time author will be assigned an editor which he or she may or may not like, and a cover will be designed by some in-house artist who does nothing but dream up covers for books he or she hasn’t read. If you are lucky, you might be shown the design before it goes to press, but as a new author don’t be under any illusion that you’ll be asked for input on how your book should look. This fact, more than any other, explains why I do things myself.

In addition to being a television personality and a science writer, I am an art director. I have a degree from New York’s famed School of Visual Arts, and I started publishing underground fanzines way back in the punk era. In all modesty I already have all the skills: writing, photography, design, typesetting, indie publishing experience, and something of a knack for guerilla promotion. As such, why on earth would I turn my book over to some big corporate entity, let them re-write it the way they want, and decide on a cover design they like. If I did sign away by book, I would then hope desperately that some publishing exec might choose me as one of the few authors they would bother to actively promote that quarter and, finally, I would sit around and wait for a meager royalty check to maybe arrive one day. Forget it. I demand complete artistic control over my product and—in the event that it is successful—I want the money too.

And there—would-be self publishers—is the canary of truth in the coal mine. You do the work, you take the risks, you make the money; if your book sells. And mine did, eventually.

I have a great print manager; really great. His name is Guy Rovella of Aardvark Press here in Tucson. If you want to print business cards, flyers, brochures, a lithograph, a laminated card with a wacky hologram on it, or if you are a detail-oriented perfectionist publishing a complex full-color book about how to hunt for meteorites, you should go to Guy. He is the best.

Guy shopped around and got me a super deal on printing my books. With 100 pages, full color throughout, a glossy and hefty cover, lustrous paper, and full bleeds, I wasn’t cutting any corners. I could have done the job for less in Hong Kong, but I believe in keeping work here in the USA, and I wanted to be able to sign off on proofs and be in regular contact with the printer. The last time I was involved with a job that was printed in Hong Kong, we received 1,000 expensive, seawater-damaged hardbacks that some wastrel had stowed in the bottom of a leaky old freighter. You get what you pay for.

I am very meticulous, and all my design projects have to be “just so,” or they have to be redone. I don’t accept jobs that are “okay.” I expect them to be as near perfect as can be. In this instance, I was particularly concerned about certain matters related to the binding and positioning of some images, and I distinctly remember Guy talking to the printer by telephone, while he and I were both in my office looking at the color proofs. “Please tell them to pay particular attention to these issues,” I said, and Guy relayed that to the printer in front of me. “Oh yes, we’re aware of those things, everything will be fine,” the printer replied, and then—about ten days later—when 2,000 copies arrived on a big palette in my driveway, everything was not fine. Numerous copies had been misprinted, many were poorly bound, and some were missing pages. I wanted the entire run reprinted, but I had a serious problem: the gem show was opening in a few days and I absolutely had to have copies on hand for that. I told the printer that I wanted the job redone, but that I would pay for the good copies I had received, of which there were enough for us to get by. No, that wasn’t going to work, the printer said. I had to either keep all of the books, or reprint all of them and there wasn’t time to get reprints to Tucson for the opening of the show. There was some talk of lawyers, and I think someone discussed visiting the printing plant with a sledgehammer (not me), and we eventually arrived at a semi-amicable agreement: I would keep all of the 2,000 books, pay a reduced price for them, discard the misprints, and the print shop would do another run of 2,000 for the original agreed-upon price. I didn’t really want to order that many books, but the plan reduced my per-copy price, so it seemed like a workable idea. Imagine my surprise, then, when the second 2,000 books arrived and exhibited all of the same flaws as the first batch.

Eventually, after much negotiation, and some books being trashed and some being reprinted, I ended up with about 4,000 copies at a rather favorable price. The print shop people actually were very nice, and mistakes do happen. You just don’t want them happening when you’re on an extra-tight deadline, and footing the bill yourself.

The response to Meteorite Hunting at the gem show was splendid. I did two book signings, and Steve Arnold was kind enough to sit in on both of them. We sold many copies, and received only one complaint. A 50-ish rockhound guy with sunken cheeks, and stringy grey hair that looked like seaweed, came into the showroom and complained to me about the $25 cover price. “That’s a lot of money for a 100-page book,” he griped. I was into, probably, my eighteenth consecutive 14-hour day in the showroom by that point, and may have been a bit cranky. “Really!” I replied. I vigorously explained to him how many mega thousands of dollars it had cost me to print the book, not counting the expenses related to editing and photography, the 31 consecutive days I spent writing it, the problems with the printers and defective copies and reprints, the rush to get the project done in time for the gem show, and I likely would have carried on for quite a while longer, but he was—by that point—already cowering, and attempting to slink out of the showroom. “It’s cheap at the price!” I barked after him as he disappeared through the showroom doorway. Not our finest customer service moment, but really, we are usually much nicer, and I suppose the incident illustrates that I may not take criticism very well when it comes to a labor of love, and I am over tired. Oddly enough, he came back the following day and bought two copies, at which point we shook hands, I gave him a little free meteorite, and all was well with the world.

A distribution company specializing in science and natural history books asked to work with us, and they are now getting copies of Meteorite Hunting into mom and pop rock shops and indie bookstores across the company. They are good people and have already moved 1,200 copies. More power to ‘em. Readers liked the book and I was pleased. I collected a page full of unsolicited customer testimonials which we put on the website. We are most of the way through the 4,000-ish copies that we ended up with. I suppose I shall have to reorder soon, and will doubtless go over some other hurdles to keep the title in print, but it was so worth it—expenditure, long hours, headaches and all. I have three other book ideas in the works, and two friends now want me to publish their titles.

Should the giant publishers be the arbiters of taste for all of us? Certainly not, but they are important businesses, struggling to stay afloat in a digital age of video games and texting, and they have helped shape and educate our world by making great works of literature, science, travel, memoir, history, and humor available to millions.

Should Mrs. Beck from upstate New York be allowed to self publish her possibly dull memoir about a barefoot-and-pregnant housewife shacked up with a cheating husband, even though she hasn’t taken any formal writing classes? Should the 40-something nerd living in his mom’s basement have the opportunity to save up some bucks from his job at the fast food dump and self publish his ten-years-in-the-making fantasy epic? Of course they should! Will these books be any good, or sell any copies? How the hell should I know?

The beauty of self publishing is you get to do it the way you want, when you want. In the unlikely event that your book is a big success, the money will also go into your pocket instead of into the corporate vault of some major publisher who probably views your life’s work as nothing more than this month’s product.

As it turned out, I couldn’t attend the book signing and panel in New York anyway, as I was committed to appearing at another promotional event at the same time. Long live the revolution.

Westway is a detailed, chonological history of the band, rich in interviews with all the key members (including both of the main drummers) and was made while the brilliant and articulate Joe Strummer was still alive. Joe’s remarkable and intense personality propels the film, as does the well-chosen archive footage. Rebel Truce focuses a little more on personal insights from Clash friends, on the records themselves, and how they were made. Its backbone is a series of in-depth interviews with Clash guitarist and founder Mick Jones, whose gentle and slightly self-deprecating sense of humor brings accessibility and insight to the film. But, perhaps even better, Rebel Truce delivers multiple new interviews with people who knew and worked with The Clash. When some of the band’s most accomplished peers—Glen Matlock (Sex Pistols), Steve Diggle (The Buzzcocks), and Jake Burns (Stiff Little Fingers)—share their memories, Rebel Truce truly shines.

The Clash onstage in 1980. Source Wikipedia Commons.

Julien Temple’s recent Joe Strummer documentary, The Future is Unwritten, also relied heavily on discussions with Clash contemporaries. Even though it is an interesting film, I found Temple’s decision to interview his subjects around nighttime campfires to be a little gimmicky and distracting, but gimmicks are nothing new in his films—see the dark, silhouetted, faux-mysterious Sex Pistol interviews in the otherwise riveting Filth and the Fury. Rebel Truce director Alan G. Parker, who has also made films about the Sex Pistols, makes a wise choice and situates his interviewees in recording studios and empty clubs—the sort of places where veteran punk rockers look and feel right at home—and the result is a series of candid and illuminating discussions with people who not only knew The Clash, but toured with them, and evidently survived the apocalyptic punk years with little, if any, psychic damage.

If you are already a Clash fan, Rebel Truce is a must see. If you’re not familiar with the band’s music, do yourself a favor and rent Westway to the World, which is not only my favorite rock documentary, but also a detailed, accurate, and engrossing study of the punk years. If you like what you see and want to learn more, Rebel Truce provides an enjoyable and personal look at the history of “the only band that mattered.” With the eighth anniversary of Strummer’s untimely death just around the corner, it is heartwarming to see that his words, and Mick Jones’ music, still command the attention and respect that they deserve.

My concert-going career got off to the best-possible start when my brilliant friend Neil Gaiman took me to see Lou Reed at the London Rainbow in 1976. It was Lou’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Heart international tour. We had seats near the front; Lou opened with “Sweet Jane” and nothing in my life was ever the same again. I was fifteen and Neil and I went home and started our own band.

1977 brought with it the famous Summer of Punk and all through that glorious year—and the next—my bassplayer, Graham Smith, and I wandered through a musical wonderland in which we basked in the uncensored sonic assault of The Clash, Blondie, The Ramones, Generation X, The Buzzcocks, The Damned, The Stranglers, The Jam, The Runaways, The Cure, XTC, and a host of others. We were lucky enough to see some of those great bands over and over; I ended up catching the mighty Ramones in concert 19 times. Looking through the gig guides each week in New Musical Express or Sounds, we sometimes could just not decide which shows to go to in any given week: How could we possibly be expected to choose between The Dictators at the Roundhouse or The Rich Kids at the Lyceum Ballroom? It was, truly, an absurdity of riches. And herein lies the root of my problem: Nothing could ever compete with that adrenaline-fuelled smorgasbord of anarchic club nights, and so I could never again enjoy live music quite as much as I did during my youth.

One solution was to keep on going back, in later years, to see the survivors and that explains the 19 Ramones show. The decades rolled by, but you could always count on twenty-one high speed, perfect, catchy punk songs at any given show. When you jumped up and down in front of the Ramones while they were on stage, time stood still. Singing along with the crowd at the Academy in New York City during The Ramones’ farewell tour in 1996, I could almost have been back in London in ’78. Yeah, the guys were a little older, and C.J. had replaced Dee Dee on bass, but they were still one of the most vital and exciting live bands of all time. Now Joey Ramone is dead. So is Johnny and Dee Dee. As is Joe Strummer—the greatest artist of the punk era—and Sid Vicious, Johnny Thunders and Jerry Nolan of the New York Dolls, Malcolm Owen from The Ruts, and Dead Boys frontman Stiv Bators. The punk movement had a lot of casualties. But all through the years there was one other band that carried the punk rock torch for me: Social Distortion.

Though singer, songwriter, and lead guitarist Mike Ness is the only original member, it doesn’t matter that much. Mike is Social Distortion and a Social D concert in Tucson is always good news. They have a solid fan base here in the Baked Apple, and their shows usually set out, as demonstrated by Monday’s packed house at the Rialto Theater. Not only do I never miss a Social D concert in town, I sometimes travel considerable distances to see them, which is why they have now surpassed even The Ramones as my most-seen band.

I have a short attention span and don’t much care for all-day music festivals with endless back-to-back performances. So, when I’m going to see a favorite band I often skip the warm-up act because I want to focus on the artist I’m there to see. The just-completed Social Distortion tour featured two opening acts I wasn’t familiar with: Lucero and Frank Turner. Fortunately, my girlfriend and I decided to check out the bands online and see if the music spoke to us. Lucero had a good sound and reminded me a little of The Old 97s. Frank Turner literally blew me away. Yes, the music spoke. Frank’s rousing video of “The Road” begins with this message: “All right, this is Frank Turner. It’s 8 o’clock in the evening. We’re about to film 24 shows in 24 hours. Let’s go!” The immediately engaging English singer opens up on a rooftop in London and then travels from one friend’s house and party to another, producing a fascinating, personal, and dynamic video that is pretty much the best thing I’ve seen this century. So, not only did my girl and I decide to head down to The Rialto early, as there was absolutely no way we were missing Frank’s set, but we booked a room at Hotel Congress—right across the street—so we could let loose, party, and stay up late without worrying about driving home.

Frank Turner in action. Photo © Frank Turner

Frank opened with a couple of solo acoustic songs, then brought on his excellent band and the results were stellar. He has the fire of Joe Strummer, the conviction of Billy Bragg, the witty lyrical turn of Lach or Bob Dylan, and dresses, looks, and leaps around stage a little like a young Bruce Springsteen. Wrap all of that up in a series of catchy, energetic, uplifting melodies reminiscent of the best of the early Alarm and Levellers and the result is an unforgettable concert experience.

After the show, I made my way to the merch table, and there was Frank himself—humble, friendly, accessible—selling his own CDs. It was a very do-it-yourself punk moment. Frank and I discovered that we had some mutual acquaintances from the UK, shared a love of The Clash, and I said: “I could talk to you non-stop for an hour, but I know you’re busy.” He, smiled and said: “No, no, it’s fine, please stay,” and invited us out for a drink after the headline show but, alas, we had other plans. Next time Frank, thank you.

Social Distortion were brilliant too. It was easily the best Social D concert I’ve seen in a decade and that’s saying something. But as I fell asleep in the cozy iron-framed bed at Hotel Congress, in the wee hours, it was “The Road” that circulated happily through my head.

When Joe Strummer died, far too young, at the age of 50, one obituary threw down a momentous question: “Who among you will take up the challenge?” By that, the writer meant which artist, which songwriter, will have the courage, vision, and talent to follow in Joe’s footsteps? Frank Turner may just be that person. And I have learned that once in a long, long while, you can find something that’s every bit as good as the best moments of your youth.

So, when I think of Angels and Airwaves—one of my favorite contemporary bands—I cannot help but be happily reminded of the Lords, as A & A are themselves a supergroup. Tom DeLonge also fronts blink-182; David Kennedy is a former member of Over My Dead Body; drummer Atom Willard previously played with Rocket from the Crypt and the Offspring; and bassplayer Matt Watcher came to the band from 30 Seconds to Mars.

I’m a little jealous of Angels and Airwaves because they have accomplished what I had hoped to do with my bands back in New York in the post-punk days: they’ve successfully melded the energy of punk with a soaring, ethereal, modern electric sound, creating a sonic landscape that is exciting and engaging, yet also moody, ambient and dreamlike. It’s really the best of both worlds.

Their third album, Love, is also their finest work—a little tougher and more powerful than We Don’t Need to Whisper and I-Empire, but also more majestic. When Love was released on Valentine’s Day this year, Angles and Airwaves took the fairly radical step of making it available only as a free download from Tom DeLong’s Modlife.com website. You actually could not go into the store and buy the new release, but the band were happy to give it to you as a gift—with donations from fans gladly accepted. Again, this took me back to the punk days, when bands said: “To hell with the record companies,” and started putting out their own 45s. In an interview with Music-Mix, Tom DeLonge said he considered Love to be “the pinnacle release of my life.”

When I saw Angels and Airwaves a couple of years ago at The Rialto, I was surprised and delighted to discover that onstage they reminded me a little of the mighty Clash—in my opinion the greatest live band of all time. A & A were sharply dressed in vaguely military-style black, and powered around the stage with plenty of energy, but also presented themselves as accomplished, professional showmen. And that’s what I want if I’m paying dollars to attend a live concert: I expect to see something dramatic and striking, larger than life; not people slouching up on stage in sweat pants and rugby shirts.

Love has been playing rather incessantly in my office recently. It’s easily my favorite record of the year, so far. Back in 1977 when south London bands were trying to scrape together the few hundred quid needed to put out their own single, they couldn’t possibly have imagined that thirty-odd years later, anyone, anywhere in the world, with an internet connection could download an independently released and recorded song, and play it instantly on their computer or iPod. We’ve come a long way, but the do-it-yourself punk ethos is alive and well, and nobody is doing it better than Tom DeLonge and his bandmates.

Angels and Airwaves are at The Marquee Theater, Tempe on Tuesday, May 25, and you can download a free copy of their magnificent Love at Modlife.com. Donate a few bucks to this great band and—as a thank you—you’ll receive a bonus track.

Here’s to modern bands making music their way. Who needs record companies anyway!

Flags decorate the main stage at the Barrio Viejo Festival

The blame for difficulties faced by attendees possibly rests with co-presenters, the Rialto Theater—a fine venue to watch a band, but not exactly a place that you’d call user-friendly. One of the great pleasures of seeing concerts at the Rialto used to be their easygoing, no-nonsense re-entry policy. Since the Rialto only has a license for wine and beer, I used to enjoy stepping outside for a quick cocktail at Club Congress between bands, or if I didn’t care for a particular act. No longer. During recent visits to the Rialto I’ve been disappointed to see that they no longer allow re-entry, preferring to keep their customers crammed inside a crowded foyer, waiting on long lines for an unimpressive selection of drinks.

Yesterday’s Barrio Veijo concert unfortunately employed the same policy. Once you were in, you were in. At $20/$25 per ticket, the people who came out to support Tucson community radio, and see some legendary local acts, were obviously serious about wanting to help the station—$25 being rather steep for a Tucson concert. I’ve worked in bands, nightclubs, and theaters for over 25 years and the arguments that “It’s complicated” or “difficult” to allow re-entry is just so much B.S. The real reason they don’t allow re-entry is because promoters want to keep you locked up inside where you have to pay $2 for a small bottle of water. It’s all about squeezing more money out of trapped punters.

The excellent Mariachi Aztlan de Pueblo High School played on the "Side Stage" which wasn't actually a stage, but who's counting?

Those wanting to buy food had to wait on line twice; those wanting beer needed to wait on line three times! A rather dense policy required you to first get a wristband, wait on a second line to buy little pink $1 tickets, then go to a third line in order to trade your tickets for actual food and beverages. I was unoficially told that this policy was designed to “Stop the vendors ripping off the promoters.” I think a little more trust might be in order in that area.

The people selling the little pink tickets had no idea how much anything cost and were entirely unhelpful when asked for advice about how many tickets one might want to buy. Once we finally got our veggie burros and tacos, courtesy of master Mexican chef Martin and his Comida Chigona. it was excellent but then Martin’s food always is excellent, so no surprise there.

The charming Cushing Street Bar & Restaurant sits immediately next to the festival entrance, and it would have been nice if this elegant local business could have benefited from the hundreds of people walking around nearby, but the no re-entry policy meant that the bar at Cushing remained effectively empty, while scores of people stood only a few feet away (on the other side of the fence), waiting in interminable lines for $5 plastic cups of warm Budweiser.

Headliners Calexico and friends delivered a wonderfully diverse set on the main stage

No free seating was provided at the event, except for a few rickety iron tables in the food area, an they were not shaded. I saw a bouncer ordering three sweet-looking middle-aged women, who were quietly sitting on the hot tarmac, to “Get up, move, and don’t give me any attitude!” Exact quote. The KXCI benefit was, I assume, intended to be a family-friendly concert and there were certainly plenty of kids and parents there. Community radio enthusiasts who are ponying up $25 apiece to support a favorite local radio station really don’t need to be barked at by bouncers. It’s one thing if security has to deal with a raucous punk rock crowd, but come on, this was a community radio benefit. A little couresty goes a long way on a hot Saturday afternoon.

If you wanted to plunk down another $5 you could have the dubious pleasure of parking your backside on a hot aluminum bleacher near the stage. The lack of shade and seating caused one pregnant woman to faint from the heat; she was rescued by the staff at Cushing Street who sent cold water, salt, and fruit out to her.

Popular local silversmith Lisa Marie of Sirocco Design hangs out at Martin's during the festival

At the very end of the evening, as Calexico’s set was drawing to a close, I worked my way up near the front of the stage and met some friends who were sitting on the bleachers. The crowd had thinned somewhat and at least half the seats were empty. I’d been on my feet for several hours, so I sat down on one of the empty rows. A thuggish bouncer immediately pounced on me and said: “Get up, those seats are reserved.”

“Reserved for whom?” I asked. “The show’s nearly over. There’s nobody here.”

“Get up,” he yelled back. “Those seats are reserved.”

I was pretty fed up with appalling customer relations by that point, so I left soon after. With the last band playing its last few songs, and people heading home to the lovely sounds of Calexico, under a delightful Tucson sunset, it’s a shame that rude security and daft planning left the KXCI benefit with a sour aftertaste. Let’s hope they learn from their mistakes and do better next year. After all, the musicians onstage talked enthusiastically and passionately about friendship and community here in Tucson. I guess that message wasn’t heard by the organizers.

Photographs © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

I first saw them in London in 1978. It was their initial European solo tour and they headlined at the Rainbow in Finsbury Park—a large and elegant seated venue, a bit like the Rialto only bigger and fancier. I was a young lad with two tickets to see this “unknown” American act, and really, I couldn’t give one away. Nobody wanted to go with me. The kids I went to school with, blissfully unaware of the punk rock revolution fomenting in their own town, were still spacing out to Emerson, Lake & Palmer and Yes.

I finally convinced a biker friend of mine, John, to take the train with me up to north London. He didn’t much care much for live music but he was always up for an adventure. We arrived early and took our seats—eighth row, right in the center.

After a while, the warm-up band started playing and they were extremely weird. I remember that the house lights were left on, as if Blondie didn’t want to take the chance of being upstaged. There were four guys in this group: the guitarist and bassist both sang, and they had a demented keyboard player who pounded on a bizarre stack of synthesizers that had wires and cables hanging all over the place. Their songs were jangly and dissonant. The show was energetic and mildly interesting, but they were a little too odd for me. When Blondie came on, the theater wasn’t even half full, but I didn’t care. Debbie Harry was only in her thirties then, and as lovely a rock ‘n’ roll deity as I had ever seen float across the stage.

On the way home, I asked John what he thought about the concert. “Well, Blondie were okay, but that warm-up band were amazing! They’re going to be huge.” John really didn’t know a thing about music so I dismissed his prediction as the babblings of an amateur. I later found out that the strange opening act were called XTC.

I’ve seen Blondie many times in the intervening years, and I danced to “Sunday Girl” at my high school prom. Blondie’s supremely talented bassplayer, Gary Valentine, was let go in the late 1970s and they were never quite as good without him, although they still play his wistful song “I Am Always Touched by Your Presence Dear.” From the time they came back to London after the release of Parallel Lines, there were never again empty seats in the theaters and Blondie were instantly adored.

I once saw Debbie and romantic partner/songwriter/Blondie guitarist Chris Stein do a secret show at CBGB’s with a pickup band. I sat in a cozy little VIP section with Matt Dillon on one side of me, and the Talking Heads on the other. It was pretty cool. In the 1990s, my band used to rehearse in a room next to Blondie at an elite studio in New York, and we got to chat and hang out a little. Chris Stein and I both played Steinbergers, and he’d painted out the “berger” on his guitar, so it just read “Stein,” which I found to be very clever.

The Logical Lizard hanging out with Blondie lead guitarist Chris Stein in New York, back in the rock 'n' roll days. Photo by Lach.

Last year, when Blondie set out on their big reunion tour I happened to be in NYC and took my brother and my former 1980s sweetheart to see them at the Sony Theater in Times Square. I assumed that the band would be old and tired, but it was easily the best Blondie show I ever saw: they were tight, extremely well rehearsed, full of energy, better dressed and sharper than ever, and cracked through a set of greatest hits. The song list was predictable, but who doesn’t want to hear “Hanging on the Telephone,” “Dreaming,” and all those other pop classics?

So, not surprisingly, I was expecting something similar at the Desert Diamond show this past Tuesday. Blondie, right here in my adopted home town, at a small venue! I took my dear friend Lisa Marie—a talented local silversmith, a serious music lover, and long-time Blondie fan who had never actually seen them in concert. I was a little concerned when I got my first peek at the venue. It looked more like a hotel ballroom, where you’d hold a wedding reception, than a concert hall.

When Blondie came on at about 8 pm (awfully early for New York rockers) they blasted straight into “Call Me,” which makes for a hell of a good opener. Debbie was in a bright red dress with mismatched Converse sneakers: one red and one blue, just like Clem on the cover of Parallel Lines). Unfortunately, the sound was dreadful, like listening to a transistor radio through two sheets of soggy cardboard. Most of the audience were of retirement age and, despite the very modest volume, I noticed a lady next to me wearing earplugs.

As an original fan, I felt it my duty to show the band some love, so Lisa and I ran to the front and sidled up to the stage, right by Debbie. Periodically we were yelled at, or ordered back to our seats by security, but we made the most of it.

Debbie Harry onstage with Blondie, Desert Diamond Casino, Tucson, September 1, 2009. Photo by Caroline Palmer.

Only Debbie, Chris Stein, and drummer Clem Burke remain from the original lineup. Last June, Jimmy Destri, the keyboard player and one of the key songwriters was still with them, and I really missed his presence here in Tucson. He’s a great performer. So, the sound sucked, the audience were mostly old and confused, and Blondie were finishing off their national tour with a Tuesday night show in a partially-filled casino in Tucson, Arizona. It must have been a bit of a downer for them, but they were troopers and didn’t let it show. They surprised me with “Fade Away And Radiate,” not exactly a conventional pop hit, and a long ska/reggae jam in the middle of “The Tide is High.”

So, I’ve been to better Blondie shows, but in all these years it was the first time I ever got to see them elbows-on-the-stage in a small venue. They may be older, but you know what, so am I, and Blondie still kick the pants off of most contemporary acts. I’ll pony up my cash to see them anytime.

Despite the fact that Joe has been gone for nearly seven years it is, surprisingly enough, still a great time to be a Clash fan. In recent years we’ve been blessed with From Here to Eternity, a live compilation which is actually my single favorite Clash album; Combat Rock being my least favorite with, let’s face it, really only a handful of decent songs (yes, I know I am in the minority there, but what’s new about that?).

We can can watch and re-watch Don Letts’ masterful film Westway To The World, which I consider to be the finest rock documentary every made. I am in no way a fan of director Julian Temple’s work—I find it gimmicky and affected—but he does cover interesting subjects and his Strummer documentary, The Future Is Unwritten, is important viewing for any fan of punk rock history.

Chris Salewicz’s Redemption Song: The Ballad of Joe Strummer is, for my money, the best rock bio ever written (well, maybe first equal with Dave Marsh’s Who chronicle, Before I Get Old). Sony finally saw fit to officially release 1982′s Live at Shea Stadium on CD and punk rockers can revel in all things Clash related on Tim Merrick’s Clash Blog, ingeniously subtitled “The Only Blog That Matters.”

Joe Strummer at the New York Palladium, 1989. Photo by Geoffrey Notkin.

Dick Rude’s 68-minute film Let’s Rock Again is tauntingly short, but remains an entertaining and good-hearted record of Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros on the road shortly before Joe’s death. And that is the really tragic part. After years of self-imposed exile in a post-Clash wilderness, Joe had finally reinvented himself, teamed up with long-time friend, mentor, and musical collaborator Tymon Dogg and was touring with an eclectic and highly talented band. The new songs may not have had quite the musical kick that his great songwriting partner, Mick Jones, brought to the old Clash numbers, but there was an expansive, world music vibe to the Mescaleros. And Joe looked happy in concert, like he was finally doing what he wanted.

The three Mescaleros records: Rock Art and the X-Ray Style, Global A Go-Go and the posthumous Streetcore are a glorious jumble of musical styles. Those records do not fit into any known category of music and quite right too. By 2001, Joe was a mature composer, singer and performer at the height of his powers, drawing upon his love of richly diverse musical forms including jazz, reggae, blues, ska, rockabilly, folk, and punk rock. What could he have accomplished given another ten years behind that battered Telecaster?

In the wonderful novel High Fidelity, infused with a passionate love for the details of rock music, author Nick Hornby’s narrator returns home to listen to The Beatles after mooning over failed relationships:

“The Beatles were bubblegum cards and Help at the Saturday morning cinema and toy plastic guitars and singing ‘Yellow Submarine’ at the top of my voice in the back of the coach on school trips. They belong to me, not to me and Laura, or me and Charlie, or me and Alison Ashworth, and though they’ll make me feel something, they won’t make me feel anything bad.”

And that’s what The Clash were to me. They were my band. The best, most radical, most exciting, most loyal and gifted band there ever was. From the first time I saw them on the Out Of Control Tour in London back in 1978, to those brilliant Mescaleros shows in New York in 2001, the sounds, memories and experiences feel almost as if they belong only to me. They were that moving and that personal. Joe was an inspiration and he set the bar so high with his songwriting ability, it seems almost hopeless that another artist might one day fill his shoes.

“Just because we’re in a group
You all think we’re stinkin’ rich
An’ we all got model girls shedding every stich
And you think the coke is flowing
Like a river up our noses
And every sea will part for us
Like the red one did for Moses”

From “Cheapskates” by Strummer/Jones

Some favorite memories: Watching the debut of “White Man In Hammersmith Palais” at The Clash’s three-night Camden Music Machine event in London, 1978; Mick Jones jumping into the crowd at the Crawley Sports Center, later on the same tour, and pounding a bouncer who was beating up on a fan; Joe surprising the heck out of us with “Keys To Your Heart” at the 1989 Palladium show; and seeing Joe belt through “Rudie Can’t Fail” that one last time on the Mescaleros 2001 US tour.

My all-time top five Clash songs:

“White Man in Hammersmith Palais”
“Complete Control”
“Rudie Can’t Fail”
“Safe European Home”
“London Calling”

Learn more:

Redemption Song: The Ballad of Joe Strummer by Chris Salewicz
Strummerville Foundation for New Music
The Clash Blog
Joe Strummer obituary by Geoffrey Notkin

And finally, I am not going to end this piece by saying: “Well at least we still have Joe’s music.” I feel cheated. I want more, and my heart longs for all the rousing, sad, and beautiful Strummer songs we will never hear.