My brilliant and very supportive mom put up with decades of shenanigans from me. She didn’t object too much when I bleached my hair to a shocking shade of tangerine, thereby causing an uproar at my uptight, proto-Fascist British public school in the late 1970s, or when I joined a punk rock band at the age of fifteen. I was allowed to travel around Britain on my own at a relatively tender age, drink booze in the house before I was eighteen, and was also accorded many other liberties that were not so freely doled out by my friends’ less progressive parents (all of which explains a lot about who I am today, but that’s another tale).

Among the few serious requests my mom ever made of me were that I (a) not drive motorcycles, and (b) not get my ears pieced. Since, by the age of sixteen I already had a secret dirt bike stashed at my friend’s house way out in the English boonies, I thought I could bend a little, respect her last remaining wish, and not get holes punched in my earlobes. To my surprise, she didn’t say anything about tattoos so that door was left open if I wanted to explore it.

I have always been interested in tattoo art. I am a bit of a contrary fellow, so things that are regarded as slightly “out there” by polite society are naturally of interest to me. That would explain the delight I take in punk rock, motorcycles, protest singers, animal rights activists, Burning Man, and so on. The world of tattoos fits in rather well with a number of those subcultures. In fact, my girlfriend, and most of my pals have them, and I can only think of a couple of close friends who do not sport the ink.

Despite that, I don’t have one myself—yet—and it seems there are two possible reasons for this. The unnecessary infliction of pain could be one, as could my ever-changing taste in things. I am well aware that the art and music I enjoy today are somewhat different from what I doted on, say, thirty years ago—except for The Clash and The Ramones of course, oh, and I was listening to Abba’s “S.O.S.” this morning. Yes, I know it’s hard for you to believe that I listen to Abba, but “S.O.S” is one hell of a good pop song. Anyway, my hesitation to get inked may be due to the obvious longevity of tattoos. In other words, they are permanent; many of my tastes are not. In addition, my favorite live-life-by quote is: “If something is worth doing, it’s worth overdoing,” so if I were to get inked it wouldn’t be some itty bitty affair on my ankle, but likely a hugely involved tapestry on my back. I’ve always imagined that I would wake up one day—possibly many years hence—look in the mirror, and say to myself: “Idiot! What on earth were you thinking?!”

I was discussing this very concept of the permanence of inked skin versus the changing moods of my own fickle art-mind with one of my staff members, Beth, just the other day. She explained that her view was precisely the opposite of mine: A tattoo that she acquired would always remind her, specifically, and in a very colorful manner, of that precise time in her life. To which I replied, jokingly: “I don’t want to be reminded of those times.”

Fortunately, none of these weighty matters prevented me from journeying down to The Hotel Arizona on Sunday for the Tucson Tattoo Expo. Who wouldn’t want to hang around with goths, bikers, punk rockers, and skin artists? Sounded like a good time to me, and also, I had an appointment to meet celebrated, award-winning Tucson artist Jim Quinn II, owner of Istari Tattoo Studio, as he is working on an illustration project for my company.

Jim Quinn II, owner of Istari Tattoo Studio, with his prize from the 2011 Expo

Tall, slender, jovial, animated yet laid-back, with spectacular wings tattooed on both sides of his neck, it was really quite easy to pick Jim out of the crowd. I looked through the portfolios of his work and was amazed by how well he handled a wide variety of styles, including Celtic knotwork, classical Japanese, and even Aztec/Inca. He’s a serious artist, and we reminisced a little about art school days, and how invigorating it is to be surrounded by the influence of talented people—taking a bit here, taking a bit there, all the while gradually developing your own style.

You know how when you go to a typical expo it’s all very serious and corporate, with products on lucite display stands, monitors running ads, backdrops, banners, and prim, well-dressed hired salespeople who are just a little too eager to discuss their product with you? Well, the Tucson Tattoo Expo couldn’t possibly have been any more different from that stilted vision. They had a bar set up inside the venue, a smoking area, a line of Harleys parked outside, sassy-looking girls wearing dog collars, and guys covered—literally—from head to toe in multi-colored ink. What’s not to like?

I was surprised how many people—in various states of undress—were actually being worked on during the convention. One gentleman had stripped down to his red underwear while a local artist addressed some of his few remaining square inches of unadorned skin; a lithe brunette lay on her side on a big table while her back was decorated; other pro artists were having some of their own tats touched up by colleagues. And that begs the question: When you’re an accomplished tattooist, how do you feel when another artist is working on your own personal canvas? Walking around, I found the soft, layered buzzing of multiple electric needles to be oddly soothing and intriguing, like a hive of industrious underworld virtuosos.

Shortly after my arrival at the expo, I realized I’d left my cell phone at the auto parts store on the other side of town, and I really needed to have it with me. Before making the twenty-mile round trip to pick it up, I considered that if I were to get inked at some point down the road, perhaps I should select a stylized cell phone design. Not very interesting artistically, but at least it might prevent me from leaving the damn thing behind on a regular basis, and always at the most inconvenient times.

Text and photograph © by Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

In August of last year I mused in The Logical Lizard about The Clash and their mighty singer and lyricist in “Missing Joe Strummer And The Clash.” I imagine that their music will always remain the central rhythm to the soundtrack of my life, so I experienced two immediate emotions when I learned that BBC America would be premiering the new punk rock documentary: Rebel Truce: The Clash on December 12. The first was delight, because I’d be seeing a fresh, new take on the history of my all-time favorite band, and the second was confusion: Why bother making another Clash documentary after the perfect and monumental Westway to the World, directed by long-time Clash friend and colleague Don Letts (who is also prominently featured in Rebel Truce)? I needn’t have worried. While Westway will doubtless always remain the foremost documentary about that band that I consider to be the finest and most exciting I’ve ever seen, Rebel Truce is worth 70-odd minutes of any punk rock devotees time.

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 problem with rock ‘n’ roll music is easily explained, but not so easily remedied. As I grew old enough to start attending live concerts, I was living in London and the advance guard of the soon-to-be punk rock revolution could be heard rumbling in basements and rundown rehearsal studios across Britain.

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.