photo from AVERSION.COM

Still mourning Joe's death, I received an email from Dave, an old college bandmate.
I was honored that he would think of me upon hearing news of Strummer's death - we haven't been in touch for 20 years. During my Senior year at Brown University, my jamming buddy Billy and I decided to have a go at a band. I played guitar and electric 'cello, which I wore sideways with a strap, and hammered out four-string power chords with a plectrum. Billy was literally psychotic, in and out of the hospital for schizophrenia, and played lead guitar (often on his back). Billy was once ejected from an Iggy Pop show for rolling on the floor during "Now I Wanna Be Your Dog." Somehow, we acquired Dave, who was sensible and rooted us with solid rhythm guitar. The problem was drums. We advertised for a drummer. My favorite candidate was the kid who used to call me several times a day for directions to the coop dorm where we rehearsed in the basement. I would tell him how to get there, and he would explain he didn't know how to get there. So I would repeat the directions. It became clear, for whatever reason, that he was the sort of fellow who was not able to go anywhere unfamiliar. He once played his drums for me over the phone. These calls went on for about a week, when his mother got on the phone and told me her son was "developmentally disabled." I thought he would fit right in, as long as he could play, but his mother didn't want him involved. We also played with Vinnie, who had a regular gig with a rockabilly band. Vinnie was the drummer for our first gig - the Ratf...ker party. There were dead rats stolen from some university lab all over.
Our light show consisted of a projection of "Susie's Sexy Enema." I guess we were ok, because Vinnie was open to gigging again, but he wasn't available for our next (and final appearance) at the Drop until you Dance until you Drop party at my apartment. There was a biker hangout on the corner where they constantly blasted Born to Be Wild - and an American Legion around the corner where we used to drink Narragansett with Polish ladies with blue beehives. Our drummer for this party was a friend of a friend - we couldn't help noticing she only had one hand, the other arm ended in a stump. She strapped a drumstick to her stump with rubber bands,
but had to take a lot of breaks because her circulation was cut off.

After college, I moved to NYC to work as a sound engineer. My guitar and 'cello were stolen by junkies from the abandoned building next door. I climbed across the airshaft, found my 'cello, and stole it back - but they got it for good the second time.

some Clash links...

Left Off The Dial

rollingstone.com