Though I hesitate to write once-more about the death of my heroes, I woke up yesterday morning morning and saw that 12 years ago, Joe Strummer passed away. Guitarist for “The Clash,” and revolutionary lyricist, musician, and bandleader, I can confidently say that Table Turners wouldn’t exists without “Woody.” He made caring cool, intelligence a badge of honor, and a three-note vocal range an acceptable medium for social change. More importantly, he was my hero, and the reason I believe art and music still matter in the world.

Everyone has “The Seventh Grade Album.” The disc, cassette, .wav file, or vinyl that rocked them into musical consciousness, leaving behind the haze of vacant pop music that would never be good enough. I remember holding London Calling over my blue walkman, fished from under … And Out Came the Wolves. I remember the spare white disc didn’t impress me compared to Operation Ivy.

But London Calling, 35 years young, could cement the importance of Joe Strummer for future generations on its own.

As I ignored reading The Silmarillion to bask in “Rudie Can’t Fail,” I discovered the voice that would inspire me, for better or worse, from then on. The Clash became The Only Band that Mattered.

I was jealous the School of Rock guitarist looked like Joe Strummer. I bought Rock Against Bush and Live From Here to Eternity while reading “Dude, Where’s My Country,” because I knew Joe would hate ‘ole Dubya. My first day at a new middle school, I wore my Clash t-shirt, not only for personal comfort but because it was the best litmus test for new friends. Is it too much credit to Joe for introducing me to my best friends?

Joe was not a good singer, in the technical sense. But he was a hell of a musician, and proved that the standard definitions of “good” were far from written in stone. From his early years of powerful, melodic barking (when’s the last time you listened to “Complete Control?“) to the forlorn, just-below-the-surface rage of “Straight to Hell” (you’re welcome MIA), Strummer expanded the palette of punk rock every time he touched it.

Better writers then I have expounded on the genre-defying talents of Joe Strummer, Mick Jones, Topper Headon, and Paul Simonon. They spawned a million bands since their self-titled album came out, and I was in one of them. Along with fellow High Meadows Producer Matt Tucci, our band The Debunks practically defined itself as The Clash. We played Strummer’s live cover of “Pressure Drop,” (hey — we dodn’t sound as bad as I remembered!) I learned Harmonica for “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” and our first practice song was “Train in Vain.” The Clash taught us to be a musicians.

More importantly, The Clash taught us that genre is a fucking useless concept.

That’s why I loved, and still love, Joe Strummer. Because he always seemed to be working for himself. Not for the money, and not for other people. His creative restlessness, the proud intelligence in his work, his unabashed passion for what he said and sung inspired me to write, create, and eventually succeed.

I define what it means to be an artist by the Strummer standard. It wasn’t just about being cool. It was about caring — about your music, your planet, and your politcs. Why make art otherwise?

In the years when “Green” was more than a buzzword, Joe was pressing carbon neutral records. I pulled out my copy of Global a Go-Go and was floored by it’s relevance. “Johnny Appleseed,” could have been written yesterday — on my way to work at an environmental NGO or the #berkeleyprotests (that sentence won’t lower my “self-absorbed piece of shit” comments on Reddit…). Joe Strummer and Clash are still kicking, and the same issues he wrote about — police brutality, fear of foreigners, job insecurity, etc. — are rearing their head today. Time is cyclical. Joe Strummer is timeless.

Table Turners, our new podcast, uses music to truly delve into the world around us, finding inspiration and new angles through art. I like to think Joe’d be proud. Or he’d laugh, knowing every cheap hood strikes his bargain with the world:

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