So very fucking excited to have Helena Hann-Basquiat on Rubber Shoes In Hell.
I’ve never really considered having a guest post (okay, maybe briefly), it’s not that I didn’t want to have guests writing on my blog, it’s just that it seemed like that was what other bloggers do, kind of like people who live in Florida in the Winter or practice Lent or pay their bills on time. That was for other people, not me.
Helena offered to write a post for my blog and I was instantly in love with the idea.
Then we decided it would be about music and I got more excited.
Then she said this: Dare I tell the perfect story for you? When I accidentally met Joe Strummer?
My response: OH MY FUCKING HELL. I am almost too jealous to hear it…but YES..I might even beg for that story.
I can’t add anything else to this introduction, so please enjoy Helena Hann-Basquiat’s story about the one person in all of history who makes my knees weak whenever he crows:
“Don’t ever let ‘em make you play American Pie,” he said, and I only remembered that hours, maybe days later when I got over the shock of the encounter. “Get a few pints in ‘em and sooner or later some fuckin’ sod will shout it out. But mark my words, luv. You play that fuckin’ sad sap song and it’s all over.”
It was November of 1999, and I was living in Toronto again. I’d been going through my I think I want to be a musician phase, and had taken up with a guitarist by the name of Robert (I would later move to California with him – an ill-advised decision, darlings, but that’s a tale I’ve already told), and we were playing pubs and bars, where my warbling renditions of Smiths songs and the odd Joni Mitchell tune were really not going over well. Suffice to say, that part of our relationship did not last, and it wasn’t very long before Robert was writing his own songs and looking to form a band.
I’ve always loved music. I love music the way that an oenophile loves wine, or a logophile loves words. Okay, guilty as charged on both of those counts as well, darlings, but what I’m really trying to explain to you is that I am not some noise-aholic or quiet-a-phobe who simply needs audio wallpaper to shut out the voices in their head.
I don’t turn on the radio in the car and just listen to whatever. I can’t. It really is the equivalent of presenting a wine lover with a bottle of Two Buck Chuck. I obsess over music, I get chills over sexy chord changes, certain voices can make secret parts of me tingle in oh so pleasant ways. As both a lover of words and a lover of music, I get absolutely orgasmic at cunning linguists whose lyrical wordplay is like delicious foreplay.
All this to impress upon you that for me, musicians are something akin to saints to a Catholic. I’m no starfucker, don’t get me wrong – it’s a purely artistic appreciation, but to be in the presence of one of these gods and goddesses among us is something transcendent.
No, darlings, don’t worry. I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid and shave my head. I’m not writing this missive from the lobby of an airport, wearing saffron robes and finger cymbals and singing some George Harrison sitar-heavy number.
I was just listening to The Clash – London Calling, actually, and remembering that night in Toronto when Robert and I bumped into Joe Strummer after a show. It was long after The Clash, of course. Joe had made a cool cat comeback with a band called The Mescaleros – whose sound couldn’t be further from The Clash, but were amazing in their own right, especially after they worked out the kinks with their first album and found their own sound.
But let’s cut the crap, shall we, darlings? Much as I have gained an appreciation for The Mescaleros, when I heard that Joe Strummer was going to be in town, I knew it was the closest thing I was ever going to get to actually seeing The Clash. Let’s face it – no one goes to see Paul McCartney to hear him play Biker Like an Icon. (I speak from experience – play The Beatles or go home).
Of course, he didn’t disappoint. He played a ton of my favourite songs, including Brand New Cadillac, White Man in Hammersmith Palais, Straight to Hell, and the aforementioned London Calling. By the time he closed the show with an incredibly long version of Bank Robber, I was beside myself with joy.
Robert and I stumbled out into the night, smiles nearly bursting our cheeks open, and we were so pumped up with adrenaline, we decided to step into a pub around the corner, where some Irish band was pumping out Dropkick Murphys covers and traditional music. We did a couple of shots and a couple of pints of Guinness, and before long we were dancing and hooting and hollering, and quickly out of breath. We downed the rest of our drinks, and stepped outside for a smoke.
And that’s where we found him – leaning up against the wall in the alleyway, dressed all in black, smoking a cigarette and looking as cool as if it were 1979.
I pulled out a cigarette and asked him for a light, pretending like I didn’t know who he was. Inside my head were two alternating mantras.
Mantra #1: Be cool be cool be cool be cool becoolbecoolbecool!
Mantra #2: Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod!
With this going on inside my head, it didn’t leave much in way of coherent thought, and so I just smiled in what I can only hope was a sexy way as Joe Strummer lit my cigarette.
“Thanks,” I said (again, I can only hope) nonchalantly, and exhaled in the way I’d watched movie stars do.
Robert had to open his mouth and ruin the moment.
“Great show, man,” he said, in that too-excited, too-enthusiastic, fan-voice. “Really, just… great.”
And then he smiled. Joe Strummer grinned, and my heart stopped beating for about twenty minutes. I had myself declared legally dead and then surprised everyone by coming back to life. It was a fucking miracle. Of course, I may be exaggerating, darlings. I do that. I also do a mean flatbread pizza and can name everyone who has ever sung for King Crimson, but I digress.
I could have died right then. The moment could have ended right there, and it would have been burned on my memory forever. But then Robert had to go one step further, and tell Joe Strummer – the legendary Joe Strummer – that he was a musician, too, and did he have any advice for someone just starting out?
I thought he was going to laugh. I thought he was going to laugh and tell us to fuck off. Instead, he took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaled, and imparted this bit of wisdom:
“Don’t ever let ‘em make you play American Pie. Get a few pints in ‘em and sooner or later some fuckin’ sod will shout it out. But mark my words, luv. You play that fuckin’ sad sap song and it’s all over.”
I was dumbfounded. I wasn’t really listening to what he was saying; I was just mesmerized by his presence. Then a door opened and a giant of a man poked his head out.
“Jones!” the behemoth growled in a gravelly voice straight out of monster movie. “How many fucking smoke breaks you gonna take? Get your ass in here and man the fryer – Lydon’s fucking useless!”
He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his heel. Giving us a smile and a shrug, the mystery man who was quite obviously not Joe Strummer disappeared into the kitchen, and out of our lives forever.
♥♥♥
The enigmatic Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has. She’s written cookbooks, ten volumes of horrible poetry that she then bound herself in leather she tanned poorly from 
cows she raised herself and then slaughtered because she was bored with farming. She has an entire portfolio of macaroni art that she’s never shown anyone, because she doesn’t think that the general populous or, “the great unwashed masses” as she calls them, would understand the statement she was trying to make with them. Some people attribute her with inventing the Ampersand, but she has never made that claim herself. Earlier this year, she published Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One, and has finished Volume Two and is in the editing process. Volume One is available HERE in e-book for Kindle or HERE in paperback. Helena writes strange, dark fiction under the name Jessica B. Bell Find more of her writing at http://www.helenahb.com or connect with her via Twitter @HHBasquiat
Thank you so much for joining me for this story. Awesome, right? I have read it about 10 times now and I love it more every time I read it.
This guest post business is kind of cool. Anyone else out there interested in a writing a guest post for Rubber Shoes? Just hit the contact button and send me an email.
Ha ha ha ha, brilliant
Right? I LOVED it so much.
Ohhh SNAP. Dangit you’re *so* good at keeping me hooked through all the wonder and delight, savouring every last morsel, until you let slip that it was all just air-pie. Gaaaaahhhhhh!!!! 🙂 (Don’t stop tho, right?)
I know! I adored this story so much!
Thanks, Lizzi! This is what I missed about ‘being Helena’… being able to write this kind of story. Still focussed on CHUK, of course, but if people keep asking for me to write, I’ve got a million stories unwritten in my head of this variety.
Well, good advice is good advice, wherever it comes from.
p.s. “orgasmic at cunning linguists” is delicious.
It really was stellar advice…
That is true. And it is good advice. Don’t ever let them make you play “American Pie” or it’s all over. See also: More Than Words, Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door, and Free Bird.
She said “cunning linguists.” I am such a child. I love this, and that is my new favorite phrase.
HAHHAHA…yeah, I love that.
This might be the best thing I’ve ever read! I am crying laughing!!!!! I never saw it coming and it was pure brilliance!
Well, shit, darling, thank you so much! I’ve got more where that came from!
http://helenahannbasquiat.wordpress.com/the-sordid-tale-so-far/
Thanks for stopping by
Just hit that follow button!
Right? I mean, I was so damn sorry that she didn’t actually meet him…but it was hilarious!
I was so excited too… Total let down but made me burst out laughing in my cubicle!!!
What’s wrong with American Pie? Geez…
Haha. You’d probably have to talk to ‘not joe strummer’ to get a good answer.
Nothing — it’s just one of those songs generally associated with washed up old cover bands. If you are a musician starting up, songs like that are the kiss of death.
Damn. I was so caught up in the story and nodding my head in agreement with the oh so wise ‘American Pie’ statement that I had to read the ending 5 times to make it real.
Helena is like a female O. Henry!
Oh, Cindy, if I could give you a hug and kiss I would. Gift of the Magi is one of my favourite stories of all time and has definitely influenced my writing style greatly.
Consider us all hugged and kissed.
Right? I adored that ending so much!
I can imagine the same thing happening to me in my fangirlisheness…except you probably told it much better than I could have. 🙂
Okay, darling, you must fess up. Is your last name really Baudelaire? How splendid! Thank you for reading.
OMG! I totally connected with this! Just this March, was the time I didn’t really meet Danny Seraphine. Here’s my accounting of it!
http://psb1969.blogspot.com/2014/03/does-anybody-really-know-what-time-it-is.html
Speaking of Toronto…I have a friend who lives in Toronto that used to date the lead singer from Finger Eleven. Scott Andrews? Anyway, they were way over before I became friends with her…I don’t get many brushes with fame, sadly.
Was that back when they were the Rainbow Butt Monkeys? (Yeah, like Finger Eleven was a better choice). I used to see them playing clubs in and around Toronto back in the day.
I think she was living with him post-butt monkey.
Perfect, Helena, just perfect.
janet
Thanks Janet!
And it’s Anderson, apparently. My bad.
Great story. My friend Sara, the symphony-level violinist, went on sort of a Joe Strummer binge this past weekend while I was visiting her in Truckee. She also streamed a 2 hour PFM concert while we were BBQing hamburgers.
You two must not have been the first to mistake that guy for Joe Strummer if he had a response at the ready like that.
Good grief. Truckee? Does your friend Sarah have a meth lab?
Kidding kidding of course! I used to live in the bay area and loved going up to Lake Tahoe. Truckee is kind of infamous for meth labs – or at least it was then
I feel obligated to reply that my friend Sara does not, in fact, have a meth lab. And that the part of Truckee where she lives seems fairly upscale and somewhat straight-laced to me. I could be mistaken about the second part, as my eyesight is really poor at this point.
Well, that’s good, then!
Oh yeah, Michelle: While I was in Truckee I used my friend’s computer and watched the penis-song video you linked to a while back. It was both cute and hilarious.
Hahaha! Yes! It was pretty funny, wasn’t it
You always have the best stories and meet the best people 🙂
Thanks, Sara. I’m thinking it might be time for me to drop by your blog for another visit, no?
I really liked it, the advice that is, when it was Joe Strummer saying it until it wasn’t, and then it was even better.
I would still tell people that instead of freaking out when you met Joe Strummer, you simply asked him to light your smoke because that just makes you badass.
Thanks for sharing this story with me. Just like that, I want to read more.
It’s such a great story! I was feeling all smug about having it on my blog…
It was a totally internal freak out… I’m sure not-Joe Strummer didn’t notice at all.
As a former radio announcer, I am horrified that I didn’t even KNOW who Joe Strummer was until this post. I’ll pause while you inhale in shock and disbelief. I can only blame it on the fact that I mainly worked top-40, adult contemporary, and country formats. And let’s be real – I was NEVER the cool kid who smoked in alleyways…although I always wanted to be.
That’s okay, sugar pop! You know now!
Admitting you have a problem is the first step, darling. Now, Jana, I insist you go find a copy of London Calling, followed up by Give ‘Em Enough Rope and then Combat Rock.
You may recognize the song “Straight to Hell” as the one that M.I.A. ripped off for her hit song a couple of years ago.
I promise, it’s going to be okay. Michelle and I can fill in the gaps in your musical education. When you are finished with the Clash, we shall move on to Elvis Costello.
Oh yes…Elvis..and maybe we could foray into The Queers and The Jam and Rancid and The Pixies…and..well…let’s not overwhelm anyone.
One of my favourite bookends (songs to listen to back to back) is Somebody Got Murdered (Clash) and Down in the Tube Station at Midnight (The Jam).
I’m quite partial to the The Clash debut album. The American version includes White Man In Hammersmith Palais and Complete Control..two of the band’s best songs.
While you’re splashing around in The Clash, you might as well dip into the Ramones 1st three albums….won’t take long. Even better, listen to their 1977 live album https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVhjBmcOP30
As for Elvis…
I love the first Clash LP, too, just worry that it might be “too punk” for the new listener. I can never keep track of the US/UK versions — I made myself a version with all the songs on it, because I couldn’t stand not having “White Man…” on one and not having “I’m So Bored…” on the other.
Another good example of this is Elvis Costello’s This Year’s Model. I just picked it up on LP — the US version — how can they leave of I don’t Wanna Go to Chelsea???????”
(Best guitar riff ever from Elvis — maybe even better than Detectives)
Darling!
MWAH!
Oh Helena,
You always get me, at the end. And I was never a cool kid who smoked in the halls, either. I was in band.
I played clarinet for two years in high school, darling, and developed an oral fixation, I suppose. I’ve been quit smoking (again) for about six months now — hope it sticks this time.
well look who I ran into at Michelle’s place? *grins*
Great job, Helena. Love the ending, but the lead up was even tastier.
I love it! It’s awesome..I can’t stop rereading it
You know, Michelle… ahem…. I’ve written other stuff, you know: http://helenahannbasquiat.wordpress.com/the-sordid-tale-so-far/
Just sayin’, darling.
Awesome! I’ll tweet that as well
I was just sayin’ — you don’t need to keep reading the same thing over and over again! I’m no one trick pony.
BUT let me just say how wonderful your praise of this tale makes me feel! I am SO glad when someone gets enthusiastic about my writing other than me.
Hugs!
Yeah, but this one kind of feels like MINE…so I’m gloating as I read.
Brilliant, descriptive writing.
I was there. I smell the cigarette smoke, see the sexy man in black grinning.
Faaaaaaaaaaaaabulous shit, Darling.
I so badly wish I could have met Not Joe Strummer…next best thing, right?
I was hanging on every word. You had me at “I get chills over sexy chord changes…” Yeeessss. I can NOT just listen to anything. Good music is like amazing sex and bad music is like bad sex. Just… really bad. (ooohhh… blog post idea! thank you for -hopefully- inspiring a much needed topic!) I loved this, and I especially love how you delivered the ending.
Nice! Looking forward to seeing your post!
The funniest thing happened to me, Gretchen, and I shall relate it to you very quickly. The very first time I ever heard Justin Bieber, I was in the car, and Penny was flipping around the stations, and I heard something come on that I thought was just the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard outside of Frank Zappa or Weird Al (who are trying to be ridiculous). A cliche “sexy” voice comes on and “sings”: “I know this may sound strange, but girl, you’re my hallelujah.”
I was drinking coffee and nearly drowned, and nearly drove us off the road. I sprayed my coffee all over the windshield and started laughing so hard I thought I’d choke.
Only later did I learn that it was Justin Bieber, and I suddenly realized why people mock him so much.
BAD MUSIC.
Let me know when you post your idea — happy to be inspirational!
Oh, and no dissing the Two-buck chuck. It hurts my feelings. We’re very close.
I can’t weigh in on the wine thing. I can’t drink it…makes no difference if it is cheap or expensive. I get sick when I drink wine. And I LOVE wine…or I think I do, it’s been a long time.
This is my favorite type of writing. I’m riding the wave of excitement and wonder and !THWACK!…there goes the rug…..right out from under me. Your writing really is enthralling.
Thank you, Sandy! I’ve seen you around all over the place, I can’t believe we’ve never spoken before.
I know. I’m a little like a ghost. Out and about and then gone…..blame my kids. They play so many damn sports, I’m always in my car. We’ll have to remedy that, Helena.
This is a fun post, I enjoyed the lighthearted writing and good laugh this morning. Guest posting sounds like a great bit of fun, I should look to get a few interested parties for my blog..
It is a pretty neat experience, I recommend it!
Damn you Helena. You had me to the very end, hot and breathless. Now I just need a shot to soothe my bruised ass from hitting the floor. You are a masterful wordsmith. Thanks for the title BTW, it was perfect as only your can do. You cunning linguist you.
Loved it! What a great story. And such good advice. I once stood in line behind the Grandpa from “Gimme a Break.” I don’t think it had the same impact.
Hahaha…we saw Huggy Bear from the Starsky and Hutch TV show in the airport once.
I would be very interested in doing a guest post, but my blog is brand new and I’ve never actually done one! So it’s something to think about.
When you are ready, just let me know