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The sticker affixed to the London Calling album shrink-wrap, so many years ago, boldly declared that the Clash were “the only band that matters.” If that is true – if it was more than record company hyperbole – then Joe Strummer’s death 22 years ago today, of a heart attack at age 50, was a very big deal indeed.

It wasn’t as big as John Lennon’s murder, of course, which came one year after London Calling was released, and shook an entire generation. Nor as newsworthy, likely, as the suicide of Nirvana’s Kurt Cobain in 1994. No, the impact of the sudden death of Joe Strummer – the front man for the Clash, the spokesman for what the Voidoid’s Richard Hell called, at the time, “the blank generation” – will be seen in more subtle ways.

For starters, you weren’t going to see any maudlin Joe Strummer retrospectives on CNN, or hordes of hysterical fans wailing in a park somewhere, clutching candles whilst someone plays ‘White Riot’ on acoustic guitar. Nor would there be a rush by his estate to cash in with grubby compilation and tribute discs. Punk rock, you see, wasn’t merely apart from all that – it was against of all that.

Punk rock was a specific rejection of everything rock’n’roll had become in the 1970s – namely, a business: an arena-sized, coke-addicted, utterly-disconnected-from-reality corporate game played by millionaires at Studio 54. Punk rock, and Joe Strummer, changed all of that. They were loud, loutish, pissed off. They were of the streets, and for the streets. They wanted rock’n’roll to matter again.

I met Joe Strummer for the first time on the night of October 16, 1979, in East Vancouver. Two of my Calgary punk rock buddies, plus my girlfriend and I, were loitering on the main floor at the Pacific National Exhibition (PNE). We were exhilarated and exhausted. We had pooled our meager resources to buy four train tickets to Vancouver, to see Joe Strummer and the Clash in concert. Their performance had been extraordinary (and even featured a mini-riot, midway through). But after the show, we had no money left, and nowhere to stay.

The four of us were discussing this state of affairs when a little boy appeared out of nowhere. It was near midnight, and the Clash, DOA and Ray Campi’s Rockabilly Rebels had long since finished their respective performances. Roadies were up on stage, packing up the Clash’s gear. The little boy looked to be about seven or eight. He was picking up flashcubes left behind by the departed fans.

We started talking to the boy. It turned out he was the son of Mickey Gallagher, the keyboardist the Clash had signed on for the band’s London Calling tour of North America. His father appeared, looking for him. And then, within a matter of minutes, Topper Headon appeared, looking for the Gallaghers.

Topper Headon was admittedly not much to look at: he was stooped, slight and pale, with spiky hair and a quiet manner. But he was The Drummer For The Clash, and had supplied beats for them going back almost to their raw eponymous first album, the one that had changed our lives forever. We were in awe.

Topper asked us where we were from and what we thought of the show. When he heard that we had no place to stay, he said: “Well, you’d better come backstage with me, then.”

Sprawled out in a spartan PNE locker room, Strummer was chatting with lead guitarist Mick Jones and bassist Paul Simonon, along with some Rastafarians and a few of the Rockabilly Rebels. They were all stoned, and grousing about an unnamed promoter of the Vancouver show, who had refused to let them play until he was paid his costs. The Clash, like us, had no money. That made us love them even more.

Joe Strummer, with his squared jaw and Elvis-style hairdo, didn’t seem to care about the band’s money woes. While Mick Jones flirted with my girlfriend, Strummer started questioning me about my Clash T-shirt. It was homemade, and Strummer was seemingly impressed by it. I could barely speak. There I was, speaking with one of the most important rock’n’rollers ever to walk the Earth – and he was acting just like a regular guy. Like he wasn’t anything special.

But he was, he was. From their first incendiary album in 1977 (wherein they raged against racism, and youth unemployment, and hippies), to their final waxing as the real Clash in 1982 (the cartoonish Combat Rock, which signaled the end was near, and appropriately so), Strummer was the actual personification of everything that was the Clash. They were avowedly political and idealistic; they were unrelentingly angry and loud; most of all, they were smarter and more hopeful than the other punk groups, the cynical, nihilistic ones like the Sex Pistols. They believed that the future was worth fighting for.

The Clash were the ones who actually read books – and encouraged their fans to read them, too. They wrote songs that emphasized that politics were important (and, in my own case, taught me that fighting intolerance, and maintaining a capacity for outrage, was always worthwhile). They were the first punk band to attempt to unify disparate cultures – for example, introducing choppy reggae and Blue Beat rhythms to their music.

They weren’t perfect, naturally. Their dalliances with rebel movements like the Sandinistas, circa 1980, smacked of showy dilettante politics. But they weren’t afraid to take risks, and make mistakes.

Born John Graham Mellor in 1952 in Turkey to the son of a diplomat, Strummer started off as a busker in London, and then formed the 101ers, a pub rock outfit, in 1974. Two years later, he saw the Pistols play one of their first gigs. Strummer, Jones and Simonon immediately formed the Clash, and set about rewriting the rules.

While political, they also knew how to put together good old rock’n’roll. Strummer and Jones effectively became the punk world’s Lennon and McCartney, churning out big hits in Britain, and attracting a lot of favourable critical acclaim in North America. Some of their singles, ‘White Man in Hammersmith Palais’ and ‘Complete Control,’ are among the best rock’n’roll 45s – ever. Their double London Calling LP is regularly cited as one of history’s best rock albums.

After the Clash broke up, Strummer played with the Pogues, wrote soundtrack music and formed a new group, the world beat-sounding Mescaleros. He married, and became a father. But he never again achieved the adulation that greeted the Clash wherever they went.

Strummer didn’t seem to care. When I saw him for the last time – at a show in one of HMV’s stores on Yonge Street in July 2001, which (typically) he agreed to give at no cost – Strummer and his Mescaleros stomped around on the tiny stage, having the time of their lives. They didn’t play any Clash songs, but that was okay by us. Joe Strummer’s joy was infectious, that night.

As the gig ended, Strummer squatted at the edge of the stage – sweaty, resplendent, grinning – to speak with the fans gathered there. They looked about as old as I was, when I first met him back in October 1979. As corny as it sounds, it was a magical moment, for me: I just watched him for a while, the voice of my generation, speaking to the next one.

I hope they heard what he had to say.

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The thing you need to understand about Justin Trudeau is that he doesn’t live a life like you and I do.

It’s like he’s David Bowie in Nicolas Roeg’s The Man Who Fell To Earth – impossibly good-looking, fabulously rich, effortlessly charismatic. But an alien.

Gerald Butts and I used to be close. One time, he invited me to his birthday dinner. It was him and his wife, and me and mine. Trudeau swept in, late, and it was really the first time I encountered him close up. If you had said he breathed a different air than the rest of us, I would’ve believed it. Trudeau was the centre of the room, and everything was in his orbit.

Later I asked my wife about his obvious charisma. “Every woman wants to be with him,” she said. “Even the married ones.” (She used different words than “be with.”)

Being a political guy, I was always on the lookout for talent. I thought Trudeau should run. “Not yet,” Butts said. “Wait.”

When Trudeau’s Dad died, he gave the eulogy. Butts told me he wrote it, but Justin Trudeau delivered that eulogy like every single word and dramatic pause had been forged in the crucible of his soul. It seared. It soared. It was the start of his Prime Ministerial campaign.

Me, I was concerned. Everyone else in Canada thought that eulogy came from the depths of Justin Trudeau’s grief. But I knew it came from Gerald Butts’ keyboard. I started to wonder if Justin Trudeau was a bit of a phony.

Now, look: I know the political species. I’ve been around it my entire adult life. They’re almost all phonies. Like the Liberal MP I ran into a few days ago at the liquor store. I remarked about him making the big and selfless decision to leave politics. “Oh, there may be a cabinet shuffle,” he said. “I’ll stay for that.” He did. On Friday, he got his wish. Good morning, Minister Phony.

So, they’re all actors. They don’t say that Ottawa is Hollywood for ugly people for nothing, you know.

But Justin Trudeau’s acting ability was like nothing I’d ever seen. As the country would eventually discover, he could be hooked up to a battery of lie detectors and say that he’s a fiscal conservative – or that he’d never ever worn blackface to parties with other rich white people to get a laugh, or that he’d never ever been accused of groping a woman at a beer festival in BC – and it wouldn’t register a blip. The needle wouldn’t move.

He’s one of those liars who lies so effortlessly, you can tell he believe the lies, too. He achieves that state of gracelessness by never exposing himself to contrary facts.

So – and this is the God’s truth – he doesn’t pay any attention whatsoever to the news media. He regarded news as fake news long before Donald Trump and his winged monkeys claimed to copyright the phrase. Trudeau will do an event, hop back on his Challenger jet, and start scrolling through pictures of himself on Instagram. He doesn’t give a damn about what the commentariat says. Never has.

He’s aided and abetted in this by his Lady Macbeth, Katie Telford. I explained the Telford-Trudeau relationship to a Liberal Senator recently, describing it as akin to coaching a sumo wrestler. “She feeds him candies and keeps him completely in the dark,” I said. The Liberal Senator was laughing so much I thought he was going to pass out.

That’s the main insight I can offer about Justin Trudeau: he’s a space alien, and he doesn’t read me and Brian Lilley, ever. Or anyone. It’s never occurred to him to even try.

Until the past week or so, that is, when his universe shifted on its axis. He, the anti-racist feminist middle classist, fired Chrystia Freeland to clear the runway for another rich white guy, and she hit back with a ferocity that only spurned cultists possess. (Kinsellian Political Rule Number Two: never fire someone who knows lots of stuff about you during a crisis.)

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Forty-seven years.

Forty-seven years ago tonight, the Social Blemishes – me, Ras Pierre, Rockin’ Al and a few others miscreants – took to the makeshift stage in the gym at Bishop Carroll High School in Calgary for the first-ever performance of a punk band in our hometown. In all of Alberta, too.

We were opening for local luminaries Fosterchild, and we were terrible. But we were hooked: maybe this punk rock stuff would never win us fame or riches or groupies, but could there be any better way to alienate our parents, teachers and peers?  Nope.

And, besides: it was fun. Case in point: we even got our picture in the Calgary Herald, up above.  The guy on the far left (ahem) was John Heaney, who went on to be Rachel Notley’s Chief of Staff; beside him, Ras Pierre, now a multimillionaire engineer in Alberta (and my best friend, still); Yours Screwly, in shades, homemade Sex Pistols T-shirt and (seriously) a dog collar; Rockin’ Al, a standout stand-up comedian and performer and Also Best Friend; Allen Baekeland, later a DJ (RIP); Pat O’Heran, an award-winning Hollywood filmmaker; and, behind the skins, Ronnie Macdonald, another successful engineering technologist type, but in B.C.

Me and Ras Pierre would leave the Blems to form the Hot Nasties. Along the way, one of the songs we wrote, Invasion of the Tribbles, was to be covered by British chart-toppers the Palma Violets. Another one, Barney Rubble Is My Double, ended up covered by Nardwuar and the Evaporators.  And Secret of Immortality was to be covered by Moe Berg of Pursuit of Happiness.  Not bad.

Anyway, because I’m going to taking a dirt nap any day now – or so says one of my sons, now the same age I was in that photo, up above – I’ve immortalized the Social Blemishes in Recipe For Hate and its sequels, New Dark Ages and the just-out Age of Unreason. Meanwhile, The Ballad of the Social Blemishes is a song about our departed-too-soon former manager, Tom Wolfe, and came out on Ugly Pop Records – the video, showing rare Blems footage, is here.

Forty-seven years: I can’t believe I’m so old.

The only solution is to continue acting like I’m seventeen.

Gabba gabba hey!

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Chrystia Freeland, Liberal leadership candidate.

There can be no other rational explanation for why the former finance minister is sticking around. None. Having fired a rocket directly at Justin Trudeau first thing Monday morning, she has now cleared the way for a run at the Liberal Party leadership.

And, make no mistake, she fired that rocket right at Trudeau’s credibility, and left his claims to be a “feminist” and a prudent administrator in tatters.

Wrote Freeland: “Our country today faces a grave challenge. The incoming administration in the United States is pursuing a policy of aggressive economic nationalism, including a threat of 25 per cent tariffs. We need to take that threat extremely seriously.

“That means keeping our fiscal powder dry today, so we have the reserves we may need for a coming tariff war. That means eschewing costly political gimmicks, which we can ill-afford and which make Canadians doubt that we recognize the gravity of the moment …That means working in good faith and humility with the Premiers of the provinces and territories of our great and diverse country, and building a true Team Canada response.”

“Costly political gimmicks!” Them’s fighting’ words, folks.

Freeland hit a bullseye, too. The markets dropped after her announcement — and, more critically, her planned lockup for reporters to go through the Fall Economic Statement was delayed, likely permanently.

Now, if Mark Carney joins Trudeau’s cabinet, it will be analogous not just to jumping on the deck of the Titanic — it will be like jumping onto a Titanic whose deck is ablaze, and which has a bubonic plague outbreak, too.

In official Ottawa, the most important part of any letter is the second-to-last line. Here’s what it is in Freeland’s declaration of war on Trudeau and his cabal: “I look forward to continuing to work with my colleagues as a Liberal Member of Parliament, and I am committed to running again for my seat in Toronto in the next federal election.”

When Finance Minister John Turner broke with Pierre Trudeau, he left Ottawa and returned to a top-rung Bay Street law firm (where I was, full disclosure, a partner). He returned to run for the Liberal leadership in 1984, but his days away had made him rusty. He was prime minister for just 79 days.

So, when Paul Martin left, he stuck around, as Freeland plans to do — and plotted more or less openly against Jean Chretien. He won the leadership and became prime minister for the next three years.

Freeland is a woman and a Westerner. She is bilingual. She has been a journalist, and has held every major position in the federal government. While she will be tagged with many of the Trudeau government’s least-popular policies, she will also be campaigning more or less from the outside, now with some credibility. And, in the House of Commons, she will every day be a painful visual reminder of the failure of Trudeau’s government — and his “feminism.”

In the past week, Chrystia Freeland had been meeting with very senior Liberals to discuss her options. The advice, overwhelmingly, was to push back. Stop letting Trudeau humiliate you in public, they said. Quit. She has now done just that.

This is a government falling apart before our eyes, folks. If he had any sense, any self-awareness, Justin Trudeau would know that he has to go, too.

Somewhere, Jody Wilson-Raybould and Jane Philpott are smiling. And nodding their heads.

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