Don Letts at Punk London and a very special trip on the London Eye...


Punk.London has crashed noisily into London, bringing with it a year of events, gigs, films, talks, exhibits and more. All in celebration of 40 years of punk, the genre-busting cultural phenomenon that allowed a whole generation to speak up without submission.

The capital’s cultural organisations will tell the story of punk through art, design, film, fashion, literature, photography and, of course, music - fantastic.

Fittingly, it's not without controversy; Joe Corré, son of late Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren and Designer and Businesswoman Dame Vivienne Westwood is planning to burn his collection of punk memorabilia, estimated to be worth around £5m, in protest that Punk.London has been backed by The Queen. “The Queen giving 2016, the year of punk, her official blessing is the most frightening thing I’ve ever heard. Talk about alternative and punk culture being appropriated by the mainstream". A true demonstration of anarchy or a bit of a spoilsport? You decide.

One of the many features that intrigues me the most is Don Letts Presents Punk on Film at the BFI on 1 August 2016. Director, DJ and musician Letts will host his curated season of exciting films that highlight the diversity of the punk movement, including the intersections between the Jamaican music scene and punk. Not to be missed.


Last summer I took a captivating trip on the London Eye to hear him open his mind (and heart) about the iconic Joe Strummer, co-f0under of The Clash, as part of the 32 Londoners series on assignment for RockShot Magazine.

It seemed a good time to revisit my exciting trip...


I’m ashamed to admit a mild fear of heights. On a supposedly ordinary Tuesday evening, as I gazed up at the gigantic Ferris wheel looming on London’s Southbank, all 135m of it framed by a glorious blue sky, I started to wonder if I had the stomach for it.

I needn’t have worried. Any acrophobic fears evaporated as I hopped on board The Eye just as the capsule doors closed and the sight of the indelible Don Letts came into view. It was clear this was no ordinary Tuesday evening.

I was embarking on a very special rotation for a preview of 32 Londoners, returning following last year’s sell out programme. The prestigious event features 32 talks held in each of the London Eye’s 32 capsules on 32 extraordinary Londoners. This year’s subject is Adopted Londoners, with expert speakers celebrating iconic figures, past and present, who were born outside of the city but came to be associated with it.

With its great history of cultural diversity, London has long been a beacon, attracting the great and the good to its streets. No more fitting a subject than the fascinating Joe Strummer of The Clash, punk rock’s most political vocal outfit, and whose story remains a permanent feature in London’s rich tapestry. Who better to captivate the audience with his story than British musician, DJ and film director Don Letts, born and bred in the city, and a strong influence on the band.

As we orbited, Letts opened his story with references to his Grammy Award winning film The Clash: Westway to the World and Julien Temple’s film Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten. We were introduced to Strummer’s exotic childhood spent in several different countries thanks to his British Diplomat father, a strained relationship with his non-musical parents and feelings of abandonment.

We got a sense of what built Strummer’s character – exposure to multifarious cultures from a young age, the rebellious streak caused by a loss of faith in formal education and subsequent immersion into music and a ruthless desire for reinvention inspired by the sounds of rock and roll and American folk hero Woody Guthrie. Letts asked the captive audience to draw our own conclusions from life-changing events in the musician’s life; like the correlation between the suicide of his National Front supporting older brother and Strummer’s lifelong fight against racism.

London didn’t disappoint with its magnificent views (as standard) and neither did the orator as he gave us a musical history lesson, bringing the lecture to life with vivid imagery. Strummer listening to Big Youth’s Screaming Target (supposedly on acid one Christmas in Wales) and his first proper band the 101ers, so called after the address of the squat they were living in, 101 Walterton Road.

We went back to 1976; the 101ers playing at the Nashville Room, supported by an unknown new band, the Sex Pistols, where Strummer first caught the eye of Mick Jones and Paul Simonon. History in the making right there and then, as they realised Strummer had the makings of a dynamic frontman and was possibly their missing link. We learnt about Strummer’s radical and ruthless move to join The Clash, including cutting off friends, band members and girlfriends and undertaking a legendary 200 plus drummer auditions to find the vehicle that would make him famous.

With an obvious interest in style (his London clothing store Acme Attractions enticed the likes of the Clash, Sex Pistols and Chrissie Hynde in the mid-1970s), Letts remarked how Simonon was responsible for the most part with the look of the Clash which, to his mind, was inseparable from their sound in a very English way; ‘they looked like they sounded, they sounded like they looked and with Mick Jones, Joe had found his McCartney, his Richards’.

Letts had an articulate and thespian delivery; it was impossible not to be enthused as he referred to The Clash as ‘four sticks of dynamite. They looked good, oozed attitude, sounded f*cking awesome and importantly their songs were about stuff’. With songs like White Riot and London’s Burning, their music seemed like the soundtrack for the climate of the times; ‘music of the people, by the people, for the people’.

There was a noticeable twinkle in his eye as he talked about songs that dealt with politics, social injustice, cultural apathy. As The Eye sliced through the London skyline, Letts took us through important milestones in the Clash’s rich history; signing for CBS in January 1977 which the punk rock purists thought signified the death of punk, the eponymous debut studio album for the label which included a cover of Junior Murvin’s Police & Thieves) and the influence behind one of their most enduring songs (White Man) in Hammersmith Palais; written by Strummer after Letts took him to the infamous venue.


He reminisced about their third album London Calling with lyrics he described as having a ‘musical reportage quality about it’ and their fourth triple album, Sandinista!, which they promoted in 1981 with a historic and exhausting 17-night back to back stint at Bond International Casino in New York. They were supported by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, who the audience welcomed with boos, but Strummer and the band were quick to run out and defend theirs guests. They were way ahead of their game before the explosion of hip hop and rap a few years later.

By 1982, America was under their spell with the release of the last proper Clash album, Combat Rock but when Letts talked about cracks showing in the band’s exterior – drug habits, a relentless work rate, Strummer going into hiding and the eventual disbanding in 1986, he drew from his own personal experiences and appeared genuinely sombre. We heard about the formation of the Mescaleros in the 1990s and releasing Rock Art and the X-Ray Style and Global a Go-Go, and Strummer finding his mojo again by the end of the 20th century; something, Letts noted, he didn’t think he’d ever really seen.

Inevitably, the magic had to end. Strummer’s last stage performance in 2002 was a benefit for the striking fireman, at the Acton Town Hall in London, the show that would also see him play with Mick Jones for the first time in almost 20 years. Sadly, Strummer passed away a few months later with an undiagnosed heart defect at the age of 50. At his funeral, attended by two dozen firemen in full uniform who he had played for earlier that month, a stetson sat on top of the coffin adorned with the words Question Authority. Ask me Anything.

The event was undeniably informative, but it was the way Letts peppered the talk with anecdotes and personal memories delivered with a smile in that rich, distinctive London accent (like when Strummer ran off with his girlfriend) that made it so endearing. He gave us a unique insight into the real Joe; someone who spent all night after gigs talking to anybody that wanted to speak to him with a ‘never ending source of relentless energy that was absolutely infectious’. An interest in what punk rock could be, as opposed to what it was. Someone who was far from perfect but that was OK to Letts; that meant keeping Strummer’s memory alive in a practical and very real way – something to aspire to.

Most powerfully for me was how Letts presented Strummer’s legacy as a constant inspiration. ‘Because he believed in music as a tool for social change, not just a soundtrack to passive consumerism. Because he was living proof that music didn’t just reflect change, it could affect change too’. The audience enthralled, he asked us, to consider ‘…in this cultural climate that feels like punk rock that didn’t happen where are the Joe Strummer’s of today?’

As our very special rotation drew to a close and we touched back down again in 2015, Letts ended his speech with a simple denouement, gazing out at the city surrounding us in all its glory. ‘Strummer, The Don salutes you’.

As do we, Don Letts, as do we. Thanks for the memories.

This feature first appeared on RockShot here.




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Sorry, can't make it. I have an appointment with me.

Running along the Southbank the other night after work, huffing and puffing and careering in and out of PEOPLE THAT HAVE TIME TO DAWDLE I clapped my eyes on something that nearly stopped me in my tracks.

A chic woman in a quilted puffer jacket (v. J Crew) was sat outside the BFI's Riverfront Bar, sipping slowly from a steaming great mug of coffee while reading a book under the warm red glow of an outdoor heater.

Nothing unusual about this you say and I agree. Yet, I couldn't take my eyes off her and a pang of mild envy smacked me round the chops without warning.

This malaise had nothing to do with not being able to feel my face thanks to an icy side wind coming off the Thames. Nor that my tatty Berghaus beanie made me resemble Badly Drawn Boy rather than a glowing goddess as we're supposed to look when exercising. No, this was because said lady was sat there doing absolutely nothing. Diddly squat. Nada. No phone, no companion, no evidence of work of any sort. Just her, a book and a hot beverage (and a great coat). There may even have been a cake. She was the antithesis of me; a picture of total and selfless relaxation.

As I trotted on towards the Hungerford Bridge and got stuck behind an overzealous tourist with a selfie stick, I mulled this over in my cold head. When was the last time I actually sat in a café and read something for leisure, rather than obligation? Stopped for longer than ten minutes to focus on one single thing, with no laptop, interruptions or iPhone and just savoured the pure, unadulterated enjoyment of reading?

I couldn't for the life of me remember. This troubled me.

Back in 2007 when I lived in Australia and first arrived as a pasty, scared thing and knew not a soul apart from my sister (I eventually dropped the fear but sadly the pallor never left) I would hang out in bookshops and various eateries in the early few days before city working. Just me, a Lonely Planet and a dog-eared book. I would gulp local coffee and read feverishly, stopping only to scribble some profound nonsense in a travel journal and have a nose at what was going on around me. I would eat whatever I felt like (*I'll have your finest flapjack and a plate of halloumi please*) and leave only when I couldn't make a tap water stretch any further or my bum had gone completely numb. A Jack Johnson soundtrack usually tinkled in the background, he being the epitome of repose.

Later independent travel provided further magic moments to pause in between destinations, seek out a second-hand bookshop and spend any leftover beer money on a battered but well-loved edition. As a result I was quite well-read and had a renewed sense of acuity and calmness. I'd meet the most interesting people when I least expected it. Luckily, Billy No Mates soon got some mates but I'd still disappear every now and then on my own.

Sigh. Which plonks me back down to Earth onto the arctic Southbank, the chilled lady and me squishing in an evening run. Clearly, when you're travelling / on your holidays you have a ton more free time on your hands. In those carefree days, I was sans responsibility, a busy job or an other half and my bestest mates were miles away. I could lounge about in hostels, chat to randoms and enjoy the benefit of wearing 'outdoor clothing' from Millets without fear of bumping into someone I knew. Just me, hanging out with me.

So the puffer lady got my brain ticking and ponder. Ahem, in a very Carrie Bradshaw way *typed words appear on screen*: Why couldn't we carve out some free time from our frantic schedules every now and then and gift it to ourselves? You know, take a breath and escape the chaos. Spend a bit of time doing exactly what we want, not what we have to. Enrich our souls and quiet our minds and... *thud*. That was the sound of a sleep-deprived parent throwing a Peppa Pig book at my head.

Ok, ok I hear you. The reality is there IS no spare time, barely time to pee let alone nibble on a flapjack and peruse a classic Hemingway. Life is so jam-packed and full these days, with crammed professional and personal schedules that there's hardly time to breathe. Free time is appallingly infinitesimal. But isn't it time we invested for the sake of our health and frazzled brains? Make an appointment with ourselves?

How about we all try this experiment together: Put a meeting in our diaries, half an hour here and there, just for ourselves and and stick to the commitment. Adjust this plan to fit to our individual circumstances - perhaps half hour when the kids are in bed to flop on the sofa and read, maybe escape the desk and Regain your Lunch Break as recommended by Stylist or get up with the larks and sneak out when your bed companion's still snoozing and go out for a stroll - just you, your iPod and your inner thoughts. Let's all report back on our findings.


My friend Vicki recently shared with me a beautiful phrase - dolce far niente which, roughly translated, means the 'sweetness of doing nothing'. What a gorgeous concept. Puffer lady had perfected her 'niente'. Mine's a bit rusty, but I've blocked out some time a few Sunday's away to experience the dolce of reading The Goldfinch, sat woefully on my bedside table unread since Crimbo, in a new brunch place round the corner. It should keep me grounded, power me through the bad stuff that life has chucked our way recently and reenact that wonderful sense of liberty I once experienced in Sydney, San Diego, Auckland, Hobart, Lima - right here in London.

So lovely friends, please accept my apologies the next time I decline a vino, a lunch or another adventure around town which you know I'm always up for - I have an appointment with me.

Next time you walk along the Southbank, take a look. It might be me there under the glow of a heater with my nose in a book.

In a better hat I hope.