London Calling: The Only Bar Mitzvah Album that Matters
How London Calling Calmed Me on the Big Day
The year was 2004, or as we mostly know it today, the International Year of Rice. Fortunately, the USA re-elected George Bush, North Korea banned mobile phones, and Mexico signed a Free Trade Agreement with Japan in Mexico City (Wikipedia, “2004”). And I was becoming a man… in the Jewish sense.
The day: November 13.
This little toe-headed scamp dressed up in his finest suit with the slickest of slacks had his Torah portions memorized, ready for action. The Stern clan looked absolutely marvelous as we packed in to our Buick. I wanted to be anywhere, but in that damn car. That twenty minute drive felt like an hour and twenty minutes. My Grandma, sensing my nerves about virtually leading the entire service and reading the maximum amount of Torah portions for a Bar Mitzvah, asked me if I was nervous. An horrendous question at a time like this. I tried to deflect the question out of the car window, but to no avail. Apparently, “no” wasn’t a satisfactory answer. Remaining silent, an act that comes quite naturally to me when I’m around family, served as my only course of action. Of course, being silent leads to more questions about your state of well being. “Fine” always fails as an answer in this affair. What was this poor, nervous, sheyna punim to do?
My solution: Turn to my father.
His solution: Insert London Calling in to the cd player.
The immediate, ominous pounding of the rhythm section and Strummer’s apocalyptic lyrics curiously soothed me. It also quashed further opportunities for me to hear that extremely unhelpful question. I don’t remember how many songs we listened to before arriving at the synagogue, but the opening track was all I needed to make it through that car ride.
Now at the synagogue, an hour or so passed before my friends and family, most of whom I did not know and still don’t know, filled up the room. Sadly, I couldn’t blast London Calling while a packed synagogue stared at me for two hours. I did have my Rabbi next to me to keep the mood on the stage light. At the beginning of the service, around 9:30am, when almost nobody was there, a few of my friends entered the room. My Rabbi then leaned over and whispered, “You can always tell the non-Jews.” I chuckled.
Although internally I wanted to throw up, my mom said she couldn’t tell at all that I was nervous. Masking my inner turmoil is a talent of mine. Anyways, I nailed the service.
Back to London Calling in this year of its Emerald anniversary, the album from then on has always been a personally meaningful album. What’s nifty about this album is that subjectively it’s the greatest album of all time and objectively the greatest album of all time. I’m aware art is subjective, but I’m rebelling and declaring my opinion to be fact. I have yet to hear an argument against why it’s not the greatest album of all time. Nineteen songs ranging from reggae to pop to 50s rockabilly, The Clash perfects each genre they tackle. Politics and music have never married so well. While The Clash might not actually be “The Only Band That Matters” as they are often referred to, but one may justifiably claim London Calling as the only album that matters. If it saved one 13 year old boy on the day of his Bar Mitzvah, it can save anyone.
