At around the same time Joe Strummer and the Clash were exiting the stage after their final encore at the Pavilion in Brighton South England, January 13 1980, on the other side of the Atlantic, another, not so well known band may have been navigating their way through the cold January streets of Toronto in a Mercedez 450se. They were mentally preparing for the evenings performance at the Turning Point. Avenue Road and Bloor street; just above Heidi’s Grill.

Back at the Pavilion, the post punk, politically charged song London Calling, most likely capped off the Clash’s final set. The song reflects many of the same social issues we are experiencing today; the threat of a Nuclear error, police Brutality, drugs and a reference to a man made environmental disaster: the potential flooding of the Thames river. It was an angry song, fueled by the Bands earlier struggles to self manage under excessive debt, trying to identify in the post punk boom. The line: “Now don’t look to us; phony Beatle-mania has bitten the dust” references their concern that they might be a band fading into subtle irrelevance. The song ends dramatically with Morse code spelling S-O-S, signifying it’s earlier urgency, alluding to someone drowning in the swollen Thames.

Although many of the Yobs original songs were influenced by the Clash, in my opinion, the band was the polar opposite. Songs that exuded from the claustrophobic stage at the Turning point were the expression of kids just out for a good time, but, we were no less powerful, however, and once the band caught it’s stride and settled into a set, the ambiance became electric. As a member, it was difficult not to get caught up in the energy, and I would sometimes catch myself neglecting my duties, providing steady rhythm guitar, for a few well placed leaps into the air, or off the stage. Thank God, we had talent on our side. The nucleus of the band were sons and proteges of legendary Canadian artist, Paul Hoffert; founder and keyboardist of the classic rock band “Lighthouse”. Our lead guitarist went on to play with celebrated acts like Allanah Myles as well as the Raving Mojos. He was a ridiculously skilled guitar player, which was good because he had to make up for my slightly underachieving contributions. Front and center was our lead singer who carried a cool and grounding presence, bringing our show into a clean, powerful and highly energized performance.

We had none of the teenage angst that prevailed through the young punk generation at the time; The Yobs were smart kids from good families and, if anything, our mission was to identify the upper echelon kids in our circle with the darker side of town. Located in, what eventually became the upscale Bloor and Avenue area, the Turning Point was a dark hole in a very pretty wall. You would enter off of a thriving city sidewalk, walk up a narrow staircase and into a musty room which smelled like stale beer. It’s clientele consisted of whatever showed up with the act and The Yobs could pull in a decent crowd, which is why we were asked back again and then eventually as a headliner.

Bringing this article into context, over the past six months I have been more then thrilled with my eleven year old son’s sudden obsession with music. Most notably, he has avoided courting the contemporary preferences of the modern youth and instead indulges in music of various past era’s, dusting off old CD’s from my random collection and listening to a cross section of R&B, Punk and classic Rock from the stereo of my car. If it’s real music, he will listen to it, if it’s loud, even better.

One day he made the decision that he wanted to become a guitar player, but he wanted to bypass the traditional pathway of learning the fundamentals on a beaten up old acoustic, and instead shoot right for electric. He was determined and even though my own beginnings were humble, starting with an inexpensive classical guitar and a dozen lessons in my early teens, I could see the logic in his request. In an age when kids have access to flashy gadgets and video games on demand, for a child with a mild attention deficit, one could lose interest in monotone acoustic instruments quickly. Perhaps there are those who disagree, but, I allowed him the use of my twelve string while we set up a shoe box on the counter with a photo taped on the side, showing him in the music store with a shiny red electric guitar in his hand. It took close to half a year of chores and pop cans before he’d accumulated enough money for the purchase of his Fender Squier Strat, which, to me, proved that delayed gratification is alive and well in this household. The picture in the heading is proof that our long haul was worth it, and I have no doubt we have passed the sacred torch of unadulterated music to the next capable generation. I hope to God he becomes twice the musician I was.

In 2003, The Clash were inducted into the Rock and Roll hall of fame. They were ranked number 28 by the Rolling Stone on their list of 100 greatest artists of all time. 21 years earlier, 1982, when the Clash had released it’s double platinum album “Combat Rock”, at some point during the year, the Yobs played their final song live. It could very well have been the Clash song “Clampdown”; a power house of a song which we played often in basements and on stages and depending on how you look at the issues of today, the song could have equal relevance now with it’s call to youth to stand up and fight the status quo; never give in to bureaucratic oppression, and question everything.

I cannot identify the exact date or venue, as we, ourselves, were not aware at the time, but, I am sure as we left the stage for the final time as The Yobs intact, along with us we took our cache of incredible experiences. It was a magical time; perhaps more for some then others, but it left in me a small void which, for the next thirty or so years, would always remain a little empty. After a while, as many of us do, we fill our voids with other purposes and move on. Until one day that seed of legacy planted many years earlier, with a little nurturing, would begin to grow once again.

Whenever the boys and I take a drive in my car, it becomes cue for my eleven year old to collect CD’s from around the house to play on our way to wherever it is we are going. On this day, my son brings one CD with him. The familiar cover art is the iconic sleeve showing bass player Paul Simonon driving his bass guitar into the stage of the New York Palladium. A picture that was taken 30 years before Marshall was even born. Yet he proudly plays the compilation, London Calling, as if it were an anthem that had no connection to time, but moved on a generational sliding scale, which great bands can do.

I ask my son, often, what his top three bands are. On one day it could be: The Clash, the Rolling Stones and the Ramones. Other days one might be replaced with ZZ Top, or the Beatles. I have heard: Lighthouse, Bare Naked Ladies and Elvis Presley. I have not yet heard, The Yobs. But then again, that one might be reserved for another day. A day in the future, perhaps as a final number to a set on a random stage somewhere as he steps up to the microphone, after pouring every last inch of energy into his final song. A pause as he gathers his composure and settles down his audience. His callused fingers are positioned on the C chord, soaked in sweat, he looks around. The band gives a small nod of acknowledgment……

“This one is for my Dad……” He says.

And with that, a tribute begins with a powerful guitar intro, and a single line: “I’m stitching in time for nine straight hours…”