Picture not from this show

CARBON/SILICON - Lola’s Room, March 24.

Something tells me I’m late. It’s about 11pm, or a little before. There’s a sign on the door of Lola’s Room that says “No Smoking, by request of the band.” I can dig it, but it also gives me the fear—this show’s not going to go deep into the night.

Former Clash member and living-legend Mick Jones, along with Generation X’s Tony James have entered their formative years. Not a big surprise they don’t want any smoke, or might jump onstage before midnight.

I enter the room and it's pretty full. Not quite packed but there's a good throng of people pressed right up against the stage. Can't get quite as close as I'd like. Staring at Jones I have to pinch myself. He's practically an idol. Everyone else is doing the same. They can't take their eyes off him. The crowd is a generational mix often unsee--original, older Clash fans who don't make it out too often, and younger types. No one is outcast and all seem to lean with like enthusiasm.

On record, the band uses a substantial amount of electronic beats, but none are to be found here. Just good ol' drums, bass and two guitars. They're heavy, loose and loud. In-between songs Jones swigs from a beer and appears to get into a nice buzz. Clearly he's enjoying himself--glad to be back out with the people, cranking out punky pop. The feeling is contagious. He's really having lots of fun, bobbing around, smiling almost all the time. So is the band. It's simple, classic, good times.

Keeping in mind he's a punk vocalist--Jones' voice is as strong as ever. It cuts graciously through the mix.

All too it's their last song, but the audience has no intention of letting them get away that easy. Neither do they, really. After few moments of stomping and shouting the band is back on stage. Mick says something to the tune of:

"It doesn't take much to get us back... we were ready at the first clap."

Awesome. Thank you. He'd probably say it back.

In vintage Jones fashion, with that strong, bright British accent, he made a crack about how the band practices in front of the television--good ol' alienation of technology, Clash style. He moved on to say it's different here in Portland is beautiful; that we "have mountains behind our televisions."

Good stuff. Very sweet. The amount of love pouring out towards Jones was astounding, albeit expected and deserved. Every bit of it he reflected and amplified. It was a very touching scene--the tears traded for dancing.

The closed with an extended two-chord jam. It was jarringly simple, but done in Clash-like way that only Jones can do. He introduced the band, talked over it, sang a Carbon/Silcon number, and spliced a verse of the Clash's "Police On My Back," before saying, with a laugh, "now, let's not get all weepy eyed about the past." It was a perfect tease.

There's something very honest about what Jones and his band are doing. They're not out touring because they need to dough, and I don't believe they even need the affection. They're just a couple of guys who love making and playing music, and missed it enough to go back for another run. Simple as that.

This is all underscored and elevated by the untimely death of Joe Strummer. Even though men like these--honest to God living legends--appear to have many years left, one never knows when they might suddenly shuffle off. It makes a night with them a extra special treat, especially in such an honest setting.

It's edifying and inspirational that these guys, on in their years and well past their heydays, still enjoy a lust for life. There's hope for us yet.