Strummer, that\'s what they used to call him. Skilled with his left hand and useless with his right, so they made him change it so he could play. But he could only strum on a guitar, nothing too complex. Strum. Joe Strummer, get it? Well as he sat on the beach with his water-logged guitar in hand, Joe got it. His skilled fingers plucked at the strings at the neck while his other hand strummed lightly on the middle, nothing spectacular in nature or texture. After all he wasn\'t trying to impress anyone, just testing the sound.
A stiff breeze passed by, blowing sand into John Mellor\'s face and guitar hollow. "What the fuck, man!" The Brit shook the sand off his clothes and his guitar. Gritty pieces rattled inside the hollow as he shook it to empty it, but after trying for a good three minutes, Joe gave up, leaving maybe seven rattling bits inside.
The day was warm and sunny like all the others, but windy and lonesome. Since the liner stopped its tour around the Pacific, John hadn\'t seen any of his companions who had tried like the Dickens to get John to come along. They all thought it\'d be an amazing opportunity to get on a giant, fucking ship and sail around and play music for old people and teenage brats. And look where it had gotten them! For all Joe knew, his four other friends were banging down brews with Davy Jones, laughing and wondering where Joe Strummer was, completely unaware of the fact that something had gone terribly wrong.
A wave of misery washed over Joe and his fingers stopped playing. He leaned his head on the soft wood of the guitar, depression devouring his soul for a few moments. Maybe if he had just said \'no\' to the whole scheme, Mick, Paul, Topper, and even fucking Nicky would be sitting in San Diego, banging brews with Joe instead. He never cared about the money and he would have given up the cash if it meant his droogs were alive again. "Jesus Christ," he murmured to himself. His fingers picked up again as his thoughts continued to swirl around his pals. The song was something almost harsh sounding, the melodies near angry in feeling.
"London calling to the faraway towns, now that war is declared-and battle come down. London calling to the underworld, come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls. London calling, now don\'t look at us, all that phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust. London calling, see we ain\'t got no swing \'cept for the ring of that truncheon thing." His choppy voice carried over the rolling ocean waves and his hands moved as if they had a mind of their own. His voice rose to drown out the ocean which took his droogs away, his hands moving with more passion, harder and faster. "The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in. Engines stop running and the wheat is growing thin, a nuclear error, but I have no fear," his voice broke with sadness in it and he had to swallow before he continued his song, choking back the guilt and anger, "London is drowning-and I live by the river."
