bankrobber raze he wrapped his love of joe strummer up in poverty-themed programming and made it an annual thing. "maybe you could get involved," he said. "record a clash cover or something." i thought about being sixteen and watching "westway to the world". a patchwork of promotional clips and exposition. memory and madness. the song that spoke to me the most wasn't on any album. "someday you'll meet your rocking chair," joe moaned. "because that's where we're spinning. there's no need to want to comb your hair when it's grey and thinning." ten years down the road the weariness i connected with was gone. i tried to bring it back to the surface and make it my own with an acoustic guitar old enough to be my grandfather on my lap. kick drum and tambourine in place of a conventional percussion track. fender strat thick with delay. shifting time. unearthing the fossil of the folk song that was always hiding in plain sight. maybe it got played twice over the years. i don't think it meant anything to anyone. another decade and change removed from the moment of my unmaking, i caught myself on the radio singing someone else's words, and a smile spread across my face, slow and supernatural as breathing. 230131 what's it to you? who go blather from