Let's see...I first saw the Jam in 1978? in the waning days of the CBGB Theatre, which was CB's attempt at a bigger and slightly more upscale venue. They were loud, intense, and a little aloof from the crowd; I think they just didn't know how a US crowd would respond to them, so, a little defensively, they decided not to interact too much. I wasn't a huge Jam fan at that point (though it wasn't long till I became one), so the show didn't change my life or anything.

Forward to 1981. One of the greatest years of my life for various reasons. I was by then so much of a Jam fan that I was actually thinking about starting a US version of their fan club, something I would ordinarily have been way too hip to do. In the process of finding out about that, I met these two women--one of them went on to become Julian Cope's second wife--who were legendary Jam fans, American girls who'd followed the Jam on numerous UK tours. Not groupies, just fans, I hasten to add. Dorian and Patty. After a UK trip when they thought the band had treated them unfairly (a very long story, which I won't go into here, but they weren't unjustified in feeling slighted), they sent a letter to The Face complaining about the experience. They weren't giving up on the Jam, but they felt they were owed an explanation. They got hate mail, they got phone calls supporting them, they got snarky comments from John Weller, Paul's dad and the band's manager. In the meantime, I sort of befriended them and gave them a sympathetic ear...and found myself standing between them and Paul as they bickered and yelled at each other during soundcheck at the Jam's show at the Ritz, 5/81. I ended up talking to Paul about it for a while after Dorian and Patty had left; he was genuinely upset about it. That was my meeting Paul experience. I told him I was planning to go see them in Guildford in July, and he said that if I could track him down at the show, he'd make sure I got in, got backstage passes, etc. He was entirely gentlemanly. I was over the moon.

I think being rattled by the experience made him play even better that night. The Ritz was unpleasantly overcrowded, I got stuck in front of The Guy Who Screams Along to the Songs as Loud as He Can, and I just generally didn't like the Ritz. But it was still a great show, nearly letter-perfect but also incredibly high energy. Paul was funny, bantering about how some Jam songs just don't translate easily to the US. Bruce was polite and appreciative. Rick played the hell out of the drums. I went home a very happy girl.

Two months later, spending the summer in London, I took the train down to Guildford by myself because Marina, my best friend and traveling companion, didn't want to go. Met two guys (one of whom grew up to be a fairly well-known art photographer, but that's another story) and hung out drinking halves with them while we waited to see if we'd be allowed in to soundcheck. There must have been 50 or 60 guys all decked out in Fred Perry and Sta-Prest...and me. I met Tony Parker of the immortal fanzine Jammin' and bought a copy of the zine. I got pleasantly buzzed on bitter. Finally we got in, on the condition that we would have to build the barrier that would keep us from standing right up in front of the stage. As a result, we got to hear our own little half-hour Jam set, played for just the 50 or 60 of us. Amazing.

The show was amazing too, with the Fred-Perry-wearers starting their chant for "Down in the Tube Station" about two-thirds of the way into the set. It was the last encore, and it was awe-inspiring in spite of the band's apparent lack of complete enthusiasm for playing it. They played long sets, too, blistering through much of their catalog in the two hours plus that they played.

And then racing to make the last train back to London with my new friends, Chris and Nick. Stopping for chips from the chip shop and having two or three guys who'd been at the show come running up to us, breathless, saying, "There's a whole group of skins coming along to beat up some mods on the way to the train, you'd better get to the train station before they catch you." I was 19, I was completely in love with anything mod, anything to do with working-class English culture, really, and to have to run like hell to escape the skinheads made me feel like I belonged, in some weird way. I could have floated back to London on my blissfulness. Instead I rode back with Chris and Nick, made plans to meet them the next night, half in love with Chris already. Quite a night.

The next night was more of the same, except that Marina came along, and we weren't pressed into service building a barrier, just got to hang out on the lawn near the club till they let us in at soundcheck. After soundcheck, Bruce and Rick came out to sign autographs. I summoned up all my nerve and went to talk to Bruce, telling him about the conversation I'd had with Paul in NYC. He got John Weller and told him, "You sort that out." I repeated my story to John, who looked a little skeptical but nonetheless went in to talk to Paul. He came back two minutes later with tickets for all of us and instructions to see him after the show so we could go backstage.

Another blazing show, this one even better than the previous night. There was something about seeing them in that packed room, overflowing with people for whom the Jam were literally the story of their lives, that made it an exceptionally powerful experience, not really like anything else I've ever been privileged to witness. There was a hint of menace--a little bit of the football hooligan tone--in the way the crowd demanded certain songs; no real danger at any time, but just the sense of being on the verge of being out of control. In both a good way and a slightly scary way.

After the show, we went to wait patiently outside the backstage door. We waited and waited, and eventually realized that we were going to miss the last train home if we waited much longer. I wanted to stay--I'd have slept in the middle of Guildford High Street if I'd had to--but I was outvoted by my traveling buddies, so I missed a chance to hang out backstage with the Jam. In England. Near their hometown. Twenty-three years later, I still haven't quite gotten over it, evidently.

The next, and last, times I saw them, they were at the Palladium in NYC. Big theater, mean bouncers, couldn't get too close to the stage, but none of that interfered with how great they were. Musically, those were the best shows of theirs that I ever saw; Paul's singing was the best I ever heard it, the mix was just right, and they were, again, close to perfection without "sounding just like the records" in the least. Blistering, stunning, riveting punk rock. A perfect way to end a short but intense few years of Jam-watching. There have been bands I've loved as much, been taken over by as much--two of them, to be precise--but none that I've loved more.