It's a cool night in March and Don Armstrong converses with the Club Congress audience like old friends. About 75 people sit in chairs on the dance floor. There's a couple in a corner dancing every song with abandon.
Screw the Clash. The jocks and popular kids had already ruined “the only band that matters” by playing Combat Rock to death before I could even get my learner’s permit. It fell to a different gang of British lads to soundtrack my teens: The Smiths.