IT WAS the night the music didn't die. London Calling resuscitated the tunes of The Clash's late great Joe Strummer and even found time to raise a glass to the freshly departed Michael Jackson. Now that's what I call a tribute act.

And they did it with a sound and fury not witnessed since Joe was partnering Mick, Paul and Topper in the glory days of the only band that mattered.

Teeing off with a thumping Tommy Gun the fearsome foursome thrashed out a stack of songs of such sonic power they literally woke the dead.

No, they did. How else can you explain Union Street later being full of re-animated corpses shambling about trying to hail taxis?

It could only have been the raw rock n roll raucousness of Reg 'Joe Strummer' Shaw and his retinue. And to think, it was a completely different line-up from the one Reg brought to our fair city last year.

Where he found this lot, heavens only knows, perhaps some sort of decommissioned power plant, because they had enough electrical energy to light Kiev in January.

Honestly, when they launched into Complete Control the band was so supercharged they were leeching electrons off the audience.

The guitarist wasn't so much playing a Gibson as a musical defibrillator. Scientists should plug his instrument into the aorta of one of those mammoths they find frozen in Siberia. It'll be stomping around in no time, whistling Career Opportunities.

And the drummer couldn't half hit those tubs. You know the start of I Fought the Law? The bit that sounds like an approaching stampede, or the heart-beat of someone jogging to Safe European Home? Well, he could do that just like Topper. Not even Clash drummers Terry Chimes and Pete Howard could do that. Respect.

The bassist did his bit too, powering Police and Thieves like someone purring a Brand New Cadillac down the Westway.

Then there was Reg. The guy doesn't so much impersonate Joe as provide a passionate paean to punk's prime progenitor. And he does it with energy and admiration.

When he gives his all on White Riot even forty-something journos who should know better are compelled to join the singing. From the stage.

Who'd have thought grown men could be so moved by a song about lobbing bricks at police? But they were, and that's the magic of The Clash, the band you just know the angels are pogoing to right this minute.

"To Joe Strummer and The Clash!" bellowed Reg, and the audience raised their beers as one. "And, hey," he continued. "To Michael Jackson, he was all right!"

He was indeed. As was Plymouth troubadour Christian Sleep's tribute to Jacko in the Minerva earlier. Christian enraptured a hushed venue with a brilliant stripped-down Billie Jean.

I'd have stayed for the whole set but, hey, it was London Calling at the Hippo, a chance to revive all those things loved and lost: the Clash, 1977, Janie Jones and the Hammersmith Palais. And, of course, dear old Joe. Christian, I'm sure you'll understand.