For a certain generation, the passing of Rick Buckler feels like more than just the loss of The Jam’s drummer—it feels like a piece of youth slipping away forever. He was the backbeat to a band that defined an era, a time when music wasn’t just entertainment but an identity.

I never got to see The Jam live—I was a few years too young. Instead, I had to rely on my older brother’s stories about their gigs and even the time he met Paul Weller, who sneaked them into a show through the back door. As a result, from around 1979 to 1982, no other band mattered to me. In my world, they were peerless. Weller was the greatest songwriter alive, Bruce Foxton was an untouchable bassist, and Rick Buckler played the drums like no one before him. As Paul’s dad and manager, John Weller, would bellow at every gig: “The best band in the whole fackin’ world!”

Going Underground

When The Jam split in December 1982, I held out hope for a reunion. For a few years, all I wanted was news that they were getting back together. But as time passed, I couldn’t help but agree with Weller—The Jam belonged to a time when they mattered. They were young, often angry, and utterly of their moment. Trying to recapture that would have been like bottling lightning.

Bruce Foxton went on to various projects, including a stint with Stiff Little Fingers. Rick Buckler dabbled in a few bands—he may have even charted briefly with Time UK—before turning to joinery and later teaming up again with Bruce and Russ Hastings in From The Jam, a successful nostalgia act. Bruce and Paul eventually worked together again on Weller’s solo material, but I’m not sure if the rift between Paul and Rick ever truly healed.

The Jam in 1982 was a runaway train at full speed, and Weller derailed it by choice. For Buckler, going from drumming in Britain’s biggest band to unexpected unemployment must have been the bitterest pill he ever had to swallow. (See what I did there?)

That’s Entertainment

When The Style Council eventually faded and Polydor dumped them, the tabloids were buzzing with speculation. I remember a Daily Mirror headline: “Jamming Again?” The rumour mill suggested a reunion—after all, they were still only in their early 30s. But Weller was having none of it. After an uncertain period with The Paul Weller Movement, he roared back into the big time with a solo career that still thrives today. His self-titled album remains a classic, proving that moving forward was always the right choice.

For my generation, we never got to see The Jam in their prime—but that’s okay. We had The Style Council, From The Jam, and, of course, Weller himself. And to be honest, if a reunion had happened in the 21st century, I’d have steered well clear.

The last time I went to a From The Jam gig, I couldn’t help but notice how ironic it all was. The place was full of blokes who smelt of pubs, Wormwood Scrubs, and too many right-wing meetings—the very kind of crowd Weller distanced himself from when he felt The Jam had become too parochial.

Saturday’s Kids

These days, when I listen to The Jam, certain songs take me straight back to my teenage years. I remember being a Saturday’s kid, taking the 337 bus from Baughurst through Tadley, Popley, Oakridge, and into Basingstoke. I remember saving my paper round money to buy a Lonsdale sweatshirt, hanging around the market square hoping to meet girls. That’s the way I like to remember The Jam—not at some nostalgia weekend in Butlins, shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of Nigel Farage’s boot boys.

Rest well, Rick. The best drummer in my world between 1979 and 1982. Even if I didn’t listen to any others.