London Calling, dedicated to Henry Bowles, is released on 14 December 1979 in the UK, and at the beginning of the next month in the US. In Britain the record is priced at £5. Famously, the Clash have conned CBS by asking them if they can also include an additional twelve-inch record in the album package – and then put nine songs on this bonus piece of vinyl. For once an extraordinary work is largely recognized as such by the reviewers, especially Charles Shaar Murray in the NME. He describes it as ‘the first of the Clash’s albums that is truly equal in stature to their legend’. ‘London Calling: damn right,’ he concludes. ‘Now everybody here from Birmingham England to Birmingham Alabama, call ’em back. This is the one.’ After all the disadvantages and adversities, 1979 has turned out to be a triumph for the Clash, a major upward move, both artistically and in terms of their career trajectory. And it’s not yet over.
Four days before Christmas 1979 the Clash were rehearsing by the river, immediately south of the Thames, in the suburb of Putney, running repeatedly through the backing track for ‘Rudie Can’t Fail’. A forty-date British tour was set to start on the fifth day of the New Year. Although Topper Headon still had a spiky haircut, the three front-line Clash members bore little sign of their punk origins. Mick Jones sported a black slim-lapelled, drainpipe-trousered suit and pomaded black hair; Paul Simonon wore a suit of the same cut, but in brown chalk-stripe, his blond locks also plastered back; Joe Strummer’s dark blue shortie overcoat proclaimed hitman cool, though his image was softened by faded tight jeans and battered shoes. As ‘Rudie Can’t Fail’ was put to one side, Joe seated himself at a Hammond organ in the middle of the rehearsal room, pouring out his soul on a new tune, then known as ‘The Bankrobbing Song’, a reggae blues written almost entirely by Joe that featured Mick Jones on bottle neck. As he sprawled over the notes and squeezed the mournful words into the mike, Joe invoked memories of countless anonymous bar-room bluesers, their voices husky from too many nights of booze and cigarette smoke.
Although self-taught, Joe was adept on the piano. (Sheila Rock)
Afterwards, over Chinese and Indian foods brought in by Johnny Green, the group contemplated with pleasure the critical plaudits won by London Calling, which had entered the British charts at number 9. By contrast Joe expressed how appalled he had been that Epic Records execs had gorged down nine-course meals prior to the group’s first Los Angeles show the previous winter, when the group had walked out on the corporate photo session. ‘What sort of person goes out and eats a nine-course meal and then goes to see some rock’n’roll?’ he demanded incredulously.
‘Tell you something,’ Mick turned to Joe. ‘We’re going to have to do something to make the album come out as cheap as possible in America. That’s quite important. How much is Tusk?’ he asked me, referring to the then new double album by Fleetwood Mac.
‘About $15,’ I hazarded.
‘But that’s made of ivory, isn’t it?’ said Joe.
‘Well, I reckon London Calling must definitely go for about ten bucks,’ said Mick. ‘And we’ll have to stand by it, ’cos, you know, once you’ve said it …’
‘Stand by your price,’ said Joe.
The Clash certainly were standing by their fans. On Christmas Eve they were rehearsing in Acklam Hall off Notting Hill’s Portobello Road, directly beneath the Westway flyover that was such a vital symbol in the group’s mythology. Christmas Day and Boxing Day (the 26th) found the Clash playing two ‘secret’ gigs at the hall (tickets were 50p) as an antidote to the holidays and as warm-up dates for their British tour. To keep us on our toes, the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan on 25 December 1979, catching the West in a post-Christmas snooze, except for those who had been to see the Clash at Acklam Hall. After two superb shows beneath the Westway, the Clash climaxed their Christmas gigs on 27 December at the Hammersmith Odeon as the ‘Mystery Act’ on an Ian Dury-topping benefit for Cambodian refugees. Twenty minutes or so before the Clash were due on I met Guy Stevens at the backstage bar. Music was precious stuff to him, he declared, deploring its bastardization by large record conglomerates. The Clash, he knew, were true to the cause. The Clash were part of what Kosmo Vinyl had dubbed ‘The Quest’.
‘Listen,’ Guy shouted in my ear, spraying the entire right side of my face with spittle. ‘Did you see Joe Strummer in the dressing-room just now? Down on the floor, ironing his stage clothes on a towel? Gene Vincent would’ve done that! Eddie Cochran would’ve done that! Jerry Lee Lewis would’ve done that!’ He had a firm hold on my arm, and a fan’s passion in his voice. Then he loosened my arm and slumped down on a seat, as though in a trance, contemplating this perfect rock’n’roll image. Midway through the Clash’s set I looked up from my seat and saw a squirming Guy Stevens carried up the centre aisle by four security men. Fearful he might be kicked out of the theatre or even beaten up, I went in search of him at the rear of the auditorium. He was OK. One of the guards had recognized him and was mildly scolding him for causing them bother. Carried away by the Clash’s music, Guy had been dancing in front of one of the cameras filming the event. He was very drunk. We were negotiating a swaying journey down the side of the auditorium to the back stage door when someone rushed up behind us and threw his arms about Guy. It was what seemed to be an equally pissed Pete Townshend. Leaving Guy Stevens in good hands, I wended my way back to my seat.
Eight days later I was seated between Mick and Joe in the mini-bus the Clash had rented for their British tour. It was about midnight. We were travelling up the Ml to Birmingham where the group would appear next morning in Tiswas, an absurdist children’s TV Saturday show, cult viewing for alleged adults; it offered television exposure for the group that had shot themselves in the foot with their 1977 edict that they would never play Top of the Pops. Hard Jamaican sounds poured out of the Simonon portable cassette-player, filling the rather too warm vehicle. Joe and I talked about ‘Lover’s Rock’, an unlikely Clash song. (At the time I was unaware it had once formed part of ‘London Calling’.) The Clash song discussed just how lovers should rock, invoking Taoism through quotes from The Tao of Love (‘You can make a lover in a thousand goes’) and decrying the Pill’s subtle Babylonian oppression. ‘It’s been misunderstood, that song, you know,’ Joe half-grinned, wryly self-mocking. ‘You have to be a bit gone in the head to try to get that over.’
I asked him about ‘The Right Profile’, the song about Montgomery Clift, the esteemed Method actor, about whom Guy Stevens had given Joe a paperback. ‘I read two of them,’ he nodded. ‘It’s quite interesting to read two books about the same person because they both give you a completely different picture. You read one and you think, “Oh, that’s how the guy really was!” If you read another you get a totally different angle, and you think, “Was he like this, or like that?” And you realize he was probably like neither.’
Through Strummer’s recent reading, the conversation turned to the Odyssey, Greek and Roman mythology, the Basques and Atlantis, Carl Jung, Edgar Cayce and Rasta passivity. The last topic reminded me that ‘London Calling’ advocated just the opposite: people should step forward, get on with it and blow out their apathy. ‘Yeah, but it’s very hard to deal with apathy. Making like you’ve got the answers to everybody’s problems – it’s impossible, of course. Everybody must sort out their own problems. That’s the key to everything. You sort one problem out and get the will to go on and sort another one out. You can’t expect any help, I don’t think. Mainly, though, we were thinking about people accepting shit as gold. Just a little while ago we heard a record on the radio which was pure shit, and this guy goes, “Mmm, that’s good.” It’s just the Emperor’s new clothes again and again. Of course, it ain’t good. It’s just a load of fuckin’ shit, y’know.’
The Clash were questioning everything, which is why they were so positive. They didn’t believe in hopelessness; they believed we had nothing but hope. ‘Only the lazy ones look to us for a solution,’ Strummer said. ‘We just made our feelings clear. Other people happened to feel tha
t way too, so they got behind it. But making your feelings clear is a long way from solving everything. That ‘Bored with the USA’ song has always been misconstrued. We say “We’re so bored with the USA”, having to sit at home and have it pumped into us. The second you turn on the TV you know it’s in America somewhere, and there’s this bird who’s probably a detective, and then a car’s gonna roll over a cliff – you know all the plots by heart. “I’m So Bored with the USA” was about the importing of culture. A quick spree round the States taking in all the sights and buying all the crap you can lay your hands on – that’s what we call fun. So long as we don’t have to live there.’
The next afternoon, arriving at the gates of the Aylesbury Civic Hall for the first date of what had been dubbed the ‘16 Tons tour’, Joe Strummer gazed out of the mini-bus window at the street filled with punks and punkettes. ‘See,’ he turned to Paul, ‘we’ve sold out again. And we said we’d never sell out.’
16
1 MAY TAKE A HOLIDAY
1980–1981
It’s now 1980.
So the Clash hit the new decade running. They are off on a new phase of their lives, validated. Onstage Joe’s role is transformed. All the group have grown because of the success of London Calling, but Joe – as the onstage front-man – most reveals his new authority. His onstage extemporizations grow, the spontaneity is unstifled.
The 16 Tons tour was named after Tennessee Ernie Ford’s 1956 international hit of the same name. As well as being a great name for a tour, the song – an allegedly pro-Communist song about debt – precisely reflected how the group felt at the time about their financial position. But the success of London Calling would change that.
At one gig on the south coast, a backstage visitor overheard a pre-show argument climaxing with Mick locking himself in the dressing-room toilet: ‘“I’m not coming out!” He wouldn’t go onstage and play. He was calling out: “Joe, it’s not fair. I’ve got a voice. You never let me say anything. You have to say everything. Why’s it always got to be you?”’
In Sheffield on 27 January Joe and Mick had a fight in the dressing-room over the choice of ‘White Riot’ as an encore. Mick felt the song no longer represented the group and was wary of the stage invasions that its performance often incited. Joe punched him in the mouth after Mick had thrown a drink in his face. ‘So I hit him. Hard!’ Joe said later. ‘It was no big deal,’ said Mick. ‘Nothing you’d linger over.’
At Leeds University, just up the road from Sheffield, the Social Secretary was a student called Andy Kershaw. ‘I put on the Clash twice at Leeds University,’ he told me. ‘In January 1980 on the London Calling 16 Tons tour they were the most exciting, fully rounded rock-’n’roll group I have ever seen. The initial scratchy fury of the Clash had become something admirable and absolutely stunning. They’d paid heed to their roots – Mick with his encyclopaedic knowledge of pop music, Paul who was steeped in reggae, and Joe with his love of R’n’B – and combined them with an incredible proficiency at playing. By this time they could play so well, and also looked so fantastic. The Clash had an élan I’ve seen in no other rock’n’roll group.’
Joe and Mick in Paris, with Mikey Dread. To Joe’s right is Bernard ‘Bernie’ Rhodes, and Kosmo Vinyl. (Pennie Smith)
On 29 January, at St George’s Hall, Bradford, they were joined onstage by Mikey Dread, a legendary Jamaican DJ, toasting on ‘Armagideon Time’. After the Manchester dates the Clash went into Pluto studio with Mikey on 1 and 2 February to record ‘The Bankrobbing Song’, by now renamed ‘Bankrobber’ (‘That was a song Joe wrote on his own,’ said Mick). The Clash plan was that ‘Bankrobber’ would be the first of twelve singles released that year, one a month. This was immediately stymied when Maurice Oberstein curiously declared that the lilting, melodic song sounded like all of David Bowie’s records put together and played backwards. He refused to put it out.
Joe’s vision of stage life. (Lucinda Mellor)
At the second of two shows at Brighton Top Rank, they were joined onstage during the encores by Pete Townshend, proof of their status in the rock pantheon.
On the night of 9 February the Clash played Portsmouth Guildhall. They stayed in nearby Southsea, at the Queen’s Hotel. As it was Kosmo’s birthday, the group threw a party for him, everyone having a great time. Then the party moved on to Joe’s room, where Joe sat on his bed, reading the Gideon’s Bible. Others were sprawled about the room, a ghetto-blaster pumping out dub. Then the police arrived. Before he opened his door to them Joe grabbed assorted spliff-making paraphernalia and dumped it out of the window. Another group associate hid the residue under his hat. Joe was back on the bed reading from the Bible as the police came in, wearing his favourite grey trilby – unbeknownst to the singer a large lump of hash was sitting on the crown of his hat. How had it got there? No one knew. Had it bounced back off the window-frame when Joe had thrown it out of the window? ‘I’m arresting you for possession of cannabis.’ Topper and four members of the group’s crew were also arrested.
The Electric Ballroom shows in Camden Town, London, were powerhouse performances. It was snowing in the streets, extremely cold, but inside the Electric it was a steam-bath. Midway through the set Joe offered refunds to punters who couldn’t take the heat. Backstage after the shows Mick was sequestered away on his own in a cellar-like dressing-room, away from the mayhem in the rest of the group’s rooms. ‘I think we pulled it off,’ he smiled, rivers of sweat pouring down him.
By now there was another woman around the Clash camp. Pearl Harbor, a half-Filipino former member of San Francisco punk performance artists the Tubes, had formed her own group, Pearl Harbor and the Explosions. At the beginning of 1980 she moved to London to be with her boyfriend Kosmo Vinyl, but later that year Pearl and Kosmo broke up. ‘Kosmo basically dumped me because he was always with the Clash,’ said Pearl Harbor. Paul Simonon then asked Pearl out. ‘Go out with him, but it won’t be for long because he’s a womanizer,’ advised Kosmo. Pearl and Paul eventually married.
‘I saw the pattern when I was on the road with those guys,’ said Pearl. ‘Topper was always wasted on heroin with a chick, amicable, on time, a great drummer, but a wasted dude. Paul was moody. Joe was always with important people. Mick was really selfish, always late. Everyone waited for him every morning on the tour bus, until he had a joint and egg and chips – that’s all he ate. If he didn’t have a joint and egg and chips, you couldn’t get him out of his room. He would yell and curse at Raymond. We nearly missed all of the planes because of Mick. Mick was selfish, Joe was not. If you were Joe’s girlfriend you would say he was selfish, but Joe to his mates was not. In all other ways Mick was a sweet guy, but he was selfish in that regard. Joe only showed his selfishness in terms of women and ego.
‘As always with guys touring, they all cheated on their girlfriends. Poor Gaby, she had a tough one, with Joe going with so many girls. In that sense he was a true rock’n’roller. Gaby talked to me about it She said it was really hard for her, knowing he went with so many girls. But she was so young.
‘That isn’t unusual for men who are entertainers. They have huge egos. Joe is no different in that regard. He was only special in the way he treated people in general, not women. How passionate and serious he was was great, but in many senses he was an idiotic rock star. In that sense Mick Jones was no more idiotic than the others.’
On 20 February Topper was stabbed in the hand with a pair of scissors while at home in Fulham. Tellingly, the altercation was over drugs: the signs and pointers to the future kept appearing. Six of the English dates had to be rescheduled for the summer. ‘With London Calling I started to be able to play the jazz and funky bits,’ said Topper. ‘By then I was starting to associate more with the crew, because I joined the wrong band in a way. I wanted that rock’n’roll lifestyle and the crew lived it and the band didn’t. But even so, the drugs were taking their toll. Even if it was only puff, it was certainly fuzzing their ideas. We were all stoned all the time. The onl
y difference was I was doing coke and pills. The amount of alcohol consumed was unbelievable. I never used to smoke dope, because it made me feel paranoid. Mick and Joe and Paul had to be met at the airport with it. When we were coming down from Canada into America once, Mick wouldn’t leave the hotel until the puff had arrived which meant the person meeting us over the border with the coke and the puff had to drive over the border to give Mick a joint, and we had to carry it back over the border again because Mick wouldn’t sit on the bus for an hour and a half without a spliff. With the three of them smoking so much dope and me running around on coke, no wonder there was paranoia.’
The Clash had to maintain the upward momentum provided by London Calling. Following the English and French legs of the 16 Tons dates, the group returned to the United States for a brief tour of key cities. On Joe’s Telecaster was stencilled a reminder of the annual socialist day off work: 1 MAY TAKE A HOLIDAY. So how is Joe coping with all this? How is Joe doing within himself? He’s off on his own a lot, very quiet, not saying much at all. He’s in his own world. It’s interesting in there: sometimes fantastic and joyous, sometimes crawling with spectres and hobgoblins. So a certain stillness of spirit is desirable. But the time for this sifting and balancing is hard to come by. And part of Joe is still quite shy. He is at his most comfortable being gentlemanly and thoughtful.
Redemption Song Page 32