Redemption Song

by Chris Salewicz

  Only nine days after the death of his father, on 8 March, the Clash began a five-night stint at Brixton Academy. One of the new members risked a complaint about some matter. Bernie, remembered Pete, tore into him: ‘“Look at how lily-livered you are. This poor guy’s father’s died and he’s not complaining.” Joe was in a bad way. He was depressive. My father suffered from it. I could spot it.’ On one of the shows they were supported by the Pogues, unique exponents of boozy, punk-powered Irish rebel songs, formed by Shane MacGowan, whose ear famously had been attacked at the Clash’s ICA show in October 1976. None of the group made particular contact with Joe on this occasion, but the Pogues were destined to play a significant part in his life. Backstage after one of the shows, Johnny Green ran into Joe. Having rid himself of his heroin demons, Johnny had put on a large amount of weight; he hardly fitted into the only suit he had to wear. ‘That’s a terrible suit,’ Joe told him. ‘It’s not as bad as your group,’ replied the Clash’s always plain-spoken former road-manager. In the forthrightness of the Clash posse, an extension of punk’s professed honesty, there was sometimes an element of ‘dare’, incorporating a subtle mind-game. But Johnny’s remark cut Joe to the quick. In front of him, in the backstage corridor, Joe Strummer burst into tears.

  Everything was coming in on Joe at once. His father had died; his mother had been diagnosed as terminally ill; he had become a father and property-owner. Professionally, he had seized control – or so he at first thought – of his own life and group, but there was much public questioning of his motives. When they had played at Glasgow’s Barrowlands, a faction of the crowd had been chanting for Mick Jones; Joe offered a solution worthy of a punk Solomon: that the supporters of Mick and of himself could fight it out in an organized brawl.

  The pressure must have felt enormous. The very last thing you would have thought he wanted to do was go on the road, breaking in a new group, though, as Joe could run a mile from his emotions, this might have been exactly what he did want to do. Over the ensuing months he would come close to cracking under their pressure, unable to avoid the messages they were sending him.

  Ten days after the end of the British tour, the Clash were off on a three-month tour of the United States, criss-crossing the eastern seaboard before moving across the continent to the Pacific north-west and then careening back eastwards.

  After the show at Nassau Coliseum in Uniondale, New York, Joe hung out with Jo-Anne Henry. ‘He initially seemed almost defiant, and certainly unapologetic. In front of his public he seemed to be saying, “This is really the Clash, the spirit of the Clash. We’re carrying this forward.” He was determined: “Screw you if you say it’s not the Clash.” The death of his father was still in his thoughts, and now Joe was beating himself up for being away while Jazz was a baby. “I could be any bloke going off and leaving her,” he said. Jazz being born brought up tons of stuff about his childhood. He was really thoughtful, open in a way that he hadn’t been before. He was offering real insights into himself and his family. He said how hard it was to be away, and was criticizing himself as a father. He didn’t get there that often or that easily. Deep down he seemed to be in a really awful state.

  ‘There was this anger that he was not able to let come out, the swirling emotions inside him that he couldn’t admit to. When he would blow his top, he really could blow his top. Often people who suppress emotion and anger and hurt and pain through their lives, when you start to peel the lid off of it a little bit, there can be volcanoes’ worth of stuff that starts to come up. Nobody knew what it looked like better than Joe did. It seemed to scare the shit out of him.’

  Perpetually upset, Joe carried on with his job. It would have been harder if he knew that – at a time when anyone with any sensitivity could see he needed supportive allies – Bernie Rhodes had forbidden members of the group’s crew to speak to him. This included Sean Carasov: ‘I was told quite specifically on that American tour that I was banned from talking to Joe, otherwise I’d be fired. The reason I was banned was so he wouldn’t realize how shitty things were. I couldn’t understand how Joe wasn’t able to understand what was going on. Joe should have been able to see what was happening. Obviously Bernie didn’t want Joe to realize how he’d been manipulated. Paul didn’t seem to care – he didn’t seem to comprehend that it was all a calculated plot. There was a lot of mumbling going on among the new guys. Bernie was ever-paranoid: he thought that if Joe woke up he would fire him. You had to wonder why Bernie had such power over Joe.’

  As Sean had already noted, Joe could be so focused on what he was doing that he missed the big picture. Was Bernie’s hold over Joe exaggerated by the personal tragedies surrounding the ostensible leader of the Clash? Most probably. But also, in the ‘defiance’ Jo-Anne Henry noted, Joe indicated he could not allow himself to see what had gone on, or to admit to his mistakes. He had made his decisions and had to run with them.

  In June the Clash flew back to England from their American tour. In the first half of September 1984 they played three shows for the Italian Communist Party, which held annual music festivals. Joe went on a three-day bender, guzzling bottle after bottle of brandy. Raymond Jordan was assigned to babysit Joe through this crisis. On the tour bus Raymond and Joe would regularly harmonize together on Bob Marley’s epochal ‘Redemption Song’, a favourite tune. But now there was a different mood. Pete Howard said, ‘I remember Joe screaming in the hotel bar.’ The ‘group meetings’ degenerated into character assassinations of at least one of the participants. ‘Joe always backed Bernie up,’ said Vince. ‘Usually these events ended with someone in tears,’ said Pete Howard. ‘In Italy, as though Joe was acting as manager, everyone was torn to pieces.’ Asserting himself, Vince – who joined the group adoring the Clash – punched Joe in the face. Joe had turned on him: ‘You’re not a happening person. Your girlfriend, I met her in a pub. We were going to a party and I invited her along and she was up for it.’ Then Joe upped the ante: ‘What makes you think you’re so good in this band?’ ‘What do you say to that?’ said Vince. ‘Then he says, “I don’t need you. Get out!” So I smacked him in the face. I’d had enough.’

  Everyone was getting it on that Italian trip. On the morning after the final show, on 11 September in Genoa, Paul Simonon phoned Pearl Harbor, his wife. ‘Paul says, “Last night we all got drunk, and Joe and Kosmo told me that I had to divorce you or quit the band.” I said, “Just come on home.” I was furious with Joe. Joe used to hit on me all the time, and put a hand on my leg and try all this stuff. “Joe. Cut it out.”

  ‘I got drunk and met them at Heathrow airport. I was mad, ’cos I always saw people ass-kissing the Clash. No one ever stood up for their rights, like they told you to do! First person I see coming off the plane is good old Joe. He says, “Pearl Harbor! Hello, gorgeous!” I said, “Hey Joe, I came to ask you something. Is it true or is it not true that you asked Paul to either leave the Clash or leave me?” He admitted it. I went, “Fuck you,” and threw my drink on him, started punching and kicking him with my cowboy boots on the shins. He didn’t retaliate. I said to Paul, “Leave me alone. Don’t even bother trying to speak to me.” Kosmo came up. I said, “You made a big mistake. Who the fuck do you guys think you are?” The cops came, and this woman cop was grabbing me off Kosmo and Joe and she was laughing, thought it was hilarious that this loud-mouthed American was kicking these guys. She said, “You have to continue your fight outside. We don’t allow this kind of behaviour in this country!” We went outside and Joe and Kosmo stood with us to get a taxi. I was saying, “You, Joe Strummer, you think it’s not rock’n’roll for Paul and me to be married, and you walk around London pushing a pram with an orange Mohawk. You are a fucking idiot!”

  ‘The next day Joe came to our house and showed me his legs, which were covered in thick scabs. He said, “Pearl Harbor, I love you. You’re the greatest, you’re the smartest. I want to take you out.” We went out drinking to all the bars that night. Joe showed everyone his scars and said, “Pearl
Harbor beat me up!” He took off my highheeled shoes and poured champagne in them and drank it.’

  In the words of his friend Dick Rude, whom Joe would shortly meet for the first time, ‘Joe was fantastic 86 per cent of the time. But the rest of the time he could be as much an idiot as all of us.’

  19

  SPANISH BOMBS

  1984–1985

  In October 1984 Joe Strummer walked into a bar in Granada in Spain. Punching out of the joint’s jukebox was a pushy, punky tune that set the hairs tingling on the back of his neck. He became even more excited when he heard that the single was by a local group, 091 – the Spanish emergency services number. Turning up in the nearby Silbar, where 091 hung out, Joe declared his intention to produce the group. When a song by another group was played Joe dismissed it: ‘It sounds as shit as the Clash.’

  Needing lyrical inspiration, Joe had absented himself from London. He had known the Andalucian city of Granada since Paloma and Esperanza had introduced him to it when he went to their family home in nearby Malaga. He had taken off on his own on a personal mission: to find the grave of Federico García Lorca, the surrealist poet and dramatist murdered in the Spanish Civil War. As the years moved on, Joe’s love for Lorca grew into almost an obsession; in London, he went to see a highly praised production of The House of Bernardo Alba. But there was always room for a detour.

  Making friends with twenty-one-year-old Jesus Arias, whose brother played in 091, Joe told him: ‘I had a brother who committed suicide. I loved him very much, and he killed himself. If he only knew that this city existed, he would be here right now. Alive. I love Granada. How wonderful it is to be alive.’ Despite such protestations Jesus thought Joe seemed in low spirits. In Granada he saw a beggar ask Joe for money: Joe went to a bank, withdrew $5,000 and gave it to the man.

  After a few days hanging out with 091 Joe disappeared from Granada. He had decided he must return to London. He had not yet made it to the grave of Federico García Lorca.

  The anger that seemed to be pouring out of every pore of Joe Strummer in his involvement with the Clash could be interpreted as the channelling of a collective British rage. Many people were very angry. Since her re-election as Prime Minister in June 1983, Margaret Thatcher had taken it upon herself to once and for all break the power of the trade unions in Britain. This culminated in what was to become a year-long strike by the National Union of Mineworkers. At collieries in south Yorkshire, the heart of the protests, striking miners were charged by truncheon-wielding police mounted on horseback, scenes that recalled murderous Cossack charges on Russian demonstrators. In the middle of the strike, on 6 and 7 December 1984, the Clash played two benefit shows for the miners at Brixton Academy. Three new songs were performed: ‘North and South’, ‘Dirty Punk’ and ‘Fingerpoppin’.

  Immediately after, Joe left London again for Granada. ‘Suddenly in December,’ said Jesus, ‘Joe – now with blond hair – was back in the Silbar in Granada. He appeared when the place was empty, nobody there. He remembered Tacho, the barman and the drummer with 091, the band he wanted to produce. “Hola, Tacho. De nuevo en Granada,” [“Hi, Tacho. Back in Granada again.”]. Tacho said, “Joe! Pepe! [the Spanish name for Joe] Welcome back!” Tacho immediately phoned all of us: “Joe’s here again!” I went to the Silbar.’

  Jesus and his companions had a great night with Joe, booming Clash music bouncing off the walls of the bar. ‘He wasn’t shy or angry listening to Clash records. It was more like, “Put on Sandinista!, the first record, B-side, first track: ‘Rebel Waltz’.” Or “Put on ‘Look Here’.”’ Sandinista! played all night long.

  Another local group, Siniestro Total, had brought out a record whose cover was a pastiche of ‘London Calling’; instead of Paul Simonon smashing his bass, it had a Gaelic piper smashing his pipes, a violinist smashing his violin, a techno-player smashing his synthesizer and a South American folk singer smashing his Spanish guitar.

  ‘Joe almost died laughing when he saw it,’ said Jesus. ‘“Please, I want this record. I love it!” We gave it to him as a present. For years he had it on his front wall at home. Ten years later he was still talking about how funny the cover was.’

  After that night Joe again disappeared from Granada.

  By the end of 1984 it was over two and a half years since the Clash had released Combat Rock, an extraordinarily long period of time to wait for a follow-up to such a successful record. CBS was on Bernie Rhodes’s case, demanding a new album as soon as possible. According to Bernie, however, he did not believe that the group was yet ready to record: ‘The live thing was working, but Joe wanted to rush into the studio. He was worried when he heard Mick was getting Big Audio Dynamite together. Joe wanted to do it that moment.’ And when Bernie booked a cheap digital studio in Munich, he said that the German studio was Joe’s idea. As he had done on Sandinista!, Norman Watt-Roy from the Blockheads took over on bass; Paul Simonon had gone to New York to buy paintings. Pete Howard spent most of his time in the first couple of months of 1985 in Munich sitting in his hotel room: ironically, considering Mick Jones’s fondness for modern technology, it had been decided to record using a beat-box, which Bernie also insisted was Joe’s whim. Yet there are others, including the new group members, who disbelieved this, convinced Bernie was attempting to hijack the project.

  After the departure of Norman Watt-Roy, the only regulars in the studio were Joe and Nick Sheppard – Vince White was almost as marginalized as Pete Howard. In the control room sat Bernie Rhodes. ‘I don’t know what happened to the record,’ said Nick. ‘I remember having great times recording it. “What a night!” said Joe, absolutely joyously after one really good day’s work. I had great hopes for what eventually would be released. But I went in there one day and Bernie was so intensely foul that I felt I was losing all selfbelief. I left and met Joe in a coffee-shop. I said to him, “I can’t stand this.” He said, “Don’t go there. Don’t show any weakness. I have to keep believing.” His mother was dying, but he never mentioned it to any of us. The last day in Munich, Bernie started on me again: “You’re fuckin’ useless – you let me down.” I completely lost it with him and let him have it, told him what I thought of him. On those sessions I stood back and watched as Joe let Bernie take over.’

  On 1 May 1985 Joe set off with the Clash on a British tour in which he unequivocally returned to his roots. The seventeen-day busking tour of Britain by the Clash Mk II, as it had become known, was one of the most extraordinary ventures embarked upon by a major-league musical outfit – though there was something about it that smacked of an obviousness of thinking. Meeting in a North London pub, the five group members drank the money they had on them (although Paul had a credit card for emergencies). ‘We started hitching up the motorway to meet in Nottingham station at midnight,’ Joe told me. ‘We just really busked it from there. That was it, no expectations, nothing, just three acoustic guitars, me singing, and Pete drumming on chairs with his drumsticks. And we had the time of our lives on that tour.’ The idea was that the group would literally sing for their suppers; they slept in cheap bed-and-breakfast hotels and on the floors of fans’ homes. ‘We had no dosh with us, so we had to earn a bit,’ said Joe. ‘Mainly people we’d meet in the pubs and clubs would put us up, but in between times we’d go to the market square in whatever town and sing until we got moved on and raise a few bob, mainly for beer and food money or bus tickets, and move on to another town. I never felt so close to the audience. I think it’s absolutely important that performers should realize that they’re really nothing special. OK, if they can do something great, let’s get up and light them well and give them a good PA and let’s be entertained or informed. A performer is no better than the person watching, and that’s got to be learnt. The star syndrome is completely uninteresting and boring.’ Bootlegs of some of the shows indicate they were a lot of fun. The set included many Clash favourites, among them ‘White Riot’ (‘This song is entitled “There’s a Riot Going On”,’ Joe announced it in York).
But Joe included a staple from the sets that the 101’ers used to play, Gene Vincent’s ‘Be Bop A Lula’. ‘I’ve got a photograph of Joe on bended knee giving a rendition of “Be Bop A Lula” from that period,’ Paul told me. ‘It was just a real good rouser, you know.’

  In Leeds they busked outside the university students’ union where a gig was in progress by Clash-copyists the Alarm. A misguided radical student – protesting against the involvement of CBS in South Africa – poured a can of red paint off the roof in the direction of Joe, splashing his black leather jacket.

  The next day the five members hitched the twenty-odd miles to York. ‘Probably the most exciting time was when we arrived there,’ said Paul. ‘We were playing outside this church and there was suddenly loads and loads of people, because obviously word had passed around. We were confronted by about 200 people, and we marched through the town singing with our guitars, with this crowd of people heading towards this pub. The landlord had got wind we were in town, and said, “If those boys want to come over and play, then we’ll buy them drinks.” So it was really back to extreme basics. What was amazing was, because the audience knew all the words, it became one big singsong. You could have stopped playing, nobody would have noticed. It was bizarre.’