Redemption Song

by Chris Salewicz

  In the dressing-room after the show he introduced me to Damien Hirst (whom I had already met in 1995 at Womad, although I was sure he didn’t remember) and his wife Maia, telling them the story about the Carnival and the house invasion, embarrassingly complimentary. Then Joe told me something that startled me: his dentist had recently informed him he had had a hairline fracture in his jaw from when the rude boys steamed his house fourteen years previously.

  ‘Thanks for coming. Now we’re going to cross over and lose all our money. It’s a cruel world,’ Joe had uttered at the end of the group’s set. Joe and I agreed gambling was pointless, but we wanted to go to ‘old Vegas’, where Frank and Dino would have hung out. We stopped for a couple of drinks in Caesar’s, but the bar staff’s requests for ID rankled with the older members of the party. We ended up in the Golden Nugget, original old style, down-at-heel and laden with atmosphere, where a gnomic, wizened figure in his eighties who looked like he might have been a consigliere of Meyer Lansky assiduously counted and re-counted the chips and – you felt – possibly controlled the hookers who regularly approached us. Joe loved it. ‘I remember Joe saying, “Check out that old bloke over there, the over-weight kind of husky guy,”’ recalled Chris LaSalle, the Hellcat Records publicist, in town for the show. ‘Joe was sitting there writing out his bits of ideas about the place on a napkin. One from that night always struck me: “The shards of America.”’

  Around 4.30 in the morning the assembled company stepped into the street for a spliff. It suddenly dawned on me that we were in Las Vegas. ‘You can bet your bottom dollar we’re on CCTV right now,’ I muttered to Joe. We decided to go back to the Hard Rock and jumped in some taxis. As we drove off a pair of police cars cruised up to precisely where we had been standing. I shared a cab with Damien and Maia. In the back of the vehicle Damien explained how he was considering an art-piece that would be a forty-feet-high pile of shit, which he would call ‘Untitled Number 2 ’. Which I did think was potentially very funny. But – as Damien explained to me later – Joe didn’t: ‘He said, “Don’t do it. It’ll be bad for your career.” I said to him once, “I can do anything. I’ve got more freedom than a musician.” He said, “You couldn’t go to your opening in a fez.”

  ‘I think he used to like my work. I’d come up with stuff like, “I’m an artist. I’m prepared to die for my art.” Then he gave me a plastic lighter – “Artists – hah!” he’d written on it. He’d always goad me. At first I thought he was looking down on me as an artist. But he was encouraging me.

  ‘When he was round at my house and people were wittering away on drugs, he’d throw in, “You can’t talk about the past or the present, only the future.” That shut people up when they suddenly went, “You know, when I was fifteen …”’

  I staggered off to bed and the next lunchtime, a day off from the tour, we went to a shopping mall where Joe had a shoe-shine and we did a formal interview. Returning to the Hard Rock, food was ordered on the patio. ‘Can sour cream go off?’ Joe inquired of the waitress. ‘Oh, I’m not sure. Is there a problem?’ she asked, worried. ‘No,’ said Joe, ‘it’s just a philosophical question.’

  ‘When we arrived in New York for the Roseland date, which was being filmed for HBO,’ said Ant Genn, ‘I got off the tour bus at 8.30 a.m. and found at the front of the vehicle Joe was lying on the floor, red wine stains all over his mouth. I go, “You all right, man?” He whispers back incoherently. His voice is fucked. But what he would always do would be to not talk all day, and take loads of lozenges, and have his honey and lemon and just get through it. At that Roseland gig he started some bollocks with the bouncer, and there was tension there, and he knew I didn’t like him getting like that.’ But at the Roseland show there was also a problem within the group over Antony Genn himself. ‘I turned up to the gig a minute before we were due onstage. I’d been in Queens scoring heroin,’ he admitted. ‘I had a bruise over my eye and only one shoe, track marks all over my arms, and we’re in front of HBO cameras.’

  During the last days of this second Mescaleros’ US tour, Ant Genn’s heroin addiction took hold. Before leaving Britain for America he had gone to a clinic and had the drugs pumped out of him. ‘As soon as I got to San Francisco I was getting homeless people to score for me. Wherever we were, I’d get a cab to the needle exchange and find some junkies: “You get me mine, I’ll pay for yours.” Or get in a cab and say, “Take me to the worst part of town, where all the junkies and prostitutes are.”’

  Ant’s personal crisis did not interfere with the customary after-hours celebrations. ‘We’d be in some bar and there’d be John Cusack and Matt Dillon and Joey Ramone and Debbie Harry and Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz and all these legends. But Joe would be talking to Justin the barman, and going, “Hey, Joey Ramone, didn’t you once go to Hawaii? Yeah, this guy’s bird lives in Hawaii. Hey, Cusack, come here. You’ve got to meet Justin. You’ll love this guy.” He was a great puller-together of people. I loved that about him.’

  At least Joe hadn’t stolen this microphone from the English National Opera … … (John Zimmerman/Proper-Gander)

  A slot had appeared the day following the gig in Philly on The Conan O’Brien Show, the networked television programme, on which Joe and the group played ‘Tony Adams’ and ‘London Calling’. Then they flew home to London, and three dates in Europe: Barcelona on 2 December, Milan on the 4th and Paris on the 7th. That was it for the year, the most productive for Joe Strummer for at least a decade. In Las Vegas he had had a whim to have run off a set of millennium-themed T-shirts bearing the slogan: ‘Same Shirt, Different Century’. Such an item of apparel could almost have been a testament to the utter shift in existence that had taken place for Joe in the previous twelve months: Same Man, Different Life.

  As ever, Joe did not stand still for long. Since 29 August 1998 he’d been broadcasting a weekly show on the BBC World Service, the short-wave radio station which had an estimated global audience of 40 million. Music he played varied from Woody Guthrie’s ‘This Land is Your Land’, performed by Trini Lopez, the Chicano star of the late 1950s and 1960s, through the Senegalese-Jamaican fusion of Baaba Maal and Ernest Ranglin, to yet-to-be-released tracks by the Mescaleros. Joe’s style – his first gig as a radio DJ – was terse and to the point: ‘Dig it!’ he demanded of his audience following the Trini Lopez track. ‘That’s a train you have to ride all the way to the end,’ Joe said, after playing a seven-minute track by Cornershop.

  ‘Joe came up with the idea for a show,’ said Andy Norman, Joe’s first producer. ‘He grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down “Cross-Cultural Transglobal Show”. “We need another title,” I said: “we should call it Joe Strummer’s London Calling.”’

  At first, Joe found the rigours of BBC schedules and working from a script tough. ‘He didn’t get back to me when I faxed him a script,’ recalled Andy Norman. ‘Then I discovered that someone had sent him a fax asking to use a Clash track as a dog-food commercial. He had been so furious that he tore it up, along with my script, which he hadn’t even seen.’

  Making it clear that his life was now a family business, he would be accompanied to the studio by Lucinda, Jazz, Lola and Eliza. ‘There was a really odd mix of radio team, family, fans and Joe all milling around outside the studio,’ said Andy Norman. Joe had fans in high places, such as the head of the World Service, Mike Byford. ‘Mike was a rampant Strummer fan, and came down to the studio to meet him,’ said the producer of the second series, Simon Barnett. ‘I think Joe was quite chuffed that this important man had come down to see him.’

  Joe would gather his week’s playlist from many sources. The Radio 1 DJ Andy Kershaw had a late Sunday evening show. From time to time he would receive phone calls from Joe, asking for the names of tunes he had played. ‘Joe had one of those plastic battery-operated record players,’ remembered Simon Barnett, ‘marketed at children. He’d come up with his kids, and get a black cab and drive round and round London in it listening to the records.

 
‘Joe loved the idea of retro technology. The cheapest and the tinniest was always best as far as he was concerned. He played more U Roy than anyone else, and Bob Dylan, a bit of bangra, cumbia, and loads of African music. He insisted on playing vinyl. “I can get you the CD.” “No, let’s play the scratchy vinyl. It’ll sound better on short wave.” All he tried to do was capture a mood and it would always flow nicely, a great half-hour.’

  Joe may have objected to a Clash song being used in a dog-food advertisement – he of course had not complained overly in 1991 when ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ had given the group their first number 1 in Britain after being employed in an ad for Levi’s jeans. But he was not so squeamish about more upmarket, non-canine products. In the spring of 2002 ‘London Calling’ could be heard on US television in an advertisement for Jaguar Cars’ new X-type model. For their participation the Clash received $50,000. Joe’s share of the cut from such an ad could of course help finance the Mescaleros for a few more weeks. ‘I agreed to that,’ Joe told the Mescaleros’ website. ‘We get hundreds of requests for that and turn ’em all down. But I just thought, Jaguar … yeah. If you’re in a group and you make it together, then everyone deserves something. Especially twenty-odd years after the fact. We’ve turned down loads of money. Millions over the years.’ That same year ‘London Calling’ also was used as part of the soundtrack in the James Bond film Die Another Day. Also in 2002 on the MTV Video Music Awards, former New York mayor Rudy Giuliani made his entrance to the chorus from ‘Rudie Can’t Fail’, also from the London Calling album. ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ was revived that year as part of a Stolichnaya Citrona vodka campaign.

  In the middle of January 2000 Joe and the Mescaleros returned to Japan. Lucinda and Eliza went with him. For the first show, at the Zepp in Osaka, Joe taught the Mescaleros ‘Police on My Back’, the Eddie Grant song on Sandinista!, by playing it in the van on the way to the gig. Joe probably needed something to keep him awake. Jet-lag took a far greater toll on his forty-eight-year-old body than in the days when touring with the Clash; the nine hours’ time difference between Britain and Japan would take it out of him. ‘At the beginning of that tour Joe was really stressed out,’ Scott recalled. ‘Joe would get very bad jet-lag. He’d get really fucked up by it, especially going to Japan. He’d get run down and he’d get a cold. You could see it was hard for him, just to get to the gig and do the gig. One show, Joe was actually lying on the floor in the dressing-room curled round my legs. Then he stood up and said, “Hey guys, let’s go outside and take a break – it’s so hot in here.”’

  Once Joe’s body had become adjusted to the time difference, it was business as usual. ‘We’d take it in turns to stay up with him all night,’ said Scott, ‘because somebody had to. In Paris we were out once and it was 9.30 in the morning and I was like, “Joe, I’ve got to go to bed,” and Joe said, “If you go to bed, you’re sacked.” But I think the Joe that I knew was a very different character to the Joe a lot of people knew from the Clash days, based on what I’ve heard. By contrast, I knew a very chilled-out Joe.’

  Things had certainly changed since the old days. Having spent at least two decades pursuing casual sexual encounters with what seemed close to neurosis, had this drive been extinguished since he had married Lucinda? ‘No, mate, Joe wasn’t chasing skirt,’ Ant Genn replied. ‘He was chasing booze.’ ‘Joe just didn’t strike me as a very sexual person at all,’ said Martin.

  Scott added, ‘I don’t know if I would necessarily have liked the old Joe. I have seen him being aggro, but very irregularly. I saw him kick a record company A&R guy up the arse in the streets of Tokyo when we were there in 2000. The guy was taking it, because he knew Joe was right. People had told Joe they couldn’t find the record in the shops. “I can’t believe it!” he’s bellowing. “You’re useless!” The guy’s going, “I know, Joe. I’m so sorry!” “What’s the point of me doing six or seven hours of interviews every single day if they can’t buy the record?” He worked so hard, though. It wasn’t apparent to us, but when there was an album campaign he’d always be doing interviews, busting his balls to spread the word.’

  Following three Japanese dates, the group flew to New Zealand for eight Australasian shows, part of the annual Big Day Out touring festival. The first was in Auckland at the 40,000 capacity Ericsson Stadium on 21 January. On the package’s bill were the Foo Fighters, Primal Scream, the Chemical Brothers, Beth Orton and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. With the Chili Peppers was Dick Rude. In the first half of the 1990s Dick had had his own battles with heroin, falling off Joe’s radar, but he was now clean. ‘I loved his new band,’ he said, ‘but I could sense the line-up wasn’t right. I could see where it was wrong, the drug addiction thing. The word was out this was a very druggy group, and that image was being reflected onto Joe, even though he was never a great participant. He probably learnt from his experience with Topper. He seemed to be handling the situation with Ant in a pretty cool way, but I could see it was bothering him. There was an effect on the unit as a whole.’

  ‘For us, not so much for Joe, the Big Day Off – as we called it – was a total drug-fest,’ admitted Martin Slattery.

  Joe was otherwise engaged during the Big Day Out. Some of the Manc posse had followed them down under, and gone on a spree. When questioned by a suspicious hotel manager as to one of their identities, Joe feigned confusion. ‘We just call him “The Boss”,’ he replied, nodding to himself. Joe, Lucinda and Eliza drove with his Manchester mates down the Australian coast to Sydney for a warm-up date at the 1,000-capacity Sydney Metro on George Street, followed by the Big Day Out proper at the RAS Showground on 26 January. ‘People would come up to Joe and say: “You really changed my life with that song,”’ remembered Scott. ‘They’re still harbouring all these thoughts and feelings that they’ve had since the first time they heard that Clash song. I think it was hard for him when he wasn’t feeling particularly comfortable with himself. His self-confidence really flourished over the time I knew him.

  ‘At first on stage he was edgy, tetchy and generally pissed off. It wasn’t a nice vibe to be around. You didn’t know whether he was going to go off at you or at somebody else. You’d just wait for him to snap out of it.’

  ‘In the smoking breaks between rehearsals,’ said Martin, ‘me and Scott would jam a lot, and Joe started taping us on this little Fisher-Price plastic tape-recorder. Somewhere he realized what me and Scott could do. We started to feel a connection with him, and realized it wasn’t us creating the bad energy. It all filtered into this moment where Ant almost imploded.’

  Yet not everyone observed negativity in the relationship between Joe Strummer and Ant Genn. Early on the Big Day Out tour Jack Notman, who worked with Primal Scream, had been complaining he couldn’t find any weed. A few minutes later he walked past Joe, with whom he had shared ‘no more than three words’. ‘Hey, Jack,’ Joe called out, surprising him as he didn’t know Joe would know his name. When Jack turned towards him, a grinning Joe chucked him a packet of skunk. He realized Joe was either psychic or had very big ears. In Australia Jack noticed how Joe and Ant Genn would go and sit by the side of the stage for the first four numbers of Primal Scream’s set, to get energized for their own show. ‘Joe would go to watch the Primals to get vibed up for his show, and then the Primals would go to watch Joe, to come down from their own set,’ said Jack. The Mescaleros watched as Joe psyched himself up before he went on stage. ‘Prior to the shows Joe had a little Zen routine,’ said Martin, ‘almost working himself into a near-trance, to get the energy so the foot didn’t stop pumping the ground. This trance-like state was part and parcel of the show. Occasionally if he turned around you’d get a wry smile. “It’s still me. Don’t worry.”’

  In Melbourne Ant was mugged scoring heroin. After a date in Adelaide, the Australasian tour finished on 6 February in Perth in the west of the country, where they had four days off. Living in Perth was Mick Jones’s replacement guitarist, Nick Sheppard; he and his family linke
d up with Joe, Luce and Eliza. ‘We went to the beach one day, and there was no baggage. One evening in a bar Joe turned to me and said, “I’m sorry.” I said, “No problem. I got a lot out of it.” Later Joe said, “I’m going back to the hotel – I can’t keep up with these guys.”’ ‘Luce’s influence on him was great,’ said Damien Hirst. ‘She kept him on the straight and narrow. Which some people didn’t like.’

  Then the group flew home to the UK. ‘When we checked in for the flight,’ said Lucinda, ‘it was virtually empty: four seats each at the back of the plane. As we walked onto the plane, Eliza said, “Why can’t we ever sit in first-class?” Joe said, “That’s for famous rock stars, Eliza, who make lots of money. Not for the likes of me.” And as we walked past, I heard one of the stewards say, “That’s Joe Strummer.” He was Richard Ashcroft’s uncle. He came up to us, and said, “Would you like to be upgraded?” Joe said, “No, no, we’re quite happy.” I said, “Bloody right we would.” And we flew first-class all the way back to England from Perth. Which was great.’

  On 31 March Joe and the group were in New York City for a one-off show to celebrate the fifteenth anniversary of Spin magazine. The gig was at the Bowery Ballroom on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The afternoon before the show Joe and Josh Cheuse took a subway ride out to Queens, to the headquarters of VP Records, the US distributors of some of the finest Jamaican music. Ushered into the storage vault, Joe was in ecstasy as the assorted vinyl treasures were unveiled: ‘Oh my God, this is too much.’ Finding a room rammed with cassettes upped Joe’s joy level. ‘Wow, this is great. I always wanted a cassette of that.’ Joe and Josh returned to Manhattan each weighed down with a huge box of reggae, for which – despite the protestations of the VP owners – Joe insisted on paying.