Mick Jones: Stayin' In Tune - The Unauthorised Biography

by Mick O'Shea

  'He [Robin] was the class joker, and [was] always making me laugh,' Mick reflected. 'We were in detention once, and he said something which made me laugh out loud. I can't remember what it was, but I couldn't stop laughing and the headmaster went berserk because we weren't taking our punishment seriously.

  'We used to be in detention every week. Robin used to run a protection racket at school and when it got found it was on the Tonight programme or something, and all the pupils were like blacked out like professionals because they didn't want to be seen. When it all came out Robin had to take this walk of shame. We were caned and everything.' 9

  Robin's waywardness would lead to his being expelled which meant Mick saw less and less of his friend – especially as his evenings were now being taken up trying to learn the guitar by playing along to his burgeoning album collection. Though it had been Robin who'd taught Mick the rudiments of guitar – most notably the simple yet effective stop-start riff to Willie Dixon's one chord blues classic, 'Spoonful', made famous by Howlin' Wolf – he himself had no real ambition to be a rock 'n' roll star. Instead he got a job selling advertisement space and writing copy at the West London Weekly newspaper, and it was only when he was laid off that he began hanging out with several n'er do well's with a penchant for robbing off licenses and betting shops.

  Sometime in late 1973, the gang decided to expand their horizons by attempting what Robin describes as a 'stick-up' in Streatham, south London. He and the rest of the gang were caught and convicted of armed robbery.

  However, with Brixton being a remand prison, unlike the couplet in 'Stay Free', Robin actually began his three-year sentence in Wormwood Scrubs before subsequently being transferred to Albany; the maximum security facility on the Isle of Wight, where he had the dubious distinction of being the prison's youngest inmate.

  * * *

  * The photo was taken by music journalist Caroline Coon at Rehearsal Rehearsals. (BACK)

  * Robin's involvement with The Clash would lead to his getting a job with ZigZag magazine where he adopted the punning nom de plume, Robin Banks. (BACK)

  – CHAPTER TWO –

  MARK ME ABSENT

  'I wanted to play the guitar because I always imagined it was the coolest spot to be in. No one was cooler than the guitar player. Provided you stay in tune you could just cruise.'

  – Mick Jones

  BO DIDDLEY, CREAM, JIMI HENDRIX, and the Rolling Stones had each played their respective roles in Mick's musical education, but it would be the glam-rocking Mott The Hoople who that were to truly fired his imagination.

  Mott The Hoople had first been set on their trajectory by the mercurial, musical Svengali Guy Stevens who would, of course, not only serve as a significant fork in the road on Mick's own career path, but would also work with The Clash. However, while Guy was responsible for giving Mott The Hoople the all-important makeover by having them change their name (to the title of a Willard Manus novel he'd read whilst serving a nine-month prison sentence for being caught in possession of cannabis), replacing their hapless singer Stan Tippens for the perennially-shaded Ian Hunter, as well as securing them a recording contract with Island Records, they ultimately owed their subsequent success to David Bowie.

  Unlike today, bands were given time to develop and hone their craft, but with four albums having failed to make any impression on the charts in either the UK or America, the disillusion within the Mott The Hoople camp was such that they were considering calling it a day when Bowie – who unbeknown to anyone was a huge fan – stepped in and offered them 'Suffragette City', which was earmarked for the soon-to-be-released The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars.

  Somewhat surprisingly, the group declined the offer, but Bowie was unruffled by the rejection and instead presented them with a new song he'd penned.

  The anthemic 'All The Young Dudes' would give Mott the Hoople a UK Top Three hit in July 1972, and as a further testament to his belief in the group, Bowie offered to produce their next album. And as everything the self-styled 'Starman' touched turned to gold, it was goodbye to Guy, and hello CBS.

  Mott The Hoople's new brand of aggressive rock coupled with Hunter's Dylan-esque vocals was soon enthralling audiences on both sides of the Atlantic. It also brought them to the attention of several Strand School sixth-formers. Amongst this small, yet dedicated, clique of Mott obsessives were John Brown and Kelvin Blacklock: both of whom would subsequently play in pre-Clash bands with Mick.

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  John, Kelvin, and the rest of the Strand gang naturally viewed themselves within the school's hierarchy, and usually wouldn't be seen mixing with kids from the lower years. Mick was still only fourteen but with his appreciation for Mott The Hoople matching their own he was readily accepted into their circle. His acceptance came with a caveat, however, as his new-found friends delighted in calling him 'Little Mick'.

  Despite Kelvin and John's subsequent insistence that this was devised as a means of differentiating him from another Mick in the gang, it nonetheless served a dual purpose in reminding Mick of his size and lowly status.

  The Strand gang were naturally keen to see their heroes play live, but with the vast majority of the venues on the London circuit being licensed premises, this was far easier said than done. Thankfully however, the bouncers working the doors at the clubs where Mott The Hoople were wont to play on a regular basis, such as the Roundhouse on Chalk Farm Road, weren't overzealous in their under age restrictions. And on recognising several familiar faces in the crowd, Stan Tippens, who'd benignly accepted the role of manager following his dismissal, began letting the gang in for free; a gesture which encouraged them to attend as many 'Saturday Gigs' as logistically possible.

  The group members were highly appreciative of their unwavering dedication to the Mott cause and began making themselves available both before and after shows. Mick, for one, found this unnerving at first and following a show in Dagenham he was so overawed at finding himself standing next to Mott's guitarist Mick Ralphs at the bar, that he missed his mouth and spilt his drink down the front of his shirt. Now that they regarded themselves as friends as well as fans, it wasn't long before the gang began plotting forays to see their heroes play further afield, and the easy going Stella's lax attitude towards her grandson's out-of-school activities meant Mick could usually tag along.

  'I followed Mott the Hoople up and down the country,' Mick revealed. 'I'd go to Liverpool or Newcastle or somewhere, sleep on the Town Hall steps, and bunk the fares on the trains, hide in the toilet when the ticket inspector came around. I'd jump off just before the train got to the station and climb over the fence. It was great times, and I always knew I wanted to be in a band and play guitar. That was it for me.'1

  During the summer of 1970, having been welcomed into Mott's inner sanctum to breathe the heady backstage air, it was perhaps only natural that the Strand boys decided to take things to the next level by forming their own group in the hope that reach a point where they'd be able to play as a support act at future Mott shows.

  Kelvin, being something of an extrovert, and buoyed by the thrill of having Ian Hunter occasionally invite him up on stage to share vocal duties on 'Walkin' With A Mountain' (from Mott The Hoople's second album, Mad Shadows), duly elected himself as the singer/guitarist, while John played second guitar and provided backing vocals. The as yet unnamed fledgling outfit's rhythm section comprised of Bob Goffman on bass, and the unassuming Jim Hyatt on drums.

  With Kelvin the designated leader calling the shots, the others would have to schlep over to Thessaly Road in Battersea where he was living at the time in order to rehearse. These ad hoc rehearsals, where friends – including Robin Crocker – could come along and sit in, usually took place in a local youth club. On other occasions they would set up in the disused church hall* situated a little further along the road.

  Mick wouldn't get involved with Schoolgirl – the cringe-worthy name the embryonic group had decided on once they resumed group duty a
fter sitting their A-Levels – until March 1972; even then, it was only in an unofficial capacity as Hyatt's drum roadie. There had, however, already been several changes to the line-up by this juncture. Kelvin had abandoned the guitar in favour of concentrating on his vocals, while John had switched to bass to replace Goffman who'd chosen academia over a cappella and headed off to university.

  John's replacement as the group's second guitarist was a guy called Glen, while both the line-up and sound had been augmented by a saxophonist/guitarist by the name of Pete.

  'There was a band at school and I was a year lower than them. I was kind of the little one, but always curious about making music and I started off roadying for them,' Mick later recalled. 'I was happy enough to lug the gear for a bit. Then I gradually built myself up to playing the guitar, though I played drums too, and the bass. The guitar came after that.'2

  Mick wouldn't emulate his friends by staying on for A-Levels, but he'd yet to bid farewell to his Alma Mater as he'd opted to stay on at the Strand School and re-sit the three O-Levels he'd failed the previous spring. He'd already retaken his Art O Level in the January, and was set to re-sit History and English Language. This time round, he would also be sitting English Literature and Sociology.

  Not only would Mick pass all five exams with flying colours, he even attended the Strand's graduation ceremony sporting a speciallyhired top hat and tails. Whilst there's no shame in striving to gain some creditable qualifications, it nevertheless strains the poetic license in the couplet, 'When we got thrown out, I left without much fuss' from 'Stay Free'…

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  Schoolgirl made their live debut sometime around March 1972, and followed this inauspicious entrée with a dozen or so equally lacklustre appearances at various low-rent pubs and clubs. Indeed, the only noteworthy incident to occur during their brief career came with Ian Hunter showing up to cast an eye over their worth. Kelvin had invited Hunter along in the hope he might be persuaded to offer Schoolgirl a support slot at one or other of Mott The Hoople's forthcoming London dates. Hunter was so underwhelmed by what he saw on stage that he suggested Kelvin sack everyone except John because they were 'utter shit'.

  Whether Kelvin would have acted on Hunter's damning verdict is open to speculation, as guitarist Glen jumped before he could be pushed. Having replaced Glen with another old Strand boy Paul Wayman on guitar, Schoolgirl would make four further live appearances during 1973. But with the impetus gone they decided on hanging up their pinafores.

  Schoolgirl might not have made much of an impression on Ian Hunter, but they did at least alert Mick to the fact that he could do as well – if not better. Whilst serving his time as Jim Hyatt's roadie Mick had familiarised himself with the drums, but as the drummer was usually the least recognised member of any group, his ego led him to abandon the idea and he bought himself a second-hand Hofner guitar using some of the earnings he'd accrued from a summer job working in a local warehouse.

  Mick would later bemoan the Hofner's asking price of £16 to a bemused Caroline Coon, before gleefully adding that he subsequently sold it for £30 to a Sex Pistol.

  'I never had any lessons. Robin [used to tune] the guitar for me before I knew how to,' he recalled. 'I almost took my first guitar back to the shop because it wasn't in tune. I thought there was something wrong with it. I learned playing along to records and spent a year in the bedroom just playing along, learning the solos and all the little nuances on Stones records. Music was definitely the main thing for me, from the age of twelve or so.'3

  It was no doubt his remembering having to rely on Robin to tune the Hofner's strings before he could go off and practice Keith Richards' 'little nuances' that he uncomplainingly did the same for Paul during the early days of The Clash.

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  In the spring of 1973, Mick and Stella were on the move again to the aforementioned Wilmcote House. One might have thought that the bureaucratic powers-that-be at the GLC (Greater London Council) would have seen to it to offer the now seventy-three-year-old Stella a ground-floor flat. But no, their new home stood on the eighteenth floor of a Sixties high-rise situated on the Warwick Estate, just off the Harrow Road.

  Kris Needs, who would go on to be the editor at ZigZag magazine during punk's '77 heyday, formed his lasting friendship with Mick around this time and spent occasional evenings at Wilmcote House listening to Mick's impressive array of rare American import albums. According to Kris' recollections, while Stella did her best to keep the flat spotless – with the obvious exception of Mick's bedroom – the building itself was every inch the stereotypical tower block which The Clash would celebrate in song – 'rotting from the inside with piss-stained, graffiti-sprayed lifts that were terminally out of order.'4 Like Robin Crocker, John Brown, and just about everyone else who visited the flat, Kris also bore witness to Mick's occasional demeaning attitude towards Stella where he might demand his dinner upon walking through the door, or order Stella to make him and his friends a cup of tea with nary a please or thank you. Of course, like everyone else, Kris was never in any doubt that Mick was utterly devoted to his Nan.

  Wilmcote House sits a stone's throw from the A40 (M) flyover – more colloquially known as 'The Westway', and though at the time, the eighteen-year-old Mick would have undoubtedly lambasted the council's logic in placing a widowed septuagenarian up in the gods, the late-night twinkling panoramic vista of Bayswater and Knightsbridge afforded from their lofty concrete eerie would at least inspire a visiting Joe Strummer to pen the lyric to 'London's Burning'.

  Mick's decision to add English Literature and Sociology to the three re-sit exams had more to do with the number of qualifications, rather than the qualifications themselves as five O-Levels was the minimum requirement needed to gain acceptance to art school. Yet though he now had the required grades, he was still only seventeen, and therefore twelve months below the minimum age requirement for college. Most students would have used the time to build up a portfolio, but Mick's only reason for going to art school was to meet like-minded musicians and form a group, while using the annual grant to fund his further educational escapades.

  He would have probably liked nothing better than to take a sabbatical and wile away the days improving his slinky guitar skills, but as liberal-minded as Stella was towards his musical proclivities, he thought it best to plot a strategy of sorts. Although he was more or less assured a place at art school once he turned eighteen, he didn't want to leave anything to chance, and as a contingency plan he signed on at night school to study for his A-Levels. As he would also have to wait twelve months before he could get his hands on a grant, he decided to put his hard-earned qualifications to good use and got himself gainful employment with the Department of Health and Social Security.

  Mick became a Clerical Assistant in the Benefit Office, which at the time was at number 5 Praed Street in Paddington, a short walk from his home at Park Way. Judging from his recollections, his time at the Benefit Office wasn't particularly rewarding. 'It was on the first floor of a modern building across the road from [the] station, and there were these old fashioned benches around the wall for people to sit on,' he revealed. 'One day I saw this guy who'd been there all day, being given the run around. They used to employ the most unsympathetic people at the counters – to give short shrift to anyone making bogus claims.'5

  Mick may have been counting down the days till his eighteenth birthday, but his time working in the service of the state would subsequently prove beneficial to The Clash in providing the inspiration for the telling couplet 'I hate the civil service rules, I won't open letter bombs for you,' in the second verse on 'Career Opportunities'. Five years later, during an NME interview, part of which was conducted deep beneath the streets of the metropolis by Tony Parsons, and subsequently appeared as the 'Clash on the Circle Line' interview on the Capital Radio NME freebie EP, Mick would help propagate the escalating Clash myth by informing Parsons how his supervisor at the DHSS had him opening the incoming mail at the height of t
he IRA's letter-bomb campaign on mainland Britain because of his long hair and unruly appearance.

  It's a good yarn, and one aimed at setting The Clash up as antiestablishment rebels with applause. In hindsight, however, it's easy to see that Mick had been prepped by Bernard before the group's meeting with Parsons. Bureaucracy undoubtedly has many faults, but the notion that someone in authority would have a seventeen-year-old trainee opening potentially-lethal packages simply because his hair wasn't regulation short back and sides is stretching credibility.

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