We Are the Clash

by Mark Andersen

  “Now Mick’s gone, and we’re thinking, ‘We have Joe and Paul and a drummer,’ you know?” Vinyl recalls. “So we’re not starting from scratch here. How are we gonna go forward now?” If the exact path wasn’t immediately apparent, one agenda item was: a new guitar-slinger, with both the needed skills and of sufficiently stalwart ideological stock.

  * * *

  Five days after the news of Jones’s expulsion, seven people gathered for a meeting at 10 Downing Street. If far less publicized than the internecine strife in The Clash, the meeting would prove considerably more consequential.

  The public would only learn about this secret conclave more than thirty years later via a newly released document, marked, “Not to be photocopied or circulated outside the private office.” Attended by Margaret Thatcher and her closest aides, the meeting concerned Ian MacGregor’s plans for the British coal industry.

  British Steel had already undergone drastic layoffs. Now coal mines—known in the UK as “pits”—were on the bull’s eye. According to the meeting notes, MacGregor’s closure program had “gone better this year than planned: there had been one pit closed every three weeks,” with the workforce shrinking by 10 percent.

  This was wrenching amid the worst downturn since the Great Depression, but the Coal Board now meant to go much further: “Mr. MacGregor had in mind that over the years 1983–85 a further seventy-five pits would be closed . . . The manpower in the industry would be down to 138,000 from its current level of 202,000.” Almost one-third of all coal miners stood to lose their jobs in the next two years.

  This was political dynamite, as was made clear by the precautions taken to avoid disclosure of the plan: “There should be no closure list, but a pit-by-pit procedure,” the notes record before coming to the final paragraph: “It was agreed that no record of this meeting should be circulated.” Another memo written a week later stated that the group would continue to meet regularly, but that there should be “nothing in writing which clarifies the understandings about strategy which exist between Mr. MacGregor and the secretary of state for energy.”

  The secrecy was essential, for the plan was ruthless. As the BBC reported in 2014, “Two-thirds of Welsh miners would become redundant, a third of those in Scotland, almost half of those in northeast England, half in South Yorkshire and almost half in the South Midlands. The entire Kent coalfield would close.”

  It was precisely this sort of wholesale assault that Arthur Scargill feared. While some disliked him as a Marxist firebrand, Scargill’s landslide victory for the union presidency in 1981 reflected both his popularity and the rank-and-file sense that a decisive showdown with the government was coming.

  The sweeping Tory election victory raised the stakes. In 1981 Thatcher had backed down before a NUM challenge; now her position was strengthened considerably.

  At the NUM national conference held shortly after the Tory landslide, Scargill issued a call to action. Warning that Thatcher sought to destroy the industry not only due to lack of profits, but for revenge, he evoked the specter of fascism in 1930s Germany: “We have two choices. We can give in and watch social destruction and repression on a truly horrific scale, or we can fight back.”

  NUM president Arthur Scargill, with United Mineworkers of America hat. (Photographer unknown.)

  Scargill made his position clear: “I am not prepared to quietly accept the destruction of the coal-mining industry, [or] to see our social services utterly decimated. Faced with possible parliamentary destruction of all that is good and compassionate in our society, extra-parliamentary action will be the only recourse left for the working class and the Labour movement.”

  These were powerful words—and they would be used against him. Scargill matched Thatcher as a polarizing figure, with the same air of righteousness. Like the Tory leader, he inspired fanatical followers, but also bred determined enemies and could alienate less-convinced sectors.

  Scargill’s call for “extra-parliamentary action” was simple reality: Thatcher controlled Parliament, so the only way to resist now lay outside that institution. Still, darker notions of a Communist coup d’état would be spun out of the same thread, as the Tories portrayed the matter as a struggle for democracy, not jobs.

  Thatcher was not above fearmongering, sketching Scargill as a dangerous radical out of step not just with Britain but with his own rank and file. MacGregor echoed this, describing Scargill’s speech as “a declaration of war” from an antidemocratic bully seeking to overturn the duly expressed will of the country.

  This conveniently overlooked the fact that a majority of British voters had never pulled the lever for Thatcher. Even though the vagaries of the UK system had awarded the Tories a veto-proof majority in Parliament, their support in 1983 had actually dipped to 42.4 percent, some 700,000 less votes than in 1979.

  Moreover, if Thatcher was so assured of the legitimacy of this path, why not share the plans with the public? Clearly she feared the consequences—so she and her minions would subvert the open discussion essential for democracy by never admitting to the true scope of the sweeping mine-closure program.

  While there were reasonable arguments to be made over the economic health and future of coal as an industry, the central thrust of the Tory scheme was political, as was made clear by the existence of something titled, “The Final Report of the Nationalised Industries Policy Group.”

  Nicknamed “The Ridley Report” for its author, Nicholas Ridley—Tory free-market evangelist and close Thatcher ally—this plan was drawn up in June 1977, just as punk was exploding across Jubilee-era Britain. The report contained many contentious suggestions, but most explosive was a two-and-a-half-page “Confidential Annex” entitled, “Countering the Political Threat.”

  This addendum identified the nature of the “threat” and suggested a solution. Like Thatcher, Ridley took for granted that the NUM—by virtue of its organized militant strength and unique importance as the provider of electricity that ran the entire British economy—had become even more dangerous than the Labour Party itself. Any successful Conservative government in the future would need to tread carefully, aware that confrontation was more than likely.

  Ridley did not fear this struggle. But he did seek to ensure that the battle would come on terms favorable to—or even chosen by—the Tories.

  Ridley urged that coal stocks be increased to prevent power cuts in the event of a prolonged strike. Plans should be made to import coal from nonunion foreign ports, with nonunion drivers recruited by trucking companies, and with dual coal-oil generators installed. While these measures would increase costs, they would significantly reduce the miners’ leverage.

  Police would also need to be equipped with riot gear and trained in mobile tactics to counter “violent picketing,” i.e., the flying pickets. Legislation should be passed to make such picketing illegal to whatever extent possible. The police force was to be readied to use as a blunt instrument in what was ultimately a political battle.

  The Ridley Report was a map for winning a war with the unions, especially the NUM. Such inflammable material is hard to keep secret, and the plan was soon leaked, appearing in the UK press in early 1978.

  That error had become a learning experience. Now that the game was afoot, a much tighter lid was clamped on preparations for the coming war. The election had given the leverage needed to put the Tory plans into action—all that stood in the way of the free-market renaissance they craved was the NUM.

  * * *

  While Thatcher was drawing up battle plans, so was Joe Strummer—and his weapon was The Clash. But for many people, that entity no longer existed: The Clash was Strummer-Jones-Simonon-Headon. Vinyl called this the “John-Paul-George-Ringo Syndrome”—a band was certain people; no less, no more.

  This purist idea was widely flouted in an industry ever more fixated on money. Still, it spoke both to an artistic reality—the mix of certain people could have a unique magic—as well as a compellingly romantic notion of rock bands made of
friends who rise from the garage to the world stage together.

  Jones himself had raised this question with rock journalist Mikal Gilmore in June 1982 by noting that the post-Headon Clash “feels like a new band now,” even wondering aloud if they should be called “Clash Now” or “Clash Two.” Such musing seemed odd given that The Clash had started out with their then-current drummer Terry Chimes, recording their first record with him. Moreover, The Clash had played the landmark “Anarchy” tour with Sex Pistols, Heartbreakers, and the Damned—as well as other key shows—with drummer Rob Harper.

  Jones’s idealism shines here, as such attachment to specific members had become unusual. By the 1980s, most bands freely shed members, even losing central catalysts like Syd Barrett (Pink Floyd) and Brian Jones (Rolling Stones), but still rolling forward on artistic and, of course, commercial terms.

  But what if “The Clash” was more than a band—if it was an idea? Was it the specific people or the mission that mattered? Jones’s rival Clash cofounder Rhodes believed in the latter notion, which was, in its way, just as idealistic as its opposite.

  Rhodes was taken by the idea that The Clash could be like an army platoon, with no soldier irreplaceable and the shared objective paramount—a metaphor that Strummer and Simonon also embraced at the time. Indeed, Strummer would soon go so far as to argue, “I hope that if I start acting funny, I’d be fired, and The Clash would roll on without me.”

  This could be taken to an extreme. The Baker skeptically recalled Rhodes’s admiration of the Puerto Rican bubblegum pop band Menudo whose members shifted at the whim of their producer/creator Edgardo Diaz. He later laughed: “Of course, Bernie would like that—it gave him all the control!”

  This comparison might seem ridiculous. Yet the original Clash had hardly come together as teenage friends in some mythical garage. It was manufactured out of Jones’s striking musical vision, but equally assembled by Rhodes’s instincts and ideology. Miraculously, this fairly mechanistic mating had actually worked.

  The Clash coalesced more deeply than Malcolm McLaren’s Sex Pistols, whose self-destruction was more or less assured. Strummer and Jones had chemistry as a writing team and—with Simonon added to the onstage mix—as an arresting live juggernaut. Headon soon added to this, helping to propel their ascent.

  Could lightning strike again? For Strummer this was no academic matter. While marching in step with Rhodes, he also knew there was something more mysterious and organic required; more than anyone else, it would be up to him to make the new “platoon” cohere as an artistic and spiritual entity.

  The pressure was immense. Strummer admitted he “was thinking all the time . . . maybe too much.” He had a depressive nature and in 1982 had spoken of “some bad times, dark moments when I came close to putting a pistol to my head and blowing my brains out”—an ominous admission given his brother’s suicide.

  Although Strummer hastened to add, “If you ain’t got anything optimistic to say, then you should shut up,” his bouts with darkness might have been the natural result of a brain that refused to shut off. He now had more than usual to contemplate, as doubts about his decision to eject Headon and Jones nagged him.

  The burden had a practical aspect. After his exit, Jones would pointedly question how The Clash might forge ahead without him, saying, “I hope that their new guys help them write the material.” Strummer hardly needed to be reminded of the hole in the band’s creative core, acknowledging, “If your song ain’t good, you ain’t gonna triumph.” He was already hard at work to meet this challenge.

  Michael Fayne, the young recording engineer brought in by Rhodes in 1981 to work at Lucky Eight, the studio at their Camden haunt, Rehearsal Rehearsals, saw the pressure on Strummer up close. “Joe would come in to demo a song, you could tell he was nervous. He would run through the song, just him and guitar. As he did, he’d kind of sneak a peek at me, see how I was reacting.”

  Fayne didn’t remember being that impressed by the new songs, but did recall that one tune with the words “This Is England” caught his ear. If Strummer picked up on the lukewarm reaction, he was not deterred. The singer continued to knock out new tunes, to be fleshed out once the band was whole again.

  Strummer’s plans were helped when a new guitar player was found via auditions hastily arranged by Vinyl: Nick Sheppard, former lead guitarist of the Cortinas, a defunct first-wave punk band from Bristol in southwest England.

  Though the auditions were for an unnamed band, Sheppard had a pretty good idea who it was. As the guitarist recalls, “I was out at a pub not long before the audition came up and ran into Joe, Paul, and Kosmo. I happened to overhear them talking a bit, going on about ‘he’s got to go.’ Had no clue at the time, but in retrospect, it was pretty clear who the talk was about.”

  Hundreds came to the auditions, but Sheppard stood out. He was from the same original punk generation as Strummer, Simonon, and the rest. The Cortinas had been popular enough to earn their own brief liaison with CBS in the late seventies, but not so high profile as to be a distraction. Sheppard: “We had the same influences, came up in the same school, if you will . . . We understood each other.”

  While the Cortinas scarcely shared The Clash’s politics, Sheppard had solid left-wing credentials: “I grew up in a family of trade unionists and Labour supporters, and I was, in that respect, politically aware—I knew what side I was on.” Finally, Sheppard was a big Clash fan, having seen the band live many times.

  Once Sheppard was in the fold, the band went into intense rehearsals. Strummer unveiled more than a dozen new songs, which the new lineup began to hammer into shape. Their work, however, was shadowed by rumors that Jones and Headon were readying their own version of The Clash.

  While this prospect gnawed at Strummer’s self-doubt, a less sentimental Rhodes saw it as a direct threat. Jones had been critiqued for working through lawyers while in the band; how much more likely was legal action now?

  In strictly commercial terms, “The Clash” had become a lucrative brand, and Rhodes wanted to preempt counterclaims. He urged Strummer to make it clear in song that nothing from Jones and Headon could be the real item.

  Sheppard witnessed the dynamic: “You got the sense then that some new songs were ‘made to order’ in a way, that Bernie had said to Joe, ‘We need a song called this or about that.’ Joe would listen, but he is a serious writer, right? So what he would come up with would be his own vision in the end.” The process produced a song that would define the new band to fan and foe alike: “We Are The Clash.”

  The title was a bit obvious. Even for a band renowned for self-referential anthems like “Clash City Rockers,” “Radio Clash,” “Last Gang in Town,” and “Four Horsemen,” it seemed a step too far. Predictably, it would be swiftly lampooned as a laughable echo of “We Are The Monkees,” the theme song of another manufactured band favored by Rhodes.

  While the song may have started out in that territory, Strummer took it to a deeper and more resonant place. He understood Rhodes’s desire to protect the Clash “brand,” but such an angle struck him as altogether too businesslike. For Strummer—as with Rhodes, ultimately—The Clash was something far more profound than a commercial venture, more than even a band . . . but exactly what?

  The surge of right-wing power added urgency. “The world is marching backward fast all the time!” Strummer declared at the time. “Everything I read is bad news, apart from the Sandinista thing in Nicaragua.” A tantalizing idea began to percolate out of his soul-searching. Strummer’s thoughts intersected with Rhodes’s directive, but went beyond.

  Strummer’s inspiration began with the Clash audience. Ever eager to engage with fans, Strummer had been touched by encounters on the 1982 tour of the Far East. In Japan, for example, one conversation had turned to family members killed in the US atomic attacks on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Strummer was already riveted by the nuclear danger; this made it even more real.

  Strummer shared another anecdote from the tour with She
ppard, who recalls: “These aboriginal guys came to talk to him after the [Queensland, Australia] show about their situation. And then he got a phone call saying that the police had gone and busted up their house, because they’d dared to go backstage and talk to these white guys.” The ugliness of the incident, the deep racism it represented, and the courage of the fans “really left an impression on him,” according to Sheppard.

  The Clash had once articulated voices from Brixton, Camden Town, Notting Hill, the West Way. Now they had come to embody something broader, rising up from the global grassroots: a rainbow of peoples, united by a shared spirit. The fans’ enthusiasm and ability to relate their struggles to themes in Clash songs affected Strummer, fueling the band’s own ambitious musical and topical trajectory.

  This growing fusion also reflected the fact that The Clash came alive in concert—in Strummer’s words, “working together with the audience.” Keeping all of this in mind, the singer wrote a couplet that became the central metaphor of the new song: “We can strike the match / if you spill the gasoline.”

  First heard as a demo recorded at Lucky Eight in November 1983, “We Are The Clash” utilized blunt yet cannily arranged butcher-block chords to stake its claim. Propelled by Howard’s powerful drumming, its chorus asserted, “We are The Clash / we can strike the match” with the follow-up line “if you can spill the gas” repeated twice and drawn out, the focus shifting from artist to audience, to what could be created together. Fittingly, it seemed designed for a gigantic sing-along.

  The song was now less about “protecting the brand” than making it clear that—as Strummer would later insist—“when I say that ‘we are The Clash,’ I’m talking about considerably more than five people.” The song was an example of how a nudge from Rhodes could result in something profound in Strummer’s hands.

  This exploded the concept of The Clash, launching it past the realm of “rock band.” If the song embodied Strummer’s punk populism, other lyrics tied the fate of this fusion to larger global struggles. “We don’t want to be treated like trash,” the song insisted—yet across the world so many were, in so many ways.