We Are the Clash

by Mark Andersen

  While recording had relocated to London studios, the mind games continued. White recalls working for days with Strummer to get guitar fills that both loved—only to have Rhodes summarily dismiss the lot. A disgusted White laments, “Joe made a half-arsed attempt to stand some ground. But it wasn’t nearly enough.”

  White went back to the fretboard, working for “three days and nights” on tight, rehearsed guitar parts. Once again, Rhodes berated him, and at one point brusquely ordered him to play three impromptu notes very slowly. When it wasn’t quite right, White was made to do it again and again. After four hours and dozens of takes, a still-unhappy Rhodes summarily dismissed the demoralized guitarist.

  White was not the mercurial manager’s only victim. Fayne remembers, “There was one particular day where Bernie came into the studio. I was blazing it, just listening to the guys. The door swung open, and he ran into the room, picked up a mic stand, and started to smash the drum kit up, while Pete was sitting there . . . Oh, it was wild, man! Pete just jumped up and tore off, and Bernard walked out.”

  As usual, there was a point. Fayne: “Bernie didn’t want any connection with the past, you know? He wanted to take this forward, to control it, to mastermind the whole thing, and what they were doing was a bit too reminiscent of what it was.”

  This had its value, but to Fayne, the madness overwhelmed the method. “If he’d had a pair of ears, in two seconds Bernie would have gone, ‘Oh, man, that’s wicked, man! Carry on.’ But he didn’t. He was tone deaf, he didn’t know a tune if it slapped him in the face.” The cumulative damage was serious; Howard, for one, had come to loathe Rhodes and regret being in The Clash at all.

  Then worrisome mixes of the new record began to circulate. White recalls being horrified to hear “The Dictator” with “weird synthesizer sprayed all over it . . . out of tune.” When he pleaded with Strummer, calling it a “bloody ridiculous mess,” the singer responded, “It’s brilliant, it’s wild!” White: “Joe brushed me off . . . [He] was locked into his own world.”

  One late addition to the record at least provided some fun. Several dozen of the Clash family and friends were invited into a studio to do backing vocals for the songs. The massed voices conveyed the sense of something immense and communal. Sheppard: “I think they were added to make that connection of when that massive crowd sings ‘We are The Clash,’ the idea is that The Clash belongs to the audience, you know—the audience are as much the band as the band is.”

  The backing vocals evoked the titanic sing-alongs of the busking tour. Sheppard: “It was done after the tour, but I don’t know if Joe had come up with the idea as a result of the busking. I have a feeling it was more to do with Bernie, to be honest, and as I’ve said before, you know, Bernie did have some great ideas.” In any case, the guitarist remembers that night fondly, unlike most of the recording.

  White had found a new rehearsal space and, with Sheppard, Howard, and sometimes Simonon, poured frustrations into relentless practicing. Sheppard: “Basically, me, Vince, and Pete found a fuckin’ horrible rehearsal room in Finsbury Park and did nine- or ten-hour days for two, three months. We went there every day, and we played the set, and we turned into a different band, as a result of the busking tour, and as a result of all that training.”

  Asked how they could push on so intently given the circumstances, Sheppard demurs: “We had nothing else to do, really.” Yet their dedication to The Clash, however battered, was also real. Ironically, with recording finally done and Rhodes distracted by mixing the album, some creative space developed. Sheppard: “We had no supervision from Bernie at all. Paradoxically, that gave me a lot of self-confidence. The three of us certainly got very, very tight.”

  The grind proved productive as the trio gelled more and more as a unit—and finally got a chance to show it when three European festival shows were announced, starting in late June with Roskilde in Denmark. Sheppard was glad for the respite from the endless rehearsals but had few illusions about the motivation for these performances: “These were moneymaking gigs, big festival shows.” Even so, the band came to them with something to prove.

  The six agonizing weeks since the return from busking also seemed to be belatedly solidifying something for Strummer. Sheppard: “We were on the bus on the way to Roskilde, Bernie was ranting as usual. But this time I saw Joe give him a look of pure hate and disgust . . . Later I realized that Joe had stopped believing in him.” Soon it became clear that the showdown meeting had slowed the disintegration of Strummer’s relationship with Rhodes, but not reversed it.

  This was hardly the best time for internal combustion, however. Roskilde was the band’s biggest show since the US Festival. While The Clash were one of the headliners, the context was now quite different than 1983. While other bands had scaled the top of the charts, The Clash had gone more than three years without a new record, much less a new hit—an eternity in the fickle world of pop music.

  The band’s star was in danger of fading. Nonetheless, the musicians remained ambivalent about playing the game on anyone’s terms but their own. The pressure from CBS was growing, adding to the internal tensions, friction that burst into the open at a shambolic preshow Roskilde press conference.

  Although often viewed as Rhodes’s cat’s paw, in a way Kosmo Vinyl was as much his captive as Strummer was, and nearly as weary. While The Clash was immensely important to him, he was worn down by the constant struggle. In principle, the exhausted consigliere was on the way out, but he just couldn’t seem to find the will to finally make the break. Years later, Vinyl was loathe to discuss what happened that day at Roskilde. Even so, it is clear that he had been wound up tight by Rhodes beforehand and dispatched on a mission of confrontation.

  The acrimonious press conference came off like a page torn out of a farcical US Festival playbook. Vinyl regularly interrupted the proceedings, sparring with the assembled journalists as well as Strummer, seeming to supersede him as the band’s voice. Even the normally reserved Simonon joined the conflict. Asked if punk was dead, the bassist snapped, “It stands right in front of your eyes!”

  The local newspaper, Göteborgs-Posten, blasted the band over the contentious exchanges, opining, “The Clash is obviously a band in big trouble.” Sheppard recalls, “We didn’t take part in any question-and-answer scenario. We were there for a bit, and it was chaotic.” He and the others soon left.

  Adding to the bad vibes, Strummer griped about the festival for being allegedly money hungry. It seemed an odd critique, given that the band was being well compensated for playing. It was also arguably misinformed, for the festival retained some of its original hippie idealism, donating much money each year to various charities. Strummer was likely unsure about the wisdom of playing at all, given his skepticism about the stadium-rock world—but of that he said nothing.

  The rancor foreshadowed what would be a consequential, if hardly smooth performance. Both an audiotape and a video recorded by fans document the show. The latter conveys palpable excitement in the crowd, bopping restlessly to reggae before the band’s set, with homemade Clash banners waving, all eyes focused on the empty stage.

  Ironically, The Clash found itself amid another strike, although of a far less essential commodity than coal: Carlsberg & Tuborg, the leading Danish beer brewer, was facing a lengthy and determined work stoppage. This made for a significantly more “dry” festival than usual, a situation Vinyl wryly noted. Rebounding from his odd performance at the press conference, the punk raconteur provided a spirited, good-humored introduction for the band.

  As Vinyl bounded off the stage, Howard set down a terse, relentless rhythm. Recognizing the introduction of “Complete Control,” the audience began to spontaneously sing the “whoaooah whoaooah” backing vocals. As they did, White and Sheppard hit the song’s clarion chords, simultaneously becoming illuminated by spotlights. Mostly hidden in shadows, Strummer began to sing as the tune gathered momentum, the focus still on the guitar duo.

  When the song explode
d into full force, the singer leaped onto a walkway that extended into the crowd, his white denim fatigues shining in the intense lights. While Strummer sported his usual Mohawk Revenge T-shirt, he had not worn that hairstyle for some months. Vinyl, however, had recently trimmed White’s coif into the war cut, maintaining the band’s Mohican quotient.

  Strummer urged the crowd on, shouting out off mic, dancing at the edge of the walkway, his leg pumping. Simonon, Sheppard, and White bounded around the stage behind him, with the rock-steady Howard anchoring it all.

  When “Complete Control” crashed to its end, the frontman greeted the crowd, announcing, “London calling to the faraway towns!” as the band launched into the next song. Strummer’s desperate ranting of the US Festival was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a palpable desire to engage the distant audience as an ally.

  Although White and Sheppard had now been part of The Clash for nearly two years—and Howard even longer—Strummer still introduced them as “the new boys.” Years later, Sheppard laughed good-naturedly about this, but was quick to emphasize, “By then we completely owned the material, be it old or new.”

  Such confidence showed in the performance. The band segued smoothly from “London Calling” into energetic versions of “Janie Jones” and “Safe European Home”—the latter’s catchy two-note guitar opening reappearing for the first time since 1978—then into a newly dusted-off “Hate & War” with Sheppard on vocals.

  The impact of the busking tour was noticeable, with the interplay of the four members out front authentic and unforced. Strummer leaned easily on Sheppard’s shoulder as the guitarist kicked out the opening chords to “Garageland” and all four regularly clustered near the mic on the walkway, rubbing elbows as if out on the streets playing for spare change.

  When a spooky “Armagideon Time” slowed the tempo, the band appeared relaxed, in command of the gigantic stage. Simonon even set down his bass for a turn at break dancing at the beginning of “Magnificent Seven.” Strummer, in turn, led Simonon, Sheppard, and White out onto a massive speaker stack for the song’s climax, the three guitarists sitting and playing, with Strummer on his feet singing.

  After the musicians climbed down from their perch, they launched into “Rock the Casbah,” an animated Strummer prowling the stage with the mic stand on his shoulder. As the guitars crashed into one another, the singer climbed onto the opposite speaker stack, jumping down to shout out the climatic “Allah!” at the end of the song, his arms opened to the heavens.

  Strummer’s banter between songs was lighthearted. He checked to see how many folks understood English, and joked about the famously ugly English weather to kick off a revamped “Three Card Trick.” This was the first public evidence of the radical musical surgery involved in the new album; the song was now hitched to a jaunty ska chassis. While the changes were not necessarily improvements, the tune fit nicely into the groove the band had crafted.

  As Clash shows went, this one seemed strikingly free and easy—possibly too much so for some tastes. In the shadows, Bernard Rhodes was seething, incensed that the show organizers were apparently ignoring a preshow directive not to film the band for rebroadcast. Determined to assert himself, he turned to Vinyl, dispatching his loyal lieutenant to the mic at the end of “Three Card Trick.”

  The evening’s good vibes came to an abrupt end as Vinyl came running onstage, waving the band back and commandeering the microphone. As the confused musicians retreated, Vinyl gruffly announced, “Hallo, hallo! If you don’t stop filming the show up here, there will be no more show . . . There will be no more show while they continue filming—everybody stop!”

  This was a jarring intrusion. Even if the promoters were breaching an agreement, this unnecessarily disruptive protest would inevitably stall the band’s momentum. But Rhodes was rarely one to use a scalpel when an ax was available.

  As the unit regrouped, Strummer reached for a gentle way to restart the set, beginning an a cappella version of “Pressure Drop.” The singer motioned to his band to keep their instruments silent, while encouraging them and the audience to join in the chorus. After a few rounds, the band kicked in, launching the voices to the far reaches of the festival grounds.

  Strummer poured it all out, jumping up and down, leg pumping, rousing the crowd. Then, as the song neared its end, Strummer again silenced the instruments and beckoned all—including Howard from behind the drum kit—to sing together at the front of the stage, creating a huge chorus with the crowd.

  It was a powerful moment and an implicit rebuke to the acerbic manager. Sheppard: “That was our nod to the busking thing, when we did ‘Pressure Drop’ at Roskilde, and Pete jumped off the drums, and we all sang it, kind of, a cappella. It felt good, like we were together again.”

  With connection between audience and band reestablished, Strummer stepped back for a blazing Sheppard-led version of “Police on My Back,” followed by Simonon taking the lead on “What’s My Name.” Bouncing back to the mic, Strummer asked for “some help to sing ‘Spanish Bombs’!” The band kicked off the song, seeming to have hit its stride again.

  Suddenly, the stage went dark. The music grew quieter and slowly dwindled to silence midsong. Silhouettes of Strummer and Vinyl could be seen in urgent conversation. The crowd erupted in confused whistles, cheers, and chanting as shadows contended vigorously with one another onstage.

  After a few minutes of dimly glimpsed chaos, the lights and PA came back on to reveal Vinyl midrant: “If they do not stop filming entirely, there will be no more Clash tonight. They say they have stopped but they haven’t. So if they do not stop, there will be no more Clash AT ALL!”

  Amid boos, whistles, and cheers, Vinyl incited the crowd: “We come here to play for the people here at the festival, not a bunch of arseholes sitting at home on television. And all these people are trying to do is rip you off!” The raspy Cockney-toned agitator paused, then shouted, “Now, do you want the filming stopped?” As the crowd roared its assent, he asked, “Do you want The Clash?” When the affirmative tumult grew even louder, Vinyl beckoned the band back onstage, roaring, “Well, let’s hear it then: The Clash, THE CLASH—come on!”

  Unlike Strummer’s US Festival exhortations, this seemed less like an attempt to impart a crucial message and more like a tantrum from a prima-donna band. The unit itself, of course, was the main victim of the interruption. Strummer was visibly peeved, as once again they had to fight desperately to regain lost momentum.

  As the band hurried back on, Strummer barked, “Let’s go, let’s go!” Even while scrambling to their positions, White and Sheppard ignited a sledgehammer “Clash City Rockers.” The upbeat performance faced considerable inertia; one might have thought it made more sense to just pack it in for the night.

  Instead, Strummer anchored himself at center stage, rallying the band to the attack. Often The Clash played its best in the most challenging of circumstances, and this night was no exception. With short, sharp commands, the singer urged the band through “London’s Burning,” “Clampdown,” “Bankrobber,” and into a moody “Broadway.” This sprint seemed about far more than simply pleasing the crowd; it held the sense of a band fighting for communion with its audience.

  It was odd, then, when Strummer began “Broadway” singing to himself, turned away from the crowd, hand to his head. The singer channeled the song’s downtrodden protagonist as if tens of thousands were not there, just a “bum” giving testimony to a passerby on the street. “I’m telling you this mister / don’t be put off by looks / I been in the ring / and I took those right hooks,” Strummer sang, his head jerking back, miming the jarring blow. “And I’ve worked for breakfast / and I ain’t had no lunch / I been on delivery / and received every punch . . .”

  As the music rose and the song’s hobo came out of his shell, so did Strummer. Turning to face the crowd, the frontman roared out the words. While White and Simonon joined him up front and Sheppard stomped in the back, Strummer turned one of Sandinista!’s lesser numbers i
nto an urgent soul exorcism.

  Even as the song’s last jazzy sigh dissipated and Strummer allowed himself a satisfied “Yeah . . .” White peeled off the brittle, relentless opening notes of “Brand New Cadillac” and the band was off again, rampaging through the rest of the set: “I’m So Bored with the USA,” “Tommy Gun,” and “I Fought the Law.”

  Feedback screamed, and Strummer pointed to Howard, calling out the final salvo, a blistering “White Riot.” Sheppard, White, and Simonon careened around Strummer, driving the song to a thunderous climax. The band bounded offstage briefly, and then charged back for a rough-hewn reprise of “Garageland.”

  This repeat was unprecedented, suggesting Strummer had a point or two to underline. The song was a vow of continued commitment to the band’s roots, surely relevant given the size of the venue. However, as Sheppard notes, it also could be seen as “a coded reference to the backstage issues” with Rhodes, who held Strummer in thrall with one of the “contracts” that the song references.

  One of the few details that Vinyl remembers from that night is “how angry Joe was at me and Bernard” for interrupting the show. The disruptions of the band’s performance echoed the way Rhodes had thrust himself into the album, to the dismay of the actual musicians and, often, to the detriment of the music.

  For Sheppard, the band’s solidarity in the face of obstacles was heartening: “Looking back, I felt a sense of release. The worse the backstage machinations got, the better the gigs, both musically and emotionally, so I was really happy at Roskilde.” White also recalls feeling good about the show—at least until one fan told him backstage how much better Mick Jones was than him.

  It had been a gripping, determined performance. While Rolling Stone would later headline a short clip of the show as “The Clash End on a Low Note,” it might have been the last great Clash show, against all odds—including the impediments thrown in the band’s path by its own management.