From Milan (...To Munich & Beyond)
With no immediate commitments anticipated after the American tour, life in Clash City unfolded at a leisurely pace during the summer of 1984. For the fans, nothing seemed amiss; obviously, until Mick's wicked injunctive blizzard finally lifted, no new album seemed likely to emerge before autumn. Only then would those keyboard-wearing, kilt-waving electroppers learn if the mighty three-chord Clash blizzard had finally put them out of work.
Of course, the Clash needed more than the handful of songs that they'd road-tested so painstakingly in Europe and America. Presumably, that wouldn't be a problem, if Strummer and his merry men stuck to their publicly touted bang-'em-up-knock-'em-out blueprint. That's how the best-loved albums had happened; what other approach made sense? Nobody could argue with the results of The Clash, or London Calling, versus the painfully protacted births of Give 'Em Enough Rope, or Combat Rock.
Behind the scenes, however, Clash City's newest recruits were experiencing a regimen that lent an ironic slant to "The Call-Up"'s central query: "Who gives you work, and why should you do it?" For Vince, Nick and Pete, the summer blurred into an unforgiving 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. rehearsal grind, at "a little dungeon" -- as White describes it -- that he'd found in his north London neighborhood of Finsbury Park. Although Paul came down occasionally, Joe was nowhere to be seen, leaving the new boys to fend for themselves.
The routine tuned truly surreal after the boys received their next assignment: "arranging" yet another crop of Strummer originals, working from tapes of chord structures that lacked lyrics or vocals. "Yeah, seriously, it was very boring -- weeks and weeks of playing those chords!" White recalls. "Joe had written out all the chords, but how can you arrange them, if you don't know what the song is about? I tell you, most of the situation was total madness."
Crazy or not, such piecemeal working methods were supplanting the all-in-this-together vibe being put out in the press. Behind the scenes, however, Joe had seemingly changed his mind -- yet again. "Me and Vince were told, together, we weren't going to be on the new record, by Joe," Nick Sheppard said. "Just like that. It started to get really nasty, pretty uncertain, pretty insecure, basically. Attempts were made to explain [the situation], but they weren't convincing."
On this matter, at least, all avenues lead back to Bernie Rhodes. Running such a closed shop suited his managerial temperament, as Clash associate, The Baron, points out: "He wasn't as respectful of individuals as one would think. Just like any prick boss: 'You can be replaced.' That's the stance Bernie took: 'Fuck you, you're gonna be along, or not? You're gonna divert, you're outta here.'"
"You can forget Joe, you can forget Paul, you can forget everybody," White agrees. "Bernie was the man with the controls, the one dictating. I was in a situation where I had to listen to him."
That isolation seemed especially pronounced in August, when The Baron caught up with the new band for a party at Vince's Finsbury Park flat. "It was an all-nighter, for sure," chuckles the Baron, "and those guys could drink, I tell you, Paul, Nick and Vince. I think we left about five, six in the morning. I had to go back to my place, and crash. They kept goin'. I don't know -- those guys were like iron men." There were two notable no-shows. "They invited Joe, and they were [grumbling] that he never showed up. Bernie never showed up. He was conspicuous by his absence," the Baron recalls. "They were both invited."
Two bursts of activity finally broke the summer's crushing boredom. The first moment came with the announcement of an Italian mini-tour for September 7-11. Instead of promoting new product, however, the Clash would provide the backdrop for an Italian Communist Party celebration of its lately-departed leader, Enrico Berlinguer. Hardly the stuff of pop dreams, but it certainly beat bashing out those same chord patterns week after week, as White recalls: "I remember Kosmo comin' in: 'You're off to Italy,' and we were just [saying], 'Thank God we're goin' away and doin' something, instead of fucking around in a studio all day."
Outwardly, Strummer remained as brash and brassy as ever. At the September 8 Fiesta Del Unita (Unity Festival) show, in Reggio Emilio, Joe playfully chided the promoters for the lack of toilets -- then and now, a common nuisance plaguing outdoor shows -- and why the audience seemed ready to accept it. As always, he answered his own question: "Why? Because they're making all the money!"
Such quips found their way onto the inevitable audience tapes, which captured their share of sloppy and compelling moments. For snapshots of both, look no further than the last night's show at the Palasport (Genova, Italy: September 11) -- where a sputtering, disjointed "Are You Ready For War" collapses of its own weight, amid Joe's frantic shouts for Peter Howard to stop playing the song. However, none of these traits manifest themselves on the next song, "White Man In Hammersmith Palais," which showed the funk and dub elements re-emerging in full force.
Despite those glitches, the preponderance of old favorites -- including an odd, gruffly-shouted, one-off version of Nick's "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?" vocal cameo -- ensured a warm response from the crowds, even as the backstage mind games raged unabated. By now, the gulf between lead singer and band could no longer be ignored, in White's view: "Oh, yeah, when we were playing Italy, he would turn up at the last minute -- I mean, he had no contact with us. There was no contact with Joe through most of it. He was on his own fuckin' planet."
A veil of silence fell once more until the announcement of a two-night stand on December 6-7, 1984, to benefit striking British miners. Here was a chance to soundtrack a life-or-death struggle at one of the Clash's London strongholds -- in this case, the 4,500-capacity Brixton Academy. For much of the year, the National Union of Miners (NUM) had been locked in a brutal, prolonged showdown against Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and her aggressive monetarist policies. One result had been the numerous pit closings that triggered the strike.
Authorities clamped down with massed arrests, bail restrictions and seizures of the miners' assets -- leaving the benefit concerts as one major way to get around that problem. The strike divided Britain's bands as much as its citizens. While the Culture Clubs and Duran Durans stoutly insisted that such social convulsions were none of their business, a glittering array of names were playing fundraising shows for the miners -- including Aztec Camera, Elvis Costello, New Order and a young, up-and-coming, Clash-influenced troubadour named Billy Bragg, who was arguably channeling The Only Band That Matters more effectively than Strummer and company. "It would have been very odd had the Clash not done them, I think," Nick Sheppard suggests of those affairs, which marked the last major UK gigs.
Perhaps Strummer could make all those "Pop will die, and rebel rock will rule" vows stick, perhaps not. On the first night (December 6), the Clash came out blazing with a stripped-down "One More Time," as Strummer reworked lyrics for the occasion ("Outright, outright dyno-mite/Just a little warning for the miner's strike"). In Nick's and Vince's hands, the Sandinista!-era dub style fell by the wayside. Instead, they kicked off the sonng with an ominous incantation of its E-D chord intro, which built into a clipped, midtempo gallop -- while the tapers struggled to capture it all, jostled back and forth in a screaming, sold-out house.
Never one to miss an opportunity, the Clash showcased a generous helping of new material. Besides the statutory inclusions of "Are You Ready For War," "Dictator," "Thank You, Chief" (also known as "Ammunition," or "Thanks, Chief") and "Three Card Trick," the boys also unveiled "North And South," another bulletin of Britain's growing social divide, and the buzzsaw punk boogie of "Dirty Punk," and "Fingerpoppin'." The second night closed with the one-two punch of "White Riot" and a revamped "This Is England," -- a short-sharp-shock valentine, shorn of its haunting extended bridge, and stripped down to three taut verses, but powerful all the same.
More technical gremlins crept into the second night, to Sheppard's dismay. "I remember having a big run-in with Bernie on my guitar sound. If you listen [to the December 7 tape], most of it is one guitar at the beginning [on 'One More Time']," he said. "Vince walked on, and his guitar didn't work, so he went off, and I was left to cover it. I play a bit of the 'James Bond' theme, as well. I remember looking round when I did that, and Joe being horrified!"
The hometown music press mostly remained unmoved. Led by New Musical Express -- whose own headline read, "Jail Guitar Bores" -- the resulting writeups slammed the Clash on familiar grounds (fatuous rebel posing; sloppy, overloaded guitar sounds; too much self-congratulatory razzle; and so on). Such comments undoubtedly failed to faze the true believers, who'd seen their heroes dish out a vengefully stripped-down brand of rock that -- onstage, at any rate -- sounded more compelling than all the tamped-down New Romantic posing being promoted in the press.
For these enraptured souls, Strummer's second night boast reassured them that the Clash meant business: "We've got a record out, and it's coming out in the new year, and we're gonna be back! We're gonna make a comeback!" Naturally, some fine points got lost in the shuffle, including Joe's doubts of whether he was doing the right thing with the new band, and how much input his longtime manager deserved.
Never lacking in self-confidence, Bernie Rhodes had no such doubts. "He had us all backstage, and said, 'What would you do if you had a million dollars, or a million pounds?" Sheppard recalls. "I looked straight at him -- Bernie, at one point, had quite a big nose, and had [had] it remodeled. So I said, 'I'd have my ears done,' and that shut him up...the idea being, he'd rubbish whatever answer you gave, for whatever reason, I don't know."
To White, the situation had degenerated into a mindless stalemate from which there was no way forward, but no easy way out. "Bernie said, 'White was black,' as far as whatever happened," White scoffs. "Joe agreed, and we all followed suit. I didn't wanna go back to the warehouse!"
Recording Cut The Crap
The piecemeal blueprint picked up steam during the new year. Sessions began in January and February 1985 for what became the Clash's final, troubled album, Cut The Crap -- whose painstaking, piece-by-piece construction in Munich, Germany, could hardly have felt further removed from the group's traditional operating methods.
Then again, many different people made Sandinista!, as Nick Sheppard points out. However, until he got called into the Clash's Lucky Eight studio on Christmas Eve 1984, Nick had no idea if he'd have anything to do with the proceedings.
After all, Joe had floated the scenario of recording with Pete, keyboardist Mickey Gallagher and bassist Norman Watt-Roy -- ironically, two of the many people who'd helped create Sandinista! -- but the concept didn't get far. "No other guitarist was mentioned, although they had to use someone," Sheppard said. "I remember hearing it -- they'd been rehearsing with Pete, Norman and Mickey, and it sounded like a pub rock band, and that obviously wasn't what Bernie wanted. Obviously, Bernie was trying to decide what record he was going to make."
Gallagher apparently didn't survive the war of attrition, either. Previous accounts have suggested that Gallagher graced the finished product, but according to filmmaker Daniel Garcia -- who began working on a documentary about the post-Jones Clash period in 2009 -- everything changed when the keyboardist caught Rhodes messing around with some settings on his instrument. A furious argument ensued, and Gallagher stormed out. The Clash would have to make do without its resident "fifth Beatle."
Paul only played on a couple of numbers, his absence chalked up to lack of interest, or assurances that the definitive recordings would occur later, leaving Watt-Roy -- a core member of Ian Dury & The Blockheads -- to fill in those particular four-stringed blanks.
Given all these factors, Nick reckons that his presence finally became more desirable after Rhodes felt the original game plan being strained to the limit. By then, he had other concerns. "I was taken into the rehearsal rooms and played the demos a couple of weeks before they went into the studio," Sheppard said. "I joined them [in Munich] after they'd done the drum programming, and some rhythm guitar. Norman went on the same flight -- a very weird way of making a record, in my opinion."
Yet the Rhodesian game plan proceeded as outlined, apparently with his singer's unilateral backing, while Sheppard found himself relegated to a lesser role of fleshing out arrangements, doing rough mixes and completing assorted minor production tasks.
The first weeks were largely devoted to programming drums, with assistance from Michael Fayne, later of Roachford. However, despite an avid courtship by Rhodes -- or, more likely, because of it -- "the lucky bastard got out of that [situation] before Bernie had anything legal with him," Howard said.
Once in Munich, Sheppard found himself learning songs that hadn't been played live before ("Cool Under Heat," "Life Is Wild," "Movers And Shakers," "Play To Win"). Still other numbers, like "We Are The Clash," were being revisited in radically different guises, while a handful ("Glue Zombie"; "In The Pouring, Pouring Rain"; "Thank You, Chief") would languish unreleased.
Unsurprisingly, Nick quickly grew disillusioned with the whole business; "by the time I actually heard them [the newer songs], I didn't really have a critical faculty in my body left," he sighs. Asked to elaborate, Nick responds: "It was more a question of, 'Right, let's try to work out what to do with these.' I didn't consider whether they were good or not -- it wouldn't have made an ounce of difference, anyway, because no one would have listened.'"
(Ironically, the notorious massed backing vocals that so markedly defined the finished product -- and cited as its most contrived production touch -- provided one of the few pleasurable diversions, according to Nick. That moment occurred in London, where additional post-production work proceeded at several studios -- how many, he's not quite sure. "We got a great big crowd down to a studio in West London, and shouted the backing vocals, out. A funny night," he recalls. "I think it was about 30 friends, acquaintances, fans, and people like that.")
Pete and Vince were eventually allowed to join the sessions, but only after driving across Europe in subzero temperatures. "The radiator froze, everything froze, the van was totally freezing, and we arrived there in six feet of snow," White said. Unfortunately, "most of the album had been recorded," he adds, with a bemused laugh. "I'm serious! Maybe that was one of Bernie's punishments, or something."
Like Nick, Vince had done his share of preparing for the recording sessions. "I worked very hard on the guitar playing that I did," he recalls. "I remember staying up all night, one night, with Joe, in his place. We spent all night, till the dawn. We had these little demos, rough tracks with some singin' on them."
As best as Vince remembers, the notorious backing vocals and synthesizers weren't in place yet. "It was mainly just guitar and drums -- well, we're talking about a drumbeat off a machine! I remember, Pete went in and played some fills around the drum machine. The whole thing was orchestrated by Bernie," he said.
Days stretched into weeks, as the sessions dragged on without a clear resolution. Most of the sessions involved just three people -- Bernie, Joe and Nick, who had begun wondering where all this hard work might lead. "I think Vince's playing is great, actually, what you can hear of it," Nick asserts. "We had 48 tracks, and it was like 48 tracks of punk rock guitar. I was trying very hard to arrange things, I did rough mixes, and got very involved. Gradually, it was like a war of attrition -- you just kind of gave up. I was [saying], 'I did my bit,' and I wasn't asked back."
You know the drill around here...to find older entries, simply click on the "Archive" button, and follow the links from there.
RECORDING CUT THE CRAP (REVISED & EXPANDED)
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ICKENHAM CALLING: MANIC ESSO MEETS THE ONLY BAND THAT MATTERS
Getting the old coolness ticket punched is a complicated business in rock 'n' roll: just ask the Lurkers. They were the boys from Ickenham, or “way out west,” as ex-drummer Peter “Manic Esso” Haynes describes it. “There's a sign at the end of the road: 'It's 17 miles to Piccadilly Circus.'” In hindsight, a world farther removed from the Clash's gritty version of “burning London” seems harder to imagine, yet Haynes – like many who experienced the self-styled “Only Band That Matters” – came away with conflicted reactions.
“Well, I would have parted company with anybody with like him, anyway,” Haynes laughs, when quizzed about his reactions to manager Bernard Rhodes – often considered “the man behind the curtain” in Garageland. “Well, I said at the time, 'They remind me of the Monkees, but the Monkees had got better songs.' I met him a couple of times in the early days, at the Roxy Club, and I couldn't possibly have spoke to him – the guy's too bright.
“He's a businessman, comes from a business background – they're [those types of people] opportunistic, they're well-educated. I would have come across as someone who cleaned his house, y'know? I was very much aware of that, as well.”
Indeed: for all the blather about freedom, spontaneity and (lest we forget) “being yourself,” 98 percent of rock 'n' roll grunt work occurs behind closed doors, before the masses ever see or hear it. In this respect, the Clash were not unique: every major band undergoes some type of woodshedding during their career. In Rhodes, the boys certainly had someone willing to push their buttons along those lines – a wee bit too much, perhaps?
“You know the situation – the guy was a sharp businessman, wasn't he?” Haynes says. “He had his eye on the movement, fashion – he had a much better overview of the school system in this country. I wouldn't have had a clue. Really, also, I'd never met anybody like him, as well. He was trendy, of London, it was the arty crowd – we were the boys from the suburbs, you know? We weren't hip. But I remember looking at him, listening to him speak, and I just thought, 'Oh, well, you know, I don't think he's any different from solicitors, or something.'”
From Rhodes's standpoint, any discontented rumblings could be chalked up to the Standard Issue Torchlight-Wielding Puristic Mob – the same sort, one imagines, who'd be writing long and winding screeds like these: “On their last tour I saw [Mick] Jones climbing over amps, holding the guitar behind his head, [to] play a solo all the way through 'Spanish Bombs,' (Anarchy?), dry ice, a Who-style light show, revamped versions of 4-year-old songs and cowboy boots. Thank you Clash for keeping punk rock alive.”
Not having any quarrel with the Clash's live alchemy (“I saw them right at the beginning – I saw them down [at] the Roxy, and I thought they were great”), Haynes's ambivalence about his rivals' political leanings – fact or fiction, real or imagined – inevitably spilled over into the public arena, in the messiest possible way.
“I've got a big mouth,” Haynes laughs. “I'm better than I used to be, but I had an interview in Sounds. I said something like, 'Joe Strummer? They'd [the other members] shove their grandmothers down the escalator if there was something in it for him,' and going on about, 'They're bored with the USA, and they wanna go there – they're bullshitters, anyway,' and that was it.”
What happened next, as Haynes details nearly 30-odd years later, is the stuff of grainy knockabout '60s flicks.
PETE HAYNES (PH): I got a phone call about two days afterwards – well, our managers did. We were based in Fulham. We used to rehearse in the basement of a shop, which Beggars Banquet owned. Beggars Banquet used to own record shops.
CHAIRMAN RALPH (CR):: Right, that's how they started...
PH: They hit the student end of the market, where people would bring in their old albums, and swap them. Anyway, the Clash were rehearsing in this old, disused cinema – and one of our two managers says, “Oh, you've got to be careful what you say, Pete. I had Joe Strummer's people on the phone today, saying, that your drummer's got a big mouth.”
I said, “Oh, well, did they? Well, I'll go down and have a word with them, then.” And they said, “Funny enough, they were asking if you could go down, 'cause they wanna talk to you.” I said, “Yeah, definitely.”
So I went down there – it's ex-squat hippie grunge blokes who've now got their heads shaved, you know what I mean? Not my kind of thing. Anyway, those guys were like, “Who are you, man?” I told them, and Joe came up to me: “You know what I mean, man, we're in all this together, you know what I mean, like...” And I can't really understand what he was saying, his accent was so weird...
CR: What they called “Mockney” at the time, I think...
PH: It's a bit of that, and what I'd call hippie, this squat-land kind of thing. I said, “I haven't got anything in common with you boys – good luck to you, but you're speaking bollocks.”
And he [Joe] said, “Why is that?” And I says: “Well, listen, because I'm not bloody Chairman Mao, or Karl Marx, but I work as a concrete layer – and I think it's bad to lie to people. Now, you've used it, fair place, great. Do what you do, that's good.”
I pissed them off, because I said, “I know you wanna sound like the Rolling Stones, good luck to you,” but it's lying to people. People get lied to all the time – they get lied to by politicians, lied to by teachers, so they shouldn't get lied to by people in groups.”
I said, “That's why I like people like the Dolls – it's camp, it's great, it's decadent, it's rock 'n' roll. They're certainly not telling people how to rule their lives, y'know: 'Let's have a revolution, you know, let's do this, let's do that.'” They all dressed like little fucking puppets from their master's shop, designer revolutionary look this year, as modeled by Joe and the boys – it's just all choreography bollocks.
Anyway, I gave them my rant – and it was just left at that. I'm a pretty decent bloke. So we shook our hand, I said, “Well, best of luck, I'm sorry if you got the wrong end of the stick, boys.” There you go, that was it. That was my meeting with the revolutionaries, who went out to change society.
CR: Looking back on it all – when you wrote the book [GOD'S LONELY MEN], did you feel any resentment that they got so much attention, and you guys never got much critical respect?
PH: No, no it didn't bother us in the slightest. They were playing the game better than we were, you know? And that's what people do, isn't it? I mean, you've got supermodels who are best-sellers in this country – they can't read and write. This is what popular culture is. It wasn't as bad then, as it is now. But these guys are multimillionaires!
CR: Well, that's the thing: do you ever feel a twinge of “what might have been”?
PH: No. We didn't have the songs as a group, and also, you've got to admit that the Clash were a better group – I think we had the edge when it came to whacking it out. But they were more a sort of professional group, and they had a set of songs, they had a performance, and knew what they were doing – they had a business plan, they had a business manager, and it's no surprise, is it? So I wouldn't get upset about it, it's just the way it is.
“Well, I would have parted company with anybody with like him, anyway,” Haynes laughs, when quizzed about his reactions to manager Bernard Rhodes – often considered “the man behind the curtain” in Garageland. “Well, I said at the time, 'They remind me of the Monkees, but the Monkees had got better songs.' I met him a couple of times in the early days, at the Roxy Club, and I couldn't possibly have spoke to him – the guy's too bright.
“He's a businessman, comes from a business background – they're [those types of people] opportunistic, they're well-educated. I would have come across as someone who cleaned his house, y'know? I was very much aware of that, as well.”
Indeed: for all the blather about freedom, spontaneity and (lest we forget) “being yourself,” 98 percent of rock 'n' roll grunt work occurs behind closed doors, before the masses ever see or hear it. In this respect, the Clash were not unique: every major band undergoes some type of woodshedding during their career. In Rhodes, the boys certainly had someone willing to push their buttons along those lines – a wee bit too much, perhaps?
“You know the situation – the guy was a sharp businessman, wasn't he?” Haynes says. “He had his eye on the movement, fashion – he had a much better overview of the school system in this country. I wouldn't have had a clue. Really, also, I'd never met anybody like him, as well. He was trendy, of London, it was the arty crowd – we were the boys from the suburbs, you know? We weren't hip. But I remember looking at him, listening to him speak, and I just thought, 'Oh, well, you know, I don't think he's any different from solicitors, or something.'”
From Rhodes's standpoint, any discontented rumblings could be chalked up to the Standard Issue Torchlight-Wielding Puristic Mob – the same sort, one imagines, who'd be writing long and winding screeds like these: “On their last tour I saw [Mick] Jones climbing over amps, holding the guitar behind his head, [to] play a solo all the way through 'Spanish Bombs,' (Anarchy?), dry ice, a Who-style light show, revamped versions of 4-year-old songs and cowboy boots. Thank you Clash for keeping punk rock alive.”
Not having any quarrel with the Clash's live alchemy (“I saw them right at the beginning – I saw them down [at] the Roxy, and I thought they were great”), Haynes's ambivalence about his rivals' political leanings – fact or fiction, real or imagined – inevitably spilled over into the public arena, in the messiest possible way.
“I've got a big mouth,” Haynes laughs. “I'm better than I used to be, but I had an interview in Sounds. I said something like, 'Joe Strummer? They'd [the other members] shove their grandmothers down the escalator if there was something in it for him,' and going on about, 'They're bored with the USA, and they wanna go there – they're bullshitters, anyway,' and that was it.”
What happened next, as Haynes details nearly 30-odd years later, is the stuff of grainy knockabout '60s flicks.
PETE HAYNES (PH): I got a phone call about two days afterwards – well, our managers did. We were based in Fulham. We used to rehearse in the basement of a shop, which Beggars Banquet owned. Beggars Banquet used to own record shops.
CHAIRMAN RALPH (CR):: Right, that's how they started...
PH: They hit the student end of the market, where people would bring in their old albums, and swap them. Anyway, the Clash were rehearsing in this old, disused cinema – and one of our two managers says, “Oh, you've got to be careful what you say, Pete. I had Joe Strummer's people on the phone today, saying, that your drummer's got a big mouth.”
I said, “Oh, well, did they? Well, I'll go down and have a word with them, then.” And they said, “Funny enough, they were asking if you could go down, 'cause they wanna talk to you.” I said, “Yeah, definitely.”
So I went down there – it's ex-squat hippie grunge blokes who've now got their heads shaved, you know what I mean? Not my kind of thing. Anyway, those guys were like, “Who are you, man?” I told them, and Joe came up to me: “You know what I mean, man, we're in all this together, you know what I mean, like...” And I can't really understand what he was saying, his accent was so weird...
CR: What they called “Mockney” at the time, I think...
PH: It's a bit of that, and what I'd call hippie, this squat-land kind of thing. I said, “I haven't got anything in common with you boys – good luck to you, but you're speaking bollocks.”
And he [Joe] said, “Why is that?” And I says: “Well, listen, because I'm not bloody Chairman Mao, or Karl Marx, but I work as a concrete layer – and I think it's bad to lie to people. Now, you've used it, fair place, great. Do what you do, that's good.”
I pissed them off, because I said, “I know you wanna sound like the Rolling Stones, good luck to you,” but it's lying to people. People get lied to all the time – they get lied to by politicians, lied to by teachers, so they shouldn't get lied to by people in groups.”
I said, “That's why I like people like the Dolls – it's camp, it's great, it's decadent, it's rock 'n' roll. They're certainly not telling people how to rule their lives, y'know: 'Let's have a revolution, you know, let's do this, let's do that.'” They all dressed like little fucking puppets from their master's shop, designer revolutionary look this year, as modeled by Joe and the boys – it's just all choreography bollocks.
Anyway, I gave them my rant – and it was just left at that. I'm a pretty decent bloke. So we shook our hand, I said, “Well, best of luck, I'm sorry if you got the wrong end of the stick, boys.” There you go, that was it. That was my meeting with the revolutionaries, who went out to change society.
CR: Looking back on it all – when you wrote the book [GOD'S LONELY MEN], did you feel any resentment that they got so much attention, and you guys never got much critical respect?
PH: No, no it didn't bother us in the slightest. They were playing the game better than we were, you know? And that's what people do, isn't it? I mean, you've got supermodels who are best-sellers in this country – they can't read and write. This is what popular culture is. It wasn't as bad then, as it is now. But these guys are multimillionaires!
CR: Well, that's the thing: do you ever feel a twinge of “what might have been”?
PH: No. We didn't have the songs as a group, and also, you've got to admit that the Clash were a better group – I think we had the edge when it came to whacking it out. But they were more a sort of professional group, and they had a set of songs, they had a performance, and knew what they were doing – they had a business plan, they had a business manager, and it's no surprise, is it? So I wouldn't get upset about it, it's just the way it is.
JOE STRUMMER LIVE: IGNORE ALIEN ORDERS
Before Joe Strummer's return engagement at Chicago's [Cabaret] Metro, his new album with the Mescaleros, ROCK ART & THE X-RAY STYLE, was released. Songs that he had perfected at the earlier Chicago gig were even better than I expected. The slow build of “Forbidden City,” and mood-setting “Tony Adams,” were terrific. The Mescaleros are a versatile band, and able to transfer their live efforts to record.
The November 1999 gig was packed to the gills and I was lucky to get a spot on the floor where I could see and hear the band. The soundtrack to THE HARDER THEY COME played, and built up anticipation for the return of Strummer. Joe strode onstage casually despite the crowd's rabid anticipation. The first surprise of the night was “Island Hopping,” from his 1989 solo album (EARTHQUAKE WEATHER). After that it was full steam into the purposeful “Diggin' The New.”
The Mescaleros seemed even more confident than they had been last summer. They got rockin' on “Techno D-Day,” funky on “Tony Adams” and intimate on “Nitcomb.” The band dipped into the past, playing “Trash City” from Joe's mid-'80s recording with Latino Rockabilly War (PERMANENT RECORD). Alongside the expanded Clash songs, the audience was treated to “Safe European Home,” “Rudie Can't Fail,” and Clash-era cover “Pressure Drop,” by Toots & The Maytals.
We may never see the reunited Clash play live again (although, as Joe might say, “The future is unwritten”), but Joe Strummer has the intensity and willingness to deal in the here and now that his punk-era intentions, and more importantly, the present, provide.
HANDS UP, EVERYONE: WHAT BECOMES A LEGEND MOST?
ANSWERS ON A BEER-STAINED POSTCARD, IF YOU PLEASE...
I'm not sure how Tony planned to round off his review of the Mescaleros' fall '99 return to Cabaret Metro, but this is the version that occupies some real estate in the yellowing manila folder dedicated to my Fanzine That Never Was ("FRIDAY STREET: GUTS AND CONTENTS"): hence, I kept his original title. Somehow, though, it feels complete to me, and definitely in keeping with Tony's punk rock sensibility: short, sharp and to the point, thank you and goodnight.
Still, Tony's concert review raises an interesting question: what becomes a legend most, especially when it's the glorious past that seems to excite the public more than the faint-praised present? The press bio for Joe's album, ROCK ART & THE X-RAY STYLE, made that issue plain from the opening bell, as follows: "Learning to live with legendary status can be daunting, the temptation to wallow in the past always being the easy option to follow."
Yet the CHICAGO SUN-TIMES's man on the ground, Jim DeRogatis, took Joe to task just for that reason. Reviewing the Mescaleros' inaugural show at the Metro (July 5, 1999), DeRogatis pondered how Joe's set opener, "Diggin' The New," could rest so easily beside the Clash nuggets that everybody expected to hear: "Unfortunately, he spent most of the rest of his 15-song set reveling in the old."
In DeRogatis's opinion, renditions of Clash classics like "White Man In Hammersith Palais" and "Tommy Gun" seemed jarring, "because they were so firmly linked to the punk past."
DeRogatis drew another line in the sand with the opening act, Jon Langford -- another Class Of '77 graduate, saddled with that damning "ex"-prefix in front of his name, that is, "ex-Mekon" -- whose set struck him as more appealing: "It was passionate and of the moment, with no sign of the time machine that Strummer laboriously hauled behind him."
Indeed, these are all valid points; however, in the decade since the above-named review ran, it's equally apparent that popular culture has never been more resolutely stuck in rewind. The 2009 pop landscape has already seen the Specials doing business without founder Jerry Dammers; the Jam, without a certain P. Weller, on guitar and vocals; Sham 69, without its Yob Of All Trades, Jimmy Pursey (who maintains, "I play for today," as he launches his new band)...and that's just on the Brit side of the pond.
In America, the Baby Boomers seem more firmly in charge of the asylum than ever, with megatours running in meganormodomes, with megadollar gate prices to match. (Summed up succintly, the line of defense might read: "We didn't start the fire, culturally speaking, but damned if we're going to sit there and let somebody else put it out...and that's why we'll never shut up about it, and why you'll never stop hearing it from us!")
Now, clearly, none of this circumstances happened in a vacuum; on the most mundane level, this business is driven by bodies of music that the consumer wants to hear again, and again, and again...to the exclusion of any newer ideas, no matter how raw or unformed they appear on first glance. Surely, The Only Band That Matters would have been subjected to that din, had they only reformed...right?
Indeed, it's tempting to ponder what Joe might have made of all the endless reunions and recyclings of back catalogs, but one irony seems to have eluded his most critical appraisers: what struck many of them as laziness may have been carried a whiff of hard-won wisdom. In hindsight, one quote from that official bio stands out more than most: "I realize I could cool it. Many performers don't realize the public gets sick of you; they could do with a rest from some of these seriously ambitious people. The machine grinds on, so there's no hope of that happening."
The November 1999 gig was packed to the gills and I was lucky to get a spot on the floor where I could see and hear the band. The soundtrack to THE HARDER THEY COME played, and built up anticipation for the return of Strummer. Joe strode onstage casually despite the crowd's rabid anticipation. The first surprise of the night was “Island Hopping,” from his 1989 solo album (EARTHQUAKE WEATHER). After that it was full steam into the purposeful “Diggin' The New.”
The Mescaleros seemed even more confident than they had been last summer. They got rockin' on “Techno D-Day,” funky on “Tony Adams” and intimate on “Nitcomb.” The band dipped into the past, playing “Trash City” from Joe's mid-'80s recording with Latino Rockabilly War (PERMANENT RECORD). Alongside the expanded Clash songs, the audience was treated to “Safe European Home,” “Rudie Can't Fail,” and Clash-era cover “Pressure Drop,” by Toots & The Maytals.
We may never see the reunited Clash play live again (although, as Joe might say, “The future is unwritten”), but Joe Strummer has the intensity and willingness to deal in the here and now that his punk-era intentions, and more importantly, the present, provide.
HANDS UP, EVERYONE: WHAT BECOMES A LEGEND MOST?
ANSWERS ON A BEER-STAINED POSTCARD, IF YOU PLEASE...
I'm not sure how Tony planned to round off his review of the Mescaleros' fall '99 return to Cabaret Metro, but this is the version that occupies some real estate in the yellowing manila folder dedicated to my Fanzine That Never Was ("FRIDAY STREET: GUTS AND CONTENTS"): hence, I kept his original title. Somehow, though, it feels complete to me, and definitely in keeping with Tony's punk rock sensibility: short, sharp and to the point, thank you and goodnight.
Still, Tony's concert review raises an interesting question: what becomes a legend most, especially when it's the glorious past that seems to excite the public more than the faint-praised present? The press bio for Joe's album, ROCK ART & THE X-RAY STYLE, made that issue plain from the opening bell, as follows: "Learning to live with legendary status can be daunting, the temptation to wallow in the past always being the easy option to follow."
Yet the CHICAGO SUN-TIMES's man on the ground, Jim DeRogatis, took Joe to task just for that reason. Reviewing the Mescaleros' inaugural show at the Metro (July 5, 1999), DeRogatis pondered how Joe's set opener, "Diggin' The New," could rest so easily beside the Clash nuggets that everybody expected to hear: "Unfortunately, he spent most of the rest of his 15-song set reveling in the old."
In DeRogatis's opinion, renditions of Clash classics like "White Man In Hammersith Palais" and "Tommy Gun" seemed jarring, "because they were so firmly linked to the punk past."
DeRogatis drew another line in the sand with the opening act, Jon Langford -- another Class Of '77 graduate, saddled with that damning "ex"-prefix in front of his name, that is, "ex-Mekon" -- whose set struck him as more appealing: "It was passionate and of the moment, with no sign of the time machine that Strummer laboriously hauled behind him."
Indeed, these are all valid points; however, in the decade since the above-named review ran, it's equally apparent that popular culture has never been more resolutely stuck in rewind. The 2009 pop landscape has already seen the Specials doing business without founder Jerry Dammers; the Jam, without a certain P. Weller, on guitar and vocals; Sham 69, without its Yob Of All Trades, Jimmy Pursey (who maintains, "I play for today," as he launches his new band)...and that's just on the Brit side of the pond.
In America, the Baby Boomers seem more firmly in charge of the asylum than ever, with megatours running in meganormodomes, with megadollar gate prices to match. (Summed up succintly, the line of defense might read: "We didn't start the fire, culturally speaking, but damned if we're going to sit there and let somebody else put it out...and that's why we'll never shut up about it, and why you'll never stop hearing it from us!")
Now, clearly, none of this circumstances happened in a vacuum; on the most mundane level, this business is driven by bodies of music that the consumer wants to hear again, and again, and again...to the exclusion of any newer ideas, no matter how raw or unformed they appear on first glance. Surely, The Only Band That Matters would have been subjected to that din, had they only reformed...right?
Indeed, it's tempting to ponder what Joe might have made of all the endless reunions and recyclings of back catalogs, but one irony seems to have eluded his most critical appraisers: what struck many of them as laziness may have been carried a whiff of hard-won wisdom. In hindsight, one quote from that official bio stands out more than most: "I realize I could cool it. Many performers don't realize the public gets sick of you; they could do with a rest from some of these seriously ambitious people. The machine grinds on, so there's no hope of that happening."
JOE STRUMMER LIVE: REBEL RECOLLECTIONS (TAKES 1-2-3)
REBEL RECOLLECTIONS (TAKE ONE)
I've been lucky enough to see Joe Strummer live at four phases of his career and have strong impressions of each one.
Although I missed the classic Clash when the COMBAT ROCK (1982) tour took them to Grand Rapids, Michigan, I vowed to see them next time. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be till two years later, when the Clash Mark II played on May 10, 1984, in East Lansing, at Michigan State University.
I can't overstate how divided I felt when founder-guitarist Mick Jones was dumped, but as Clash loyalist, I had to see them. Although I missed Mick and the songs that he put his stamp on ("Stay Free," "Train In Vain," and the newly-ironic "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?"), lead singer/spokes-bloke Joe Strummer carried himself well.
From bootleg audio and videotapes, I expected the first song of the night to be "London Calling," and indeed it was, which felt so formal that I thought I was standing for the national anthem.
However, Joe and the band -- founding bassist Paul Simonon, new guitarists Nick Sheppard, and Vince White, and not-as-new-as-them, but drummer par excellance Peter Howard -- pushed out some of the best, if not always the best-known songs in their repertoire, with gusto.
It may have been the moment, but I was pleasantly surprised by how well COMBAT ROCK's songs fared. "Know Your Rights" -- stiff on the album -- was actually convincing, and the moody, mournful "Straight To Hell" sounded far more haunting than its recorded counterpart. The new songs that they played, "Are You Ready For War?", and "In The Pouring, Pouring Rain," showed promise. The new Clash carried themselves capably. Maybe there was something to this.
Alas, it was not to be, and a Clash fan, I had to suffer another kick in the teeth when the band fizzled out in early 1986, including fossilized versions of those new songs on their flagrantly-named final album, CUT THE CRAP (1985).
(TAKE TWO)
In 1987, Joe was deputized to fill in for an ailing Shane McGowan, of the Pogues, and their US tour brought them to Detroit. I was only a casual Pogues fan, but as a devoted Clashophile, I had to go. It was at some rundown club, and a bit rough, too; the audience was particularly rowdy.
A couple of glasses flew at the stage, but didn't faze the band. A huge mountain of a bouncer kept three-quarters of the audience from rushing the stage, while three of his mates kept the other folks at bay.
Onstage, Joe was very much the sideman, while tin whistle player Spider Stacey took Shane's vocals. Joe had shed his obnoxious orange Mohawk haircut, and humbly lent his rhythm guitar skills to the musical stew. However, three-quarters of the way through, Joe came from nowhere on center stage, and treated us to "I Fought The Law," and "London Calling."
Careful not to overshadow his fellow Pogues, he wasn't crazed, but the audience's energy kicked up a notch, gleefully howling along and pointing their fingers at him as they bellowed every word. Afterwards, he went back to the side of the stage, and the Pogues continued, energized by this jolt of adrenaline from one of Britpunk's most galvanizing performers.
Eventually, Joe got around to making his first solo album, EARTHQUAKE WEATHER (1987), and while it didn't sell nearly as many copies as COMBAT ROCK had done, I knew the best way to judge the songs was to see Joe live, and get the real deal.
It was 1989, in Detroit once again, and Joe now had a four-piece band, including guitarist Zander Schloss and ex-Red Hot Chili Peppers-not-yet-Pearl-Jam-drummer Jack Irons. Joe started off with the final Clash single, "This Is England," which came off as a revelation after being stripped of the embalming synthesizers and drum machines which robbed the song of its emotional depth. Even more during Joe's solo version of "Sightsee MC" (cowritten with reconnected ex-Clashmate Mick Jones), which had more its recorded counterpart's hiphop effects, but yielded more substance.
Of the new material, "Dizzy's Goatee" and the traditional "Ride Your Donkey" promised funky fun, with a different energy from 1977 -- though Joe did trot out Clash standards like "I Fought The Law," "Brand New Cadillac," and "Police And Thieves," which glowed with a popping solo by shaven-headed bassist Lonnie Marshall (clad in a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt). Intriguing stuff, but where would Joe take it?
(TAKE THREE)
The answer didn't come for almost another ten years, between a series of cameos and one-off projects, including "Rockin' World" (for the "South Park" CHEF AID album), and compiling songs for the GROSSE POINTE BLANK soundtrack album (1997). Finally, one could hear "Rudie Can't Fail" (The Clash), "Blister In The Sun" (Violent Femmes), and "Absolute Beginners" (The Jam) on prime-time TV commercials for the film. But, again, where was Joe?
Sure enough, I opened my paper this spring, and found out that Joe and his band, The Mescaleros, were gracing Chicago's Cabaret Metro. (CHAIRMAN'S NOTE: I'm sure that Tony is referencing Joe's 7/99 show, for reasons that will become clear shortly.) Like Pavlov's dog, I ran out and bought a ticket. I'm happy to report that, once again, disappointment did not bite me back.
The night's first song was, appropriately enough, called "Diggin' The New," a supercharged thumbs-up to Britain's exploding dance scene ("You've gotta live in this world, for diggin' the new"); Joe alternated material from his new effort, ROCK ART & THE X-RAY STYLE (Hellcat: 1999) with a Clash classic.
"Yalla Yalla," the upcoming, Middle-Eastern-flavored single, proved to be yet another standout; of course, we got Clash standards like "I Fought The Law," and "Brand New Cadillac," but the night's biggest surprise was a successful stab at -- of all songs -- "Rock The Casbah." Where the '84 Clash's rendition had suffered without the recorded version's bouncy, proto-boogie piano lick, the Mescaleros' keyboardist made up for that omission 15 years later -- complete with a salute to its composer, fallen Clash drummer Nicholas "Topper" Headon.
Strummer had the right amount of chutzpah to play "London Calling" as the special song of the night, and the final encore, too; what balls! That's the spirit sorely missing from all too many musicians -- cheeky, gutsy, and satisfying.
I've been lucky enough to see Joe Strummer live at four phases of his career and have strong impressions of each one.
Although I missed the classic Clash when the COMBAT ROCK (1982) tour took them to Grand Rapids, Michigan, I vowed to see them next time. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be till two years later, when the Clash Mark II played on May 10, 1984, in East Lansing, at Michigan State University.
I can't overstate how divided I felt when founder-guitarist Mick Jones was dumped, but as Clash loyalist, I had to see them. Although I missed Mick and the songs that he put his stamp on ("Stay Free," "Train In Vain," and the newly-ironic "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?"), lead singer/spokes-bloke Joe Strummer carried himself well.
From bootleg audio and videotapes, I expected the first song of the night to be "London Calling," and indeed it was, which felt so formal that I thought I was standing for the national anthem.
However, Joe and the band -- founding bassist Paul Simonon, new guitarists Nick Sheppard, and Vince White, and not-as-new-as-them, but drummer par excellance Peter Howard -- pushed out some of the best, if not always the best-known songs in their repertoire, with gusto.
It may have been the moment, but I was pleasantly surprised by how well COMBAT ROCK's songs fared. "Know Your Rights" -- stiff on the album -- was actually convincing, and the moody, mournful "Straight To Hell" sounded far more haunting than its recorded counterpart. The new songs that they played, "Are You Ready For War?", and "In The Pouring, Pouring Rain," showed promise. The new Clash carried themselves capably. Maybe there was something to this.
Alas, it was not to be, and a Clash fan, I had to suffer another kick in the teeth when the band fizzled out in early 1986, including fossilized versions of those new songs on their flagrantly-named final album, CUT THE CRAP (1985).
(TAKE TWO)
In 1987, Joe was deputized to fill in for an ailing Shane McGowan, of the Pogues, and their US tour brought them to Detroit. I was only a casual Pogues fan, but as a devoted Clashophile, I had to go. It was at some rundown club, and a bit rough, too; the audience was particularly rowdy.
A couple of glasses flew at the stage, but didn't faze the band. A huge mountain of a bouncer kept three-quarters of the audience from rushing the stage, while three of his mates kept the other folks at bay.
Onstage, Joe was very much the sideman, while tin whistle player Spider Stacey took Shane's vocals. Joe had shed his obnoxious orange Mohawk haircut, and humbly lent his rhythm guitar skills to the musical stew. However, three-quarters of the way through, Joe came from nowhere on center stage, and treated us to "I Fought The Law," and "London Calling."
Careful not to overshadow his fellow Pogues, he wasn't crazed, but the audience's energy kicked up a notch, gleefully howling along and pointing their fingers at him as they bellowed every word. Afterwards, he went back to the side of the stage, and the Pogues continued, energized by this jolt of adrenaline from one of Britpunk's most galvanizing performers.
Eventually, Joe got around to making his first solo album, EARTHQUAKE WEATHER (1987), and while it didn't sell nearly as many copies as COMBAT ROCK had done, I knew the best way to judge the songs was to see Joe live, and get the real deal.
It was 1989, in Detroit once again, and Joe now had a four-piece band, including guitarist Zander Schloss and ex-Red Hot Chili Peppers-not-yet-Pearl-Jam-drummer Jack Irons. Joe started off with the final Clash single, "This Is England," which came off as a revelation after being stripped of the embalming synthesizers and drum machines which robbed the song of its emotional depth. Even more during Joe's solo version of "Sightsee MC" (cowritten with reconnected ex-Clashmate Mick Jones), which had more its recorded counterpart's hiphop effects, but yielded more substance.
Of the new material, "Dizzy's Goatee" and the traditional "Ride Your Donkey" promised funky fun, with a different energy from 1977 -- though Joe did trot out Clash standards like "I Fought The Law," "Brand New Cadillac," and "Police And Thieves," which glowed with a popping solo by shaven-headed bassist Lonnie Marshall (clad in a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt). Intriguing stuff, but where would Joe take it?
(TAKE THREE)
The answer didn't come for almost another ten years, between a series of cameos and one-off projects, including "Rockin' World" (for the "South Park" CHEF AID album), and compiling songs for the GROSSE POINTE BLANK soundtrack album (1997). Finally, one could hear "Rudie Can't Fail" (The Clash), "Blister In The Sun" (Violent Femmes), and "Absolute Beginners" (The Jam) on prime-time TV commercials for the film. But, again, where was Joe?
Sure enough, I opened my paper this spring, and found out that Joe and his band, The Mescaleros, were gracing Chicago's Cabaret Metro. (CHAIRMAN'S NOTE: I'm sure that Tony is referencing Joe's 7/99 show, for reasons that will become clear shortly.) Like Pavlov's dog, I ran out and bought a ticket. I'm happy to report that, once again, disappointment did not bite me back.
The night's first song was, appropriately enough, called "Diggin' The New," a supercharged thumbs-up to Britain's exploding dance scene ("You've gotta live in this world, for diggin' the new"); Joe alternated material from his new effort, ROCK ART & THE X-RAY STYLE (Hellcat: 1999) with a Clash classic.
"Yalla Yalla," the upcoming, Middle-Eastern-flavored single, proved to be yet another standout; of course, we got Clash standards like "I Fought The Law," and "Brand New Cadillac," but the night's biggest surprise was a successful stab at -- of all songs -- "Rock The Casbah." Where the '84 Clash's rendition had suffered without the recorded version's bouncy, proto-boogie piano lick, the Mescaleros' keyboardist made up for that omission 15 years later -- complete with a salute to its composer, fallen Clash drummer Nicholas "Topper" Headon.
Strummer had the right amount of chutzpah to play "London Calling" as the special song of the night, and the final encore, too; what balls! That's the spirit sorely missing from all too many musicians -- cheeky, gutsy, and satisfying.
"BERNIE RHODES KNOWS, DON'T ARGUE"
“BERNIE RHODES KNOWS, DON'T ARGUE!”:
SIR HORACE GENTLEMAN SPEAKS
(THE GLASS HOUSE, POMONA, CA, 10/26/96)
Arguably, few bands have proven more influential on today's ska/punk scene than the Specials, whose classic self-titled debut album of 1979 remains an essential reference point. So does the band's Two-Tone label, whose initial releases from peers like Madness, and The Selecter, forced major labels to take notice.
The Specials remained popular until 1981, until the band's vocal frontline of Terry Hall, and Neville Staple, and guitarist Lynval Golding, left for two dreary but droll albums as Fun Boy Three. The classic lineup reformed in April 2008 -- minus keyboardist Jerry Dammers, who has dismissed the venture as a “takeover” – and haven't stopped hitting the road since.
Long before all that business, however, I spoke to bassist Horace Panter (better known as Sir Horace Gentleman) for a short piece that never saw daylight, for various boring (corporate!) reasons. The occasion was a 20-minute, pre-soundcheck chat at the Glass House...where he and his colleagues, Golding and Staple, were promoting TODAY'S SPECIALS (1996), an album of classic reggae and ska covers. They included the Clash's “Somebody Got Murdered,” prompting a few choice recollections from Horace about those encounters with The Only Band That Matters.
“WE'VE ALREADY GOT A RECORD DEAL...”
(The Coventry Automatics faced one minor problem when they supported the Clash's “On Parole” UK tour at Aylesbury Friars in June 1978...as Horace explains..)
HORACE PANTER: We found there was another band called the Automatics, and we got a letter from their solicitor: “You can't call yourselves the Automatics, we've already got a record deal.” So we had three hours to change our name before going onstage with the Clash! First, it was Coventry Specials, then just Specials, and that's been our name ever since.
“BERNIE RHODES KNOWS, DON'T ARGUE (TAKE ONE)”
(In October 1978, the Specials found themselves supporting the Clash on a UK tour, after catching the eye of their peers' manager, Bernard Rhodes. But Rhodes's tightness proved difficult to bear, as former Clash road manager Johnny Green details.)
JOHNNY GREEN: The legend about Bernard is, he can peel an orange in his pocket. You say, “You got five [pounds]?” And he'd put his hand in his pocket, and bring out one five-pound note, and you know he'd got a big wad of money [elsewhere].
They [the Specials] went out, he'd give 'em money – and this is very Bernard – to buy a tent, 'cause he wouldn't pay for a hotel room. So they had a big old van -- they would drive up to the next town, put their tent up and sleep in it, some in the van, some in this tent.
We saw 'em a couple of times – just a tent by the side of the road, as you were drivin' into the next town. There they'd be, in the most basic conditions, y'know? We all loved them. They were the sort of band that everybody would get up and watch, night after night.
“BERNIE RHODES KNOWS, DON'T ARGUE (TAKE TWO)”
(By March 1979, Rhodes was no longer in the picture, when the Specials' debut single, “Gangsters”/”The Selecter,” rocketed them – and their Two-Tone label – into the UK Top Five. The parting didn't prevent them from sending off Rhodes with an in-joke on their new A-side.)
HORACE: Do you know the song, “Al Capone,” by Prince Buster, where it says, “Al Capone's guns don't argue?” Well, it (“Gangsters”) was an homage to Bernie Rhodes – he was always saying, “You wanna do this, you wanna do that.”
He seemed to know a lot about rock 'n' roll, and what rock bands should be doing, so when we said it (“Bernie Rhodes knows, don't argue”), it was like saying, “Bernie Rhodes knows what he's talking about.” I didn't like him at all, myself – it was why (guitarist) Mick Jones left the Clash. We worked with him for about three months at the end of 1978.
LIFE AT THE TOP (TANTRUMS 'N' TEARS)
(The Specials' rocket ride proved dizzying. As 1979 ended, they'd seen chart success; begun the Two-Tone label; issued their first album; and toured extensively, closing the year in December with the Concerts For Kampuchea benefit beside the Clash, Led Zeppelin, and the Who – proof, if anybody needed it, that the band had arrived.)
HORACE PANTER: Don't forget, we went from being very little, to spokesmen for a generation in just six months. If you looked at a street corner in 1980, every shop had black and white (Two-Tone) clothing inside. We went to Europe for six weeks, had a day off, went to America for six months, and went back to Europe! And here's the record company saying, “Could we have the next album in six months, please?”
There was continuous pressure to make this record (MORE SPECIALS); on the first album], we had been working on those songs for three years. But it blew the rock 'n' roll myth apart, and that was good. For me, it's (MORE SPECIALS) the sound of the band splitting up. When we toured the second album, it was an awful tour – you had to stop in the middle of songs, and stuff like that. I love playing live, and to think that you couldn't do it – I'd say that was another nail in the band's coffin.
COVENTRY CALLING
HORACE PANTER: It used to be the Detroit of Britain, if you like, with factories making cars, and heavy equipment. We've all still got roots down there. We all live within six miles of each other there, so we're all affected by the same things. It's not like one band member is in London, and one is in Manchester. People will say, “Are you sure you should be doing that?”...as opposed to being isolated in London, and having nobody like that around you, not stopping you from turning into an idiot. They [local fans] keep us grounded.
SIR HORACE GENTLEMAN SPEAKS
(THE GLASS HOUSE, POMONA, CA, 10/26/96)
Arguably, few bands have proven more influential on today's ska/punk scene than the Specials, whose classic self-titled debut album of 1979 remains an essential reference point. So does the band's Two-Tone label, whose initial releases from peers like Madness, and The Selecter, forced major labels to take notice.
The Specials remained popular until 1981, until the band's vocal frontline of Terry Hall, and Neville Staple, and guitarist Lynval Golding, left for two dreary but droll albums as Fun Boy Three. The classic lineup reformed in April 2008 -- minus keyboardist Jerry Dammers, who has dismissed the venture as a “takeover” – and haven't stopped hitting the road since.
Long before all that business, however, I spoke to bassist Horace Panter (better known as Sir Horace Gentleman) for a short piece that never saw daylight, for various boring (corporate!) reasons. The occasion was a 20-minute, pre-soundcheck chat at the Glass House...where he and his colleagues, Golding and Staple, were promoting TODAY'S SPECIALS (1996), an album of classic reggae and ska covers. They included the Clash's “Somebody Got Murdered,” prompting a few choice recollections from Horace about those encounters with The Only Band That Matters.
“WE'VE ALREADY GOT A RECORD DEAL...”
(The Coventry Automatics faced one minor problem when they supported the Clash's “On Parole” UK tour at Aylesbury Friars in June 1978...as Horace explains..)
HORACE PANTER: We found there was another band called the Automatics, and we got a letter from their solicitor: “You can't call yourselves the Automatics, we've already got a record deal.” So we had three hours to change our name before going onstage with the Clash! First, it was Coventry Specials, then just Specials, and that's been our name ever since.
“BERNIE RHODES KNOWS, DON'T ARGUE (TAKE ONE)”
(In October 1978, the Specials found themselves supporting the Clash on a UK tour, after catching the eye of their peers' manager, Bernard Rhodes. But Rhodes's tightness proved difficult to bear, as former Clash road manager Johnny Green details.)
JOHNNY GREEN: The legend about Bernard is, he can peel an orange in his pocket. You say, “You got five [pounds]?” And he'd put his hand in his pocket, and bring out one five-pound note, and you know he'd got a big wad of money [elsewhere].
They [the Specials] went out, he'd give 'em money – and this is very Bernard – to buy a tent, 'cause he wouldn't pay for a hotel room. So they had a big old van -- they would drive up to the next town, put their tent up and sleep in it, some in the van, some in this tent.
We saw 'em a couple of times – just a tent by the side of the road, as you were drivin' into the next town. There they'd be, in the most basic conditions, y'know? We all loved them. They were the sort of band that everybody would get up and watch, night after night.
“BERNIE RHODES KNOWS, DON'T ARGUE (TAKE TWO)”
(By March 1979, Rhodes was no longer in the picture, when the Specials' debut single, “Gangsters”/”The Selecter,” rocketed them – and their Two-Tone label – into the UK Top Five. The parting didn't prevent them from sending off Rhodes with an in-joke on their new A-side.)
HORACE: Do you know the song, “Al Capone,” by Prince Buster, where it says, “Al Capone's guns don't argue?” Well, it (“Gangsters”) was an homage to Bernie Rhodes – he was always saying, “You wanna do this, you wanna do that.”
He seemed to know a lot about rock 'n' roll, and what rock bands should be doing, so when we said it (“Bernie Rhodes knows, don't argue”), it was like saying, “Bernie Rhodes knows what he's talking about.” I didn't like him at all, myself – it was why (guitarist) Mick Jones left the Clash. We worked with him for about three months at the end of 1978.
LIFE AT THE TOP (TANTRUMS 'N' TEARS)
(The Specials' rocket ride proved dizzying. As 1979 ended, they'd seen chart success; begun the Two-Tone label; issued their first album; and toured extensively, closing the year in December with the Concerts For Kampuchea benefit beside the Clash, Led Zeppelin, and the Who – proof, if anybody needed it, that the band had arrived.)
HORACE PANTER: Don't forget, we went from being very little, to spokesmen for a generation in just six months. If you looked at a street corner in 1980, every shop had black and white (Two-Tone) clothing inside. We went to Europe for six weeks, had a day off, went to America for six months, and went back to Europe! And here's the record company saying, “Could we have the next album in six months, please?”
There was continuous pressure to make this record (MORE SPECIALS); on the first album], we had been working on those songs for three years. But it blew the rock 'n' roll myth apart, and that was good. For me, it's (MORE SPECIALS) the sound of the band splitting up. When we toured the second album, it was an awful tour – you had to stop in the middle of songs, and stuff like that. I love playing live, and to think that you couldn't do it – I'd say that was another nail in the band's coffin.
COVENTRY CALLING
HORACE PANTER: It used to be the Detroit of Britain, if you like, with factories making cars, and heavy equipment. We've all still got roots down there. We all live within six miles of each other there, so we're all affected by the same things. It's not like one band member is in London, and one is in Manchester. People will say, “Are you sure you should be doing that?”...as opposed to being isolated in London, and having nobody like that around you, not stopping you from turning into an idiot. They [local fans] keep us grounded.