“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.
"BERNIE RHODES KNOWS, DON'T ARGUE" (SIR HORACE SPEAKS)
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ALLEN GINSBERG, THE CLASH & ME
ALLEN GINSBERG, THE CLASH & ME
I saw Allen Ginsberg for six bucks at my alma mater, Michigan State University's Erickson Kiva, on November 19, 1986. My ticket stub tells me it was a Wednesday.
My motivations boiled down to four lowest common denominator reasons. Well, first,paying six bucks to see Ginsberg was infinitely cheaper than the $15, $20 and $25 tabs that major bands were already demanding.
Second, because it might break up the week nicely. Wednesdays around any college town aren't less flat, gray and predictable than Wednesdays anywhere else across the Midwest. Whatever else I'd planned, I could skip it without guilt. DAMN THE TORPEDOES! LOCK UP YOUR SONS, DAUGHTERS AND EVERYBODY ELSE WITHIN REACH! SCREW NIGHT CLASSES, TERM PAPERS, AND GRADES! ALLEN GINSBERG'S COMING! DO I NEED ANY OTHER REASON?
As a Clash fan, I felt naturally curious, because he'd graced “Ghetto Defendant,” this dark, slithering beast of a track that provided – for me, anyway – one of COMBAT ROCK's lasting highlights, although I could understand the furrowed brows and frowns flashing from the fans expecting LONDON CALLING (PARTS 1-10).
Thinking back on it, hearing Ginsberg intoning those ponderous couplets over the now-statutory Clash-goes-to-Kingston backbeat made an initially disorienting experience for my best high school buddy and I (though we weren't expecting Parts 1-10, believe me).
I mean, here's the band that gave us “WHITE RIOT, AH WANNA RIOT, WHITE RIOT, A RIOT OF MAH OWN”, and now, they've got a Beat poet, OF ALL PEOPLE, reciting...
“Dark necropolis...” Cue the spindly reggae beat: BOINK-A-BOINK-A-BOINK, BOINK-A-BOINK-BOINK!
“Do the worm on the Acropolis...” BOINK, BOINK, BOINK-A-BOINK-BOINK! “Slamdance the cosmopolis...” BOINK-A-BOINK-A-BOINK, BOINK-A-BOINK-BOINK!
“Enlighten the populace...” BOINK, BOINK, BOINK-A-BOINK-BOINK! And so on, and so forth...you get the idea. How much sense did it all make? Not a lot, probably, but the novelty factor was enough to carry it over. (My buddy, who would soon make the transition from punk and New Wave to amps-go-up-to-11 poodle metal was less moved...that's showbiz, I suppose.)
Mind you, I wasn't expecting to hear that lyric performed live, but getting involved with The Only Band That Matters surely boosted those credibility points.
Oh, yeah, almost forgot reason four: I thought, “Kerouac's dead, William Burroughs is scaling the precipice of age, Gregory Corso's in Obscurityland opening for Nico somewhere, how many Beat poets are alive and working these days?” That was well down my list, but you know what I mean.
Overall, Ginsberg's night out proved to be a pretty entertaining experience, one mixing the “I'm here to shock ya, maaaan” type of stuff -- he did a song whose chorus ran, “Everybody's a little bit homosexual, whether they like it or not” -- and his more serious expressive efforts. About his Buddhist affectations, I couldn't have cared less, but that wasn't really the draw, anyway, so none of that mattered.
He read quite a bit from THE WHITE SHROUD, his latest 'n' greatest collection of the time, and proved handy with the harmonium, as well, even if his musical abilities began and ended with one, two, OK, maybe THREE chords flopping back and forth. As I recall, he ended with an extended improv of a William Blake poem, which had the crowd singing, “And all the hills echo'd...and all the hills echo'd...”
But that was just the proverbial frosting on the experiential cake, if you like: my favorite memory happened well before Ginsberg took the stage.
The afternoon of the gig, Ginsberg did a book signing session at Jocundry's, one of my hangouts of the time, one of countless indie bookstores consigned to the memory hole. Instead of Howl, or any other Ginsberg tome, I decided to bring my copy of COMBAT ROCK -- 'cause he's on “Ghetto Defendant,” right?
Now, just try to imagine this scene, if you will -- all these Ginsberg wannabes, stuck in the larval worship stage, clutching those books they'd read once a year (at best) -- and I'm cradling a Clash album under my arm.
OK, the line snakes down the block, then dribbles down, bit by bit, we're finally in the store, and it's my turn to proffer my object to the great man himself...
...who starts to frown, because the ballpoint pen he's using isn't making a great impression on the glossy cover.
He tells me, “Hey, man, I can't write anything with this.”
He started handing my album back, which prompted me to say something like, “Hey, man, you're the great Allen Ginsberg, you can do anything!”
I get another blank squint, and I'm thinking, “Ah, shit, here we go -- I'm gonna get 86'd from this place, without even the signature I came to get!' But somebody from Jocundry's saw what was going down, and slid over a fountain pen, yielding the desired Pavlovian response: "Allen Ginsberg: 11/19/86."
As soon as I passed the cover, I grabbed some Scotch tape, and triumphantly slapped it on the appropriate spot. The “19” is now a “9,” but other than that...time has been pretty kind to the rest of my souvenir.
I saw Allen Ginsberg for six bucks at my alma mater, Michigan State University's Erickson Kiva, on November 19, 1986. My ticket stub tells me it was a Wednesday.
My motivations boiled down to four lowest common denominator reasons. Well, first,paying six bucks to see Ginsberg was infinitely cheaper than the $15, $20 and $25 tabs that major bands were already demanding.
Second, because it might break up the week nicely. Wednesdays around any college town aren't less flat, gray and predictable than Wednesdays anywhere else across the Midwest. Whatever else I'd planned, I could skip it without guilt. DAMN THE TORPEDOES! LOCK UP YOUR SONS, DAUGHTERS AND EVERYBODY ELSE WITHIN REACH! SCREW NIGHT CLASSES, TERM PAPERS, AND GRADES! ALLEN GINSBERG'S COMING! DO I NEED ANY OTHER REASON?
As a Clash fan, I felt naturally curious, because he'd graced “Ghetto Defendant,” this dark, slithering beast of a track that provided – for me, anyway – one of COMBAT ROCK's lasting highlights, although I could understand the furrowed brows and frowns flashing from the fans expecting LONDON CALLING (PARTS 1-10).
Thinking back on it, hearing Ginsberg intoning those ponderous couplets over the now-statutory Clash-goes-to-Kingston backbeat made an initially disorienting experience for my best high school buddy and I (though we weren't expecting Parts 1-10, believe me).
I mean, here's the band that gave us “WHITE RIOT, AH WANNA RIOT, WHITE RIOT, A RIOT OF MAH OWN”, and now, they've got a Beat poet, OF ALL PEOPLE, reciting...
“Dark necropolis...” Cue the spindly reggae beat: BOINK-A-BOINK-A-BOINK, BOINK-A-BOINK-BOINK!
“Do the worm on the Acropolis...” BOINK, BOINK, BOINK-A-BOINK-BOINK! “Slamdance the cosmopolis...” BOINK-A-BOINK-A-BOINK, BOINK-A-BOINK-BOINK!
“Enlighten the populace...” BOINK, BOINK, BOINK-A-BOINK-BOINK! And so on, and so forth...you get the idea. How much sense did it all make? Not a lot, probably, but the novelty factor was enough to carry it over. (My buddy, who would soon make the transition from punk and New Wave to amps-go-up-to-11 poodle metal was less moved...that's showbiz, I suppose.)
Mind you, I wasn't expecting to hear that lyric performed live, but getting involved with The Only Band That Matters surely boosted those credibility points.
Oh, yeah, almost forgot reason four: I thought, “Kerouac's dead, William Burroughs is scaling the precipice of age, Gregory Corso's in Obscurityland opening for Nico somewhere, how many Beat poets are alive and working these days?” That was well down my list, but you know what I mean.
Overall, Ginsberg's night out proved to be a pretty entertaining experience, one mixing the “I'm here to shock ya, maaaan” type of stuff -- he did a song whose chorus ran, “Everybody's a little bit homosexual, whether they like it or not” -- and his more serious expressive efforts. About his Buddhist affectations, I couldn't have cared less, but that wasn't really the draw, anyway, so none of that mattered.
He read quite a bit from THE WHITE SHROUD, his latest 'n' greatest collection of the time, and proved handy with the harmonium, as well, even if his musical abilities began and ended with one, two, OK, maybe THREE chords flopping back and forth. As I recall, he ended with an extended improv of a William Blake poem, which had the crowd singing, “And all the hills echo'd...and all the hills echo'd...”
But that was just the proverbial frosting on the experiential cake, if you like: my favorite memory happened well before Ginsberg took the stage.
The afternoon of the gig, Ginsberg did a book signing session at Jocundry's, one of my hangouts of the time, one of countless indie bookstores consigned to the memory hole. Instead of Howl, or any other Ginsberg tome, I decided to bring my copy of COMBAT ROCK -- 'cause he's on “Ghetto Defendant,” right?
Now, just try to imagine this scene, if you will -- all these Ginsberg wannabes, stuck in the larval worship stage, clutching those books they'd read once a year (at best) -- and I'm cradling a Clash album under my arm.
OK, the line snakes down the block, then dribbles down, bit by bit, we're finally in the store, and it's my turn to proffer my object to the great man himself...
...who starts to frown, because the ballpoint pen he's using isn't making a great impression on the glossy cover.
He tells me, “Hey, man, I can't write anything with this.”
He started handing my album back, which prompted me to say something like, “Hey, man, you're the great Allen Ginsberg, you can do anything!”
I get another blank squint, and I'm thinking, “Ah, shit, here we go -- I'm gonna get 86'd from this place, without even the signature I came to get!' But somebody from Jocundry's saw what was going down, and slid over a fountain pen, yielding the desired Pavlovian response: "Allen Ginsberg: 11/19/86."
As soon as I passed the cover, I grabbed some Scotch tape, and triumphantly slapped it on the appropriate spot. The “19” is now a “9,” but other than that...time has been pretty kind to the rest of my souvenir.
THE FIVE EMPREES RISE AGAIN (ON YOUTUBE)
Yes, indeed, you read it here, and you read it right...the Five Emprees rise again, so to speak, via the magic of Youtube, where bassist Ron Pelkey has been posting clips from that rockin' September 2008 benefit show at Lake Michigan College. Just type in "Five Emprees," and it'll come right up...or, in the "give me convenience or give me death" spirit, hit: http://www.youtube.com/user/TheFiveEmprees.
For those who couldn't make the gig, check out what you missed, and post the odd comment or two, if the spirit moves you! I'm sure you'll be moved to do that after eyeballin' those cracking versions of songs like "Drive My Car," and "Summer In The City," along with the Beatles medley and acoustic mini-interlude that made last fall's show so memorable.
And I'm not just saying that out of fannish devotion. I've heard many of these same songs done by countless other bands, but somehow, when these guys get together, their collective energy and talent lifts them above the seen-it-all-done-it-all-merchant category, pure and simple. Check out the clips, and you'll see what I mean.
The best news is that this 20-song gig also exists on DVD, and -- for a short time -- Ron will make copies available to those who want them. Simply write with your name and address, and Ron will take care of the rest. "By law, I can't charge for this or I will have to get involved with individual royalties," Ron advises in his email announcement, "and I am not interested in doing this for profit, so there will be no charge for it."
So there you have it. The Five Emprees are also still available a few times per year for weddings, parties or other select occasions...to book 'em, just contact Ron via: thefiveemprees@hotmail.com. But don't try to sell him a life insurance policy, or recruit him for a "confidential business proposal" from the other side of the world...as those cricket sounds will be rather deafening.
For those who couldn't make the gig, check out what you missed, and post the odd comment or two, if the spirit moves you! I'm sure you'll be moved to do that after eyeballin' those cracking versions of songs like "Drive My Car," and "Summer In The City," along with the Beatles medley and acoustic mini-interlude that made last fall's show so memorable.
And I'm not just saying that out of fannish devotion. I've heard many of these same songs done by countless other bands, but somehow, when these guys get together, their collective energy and talent lifts them above the seen-it-all-done-it-all-merchant category, pure and simple. Check out the clips, and you'll see what I mean.
The best news is that this 20-song gig also exists on DVD, and -- for a short time -- Ron will make copies available to those who want them. Simply write with your name and address, and Ron will take care of the rest. "By law, I can't charge for this or I will have to get involved with individual royalties," Ron advises in his email announcement, "and I am not interested in doing this for profit, so there will be no charge for it."
So there you have it. The Five Emprees are also still available a few times per year for weddings, parties or other select occasions...to book 'em, just contact Ron via: thefiveemprees@hotmail.com. But don't try to sell him a life insurance policy, or recruit him for a "confidential business proposal" from the other side of the world...as those cricket sounds will be rather deafening.
CLASH T-SHIRTS I HAVE KNOWN (TAKE TWO)
Last time, I ruminated about my Clash T-shirt collection-cum-obssession, whatever you want to call it -- to me, a necessary accessory for living in one of the world's most high-profile corners, what the locals almost never describe as Swinging London. These featured T-shirts sprang out of a lifestyle, one that invariably focused around all-nighters...because I'd set my sights high, "digging for the bones of Strummer and Jones," as the song goes. (To enlarge one, just click on the relevant photo!)
I'd come to make a mark as the ultimate scribe, or certified rock pig, so what was the point in waiting? Getting the costume down is half the battle of any tribal identification, or you're dead in the water before you start. The majority of these T-shirts hail from the shops and whitewashed maze of stalls around Camden Market, the epicenter of so many questionable little hustles. For me, that meant building my already-bulging bootleg tape collection, to which I applied myself with characteristic gusto.
Indeed, I had little trouble working myself up into a slippery midnight to six (a.m., and beyond) groove, just so I could hit the tube around eight (or 8:30 a.m.), and get there when the market opened up...to touch, taste and browse what I wanted from the inevitable 90-second shopping spree from this stall, or Camden High Street store, where so many of these T-shirts originated. Time or money? No object, I wanted it. Knock-off or repro? No object, I wanted it. Duplication of design? No object, I wanted it.
And, besides, since the real Strummer-Jones duo weren't working together anymore, pledging my allegiance to them via my chest looked about as close as I'd ever get to touching the magic they'd brought to all those rockin' tunes from Clash City.
That went double for seeing any offshoot groups, from Big Audio Dynamite, to the likes of Havana 3AM, which is where I got ahold of the last shirt -- as I understand it, designed by Paul Simonon himself -- from a one-off showcase gig at The Borderline, an overpriced little bar just a mile south of me, down Charing Cross Road (11/21/89).
Here was the latter-era Clash blueprint in all its ragged glory, from revved-up rockabilly ("Wash your face, grease your hair, you can win," or something to that effect), sped-up reggae-rock ("Reach The Rock," a faster variant on "The Guns Of Brixton" riff, basically), Latin swing maneuvers ("The Hardest Game"), even spaghetti western dub ("Hey Amigo") -- driven by a clattering electronic drumkit, of all things, yet the sound still made people jump back.
Gary Myrick wrung the crunchiest sounds from an absurdly tiny guitar, while the late Nigel Dixon ably carried the frontman's load. Of course, "Guns Of Brixton" had to be the inevitable encore, turning the frontline into a seething, whirling dervish of a mosh pit -- through which Paul ducked, dived and dodged like an eternal teenager, heaving sweat through his blue matador's vest.
To make the mandatory foray backstage, I simply followed some people who seemed to know the band -- including the gal from whom I bought my T-shirt, and this blonde, wispy twentysoemthing who kept trying to snatch my black, wide-brimemd hat -- and waited for the boys to make their entrance.
Sure enough, Paul's six-foot-plus frame soon filled the room, where a line had already formed. I trust my Clash VISUAL DOCUMENTARY into his hands, to which he grinned and added the Simononon touch (see the photos).
Cue the Big Question I'd brainstormed for a week or so to ask...for those who like their backstage nuggets fast 'n' breathless, the exchange went something like this:
"Hey, Paul, I've been turning this around for awhilw, but...what are the chords to 'Red Angel Dragnet?'"
"Oh, God...I dunno, I forgot." Paul rubbed his fingers against his forehead. "If I had a bass, I could probably figure it out..."
"Well," I reassured him, "you don't need to work 'Guns Of Brixton,' eh? It's one of the first songs I ever learned..."
"Yeah, it's dead easy, innit?" Paul smiled.
"Where'd you get the vest?"
"At a Mexican market, in Los Anglees!"
"So who writes the songs?" I pressed.
"The group!"
"When are you comin' to the States, since Detroit was so good for the Clash?"
"Well, someone'll have to bring us over, 'cause we can't afford it now..." Paul's voice trailed off, and heads turned toward the reason: a bottle of champagne, making its way slowly down the line of well-wishers. His public duties satisfied, Paul crept back into the dressing room, and I took my cue.
I paused to sit on the now-empty stage -- after all, I'd been standing on my feet all night, so five minutes wouldn't hurt, right? Not in London -- the bouncers told me to go home, leaving me with sore legs from a two-mile-plus trudge home. I'd missed the tube (again), but I had my autograph, ticket stub, and -- of course -- the stautory black T-shirt. For that night, at least, nothing else mattered.
I'd come to make a mark as the ultimate scribe, or certified rock pig, so what was the point in waiting? Getting the costume down is half the battle of any tribal identification, or you're dead in the water before you start. The majority of these T-shirts hail from the shops and whitewashed maze of stalls around Camden Market, the epicenter of so many questionable little hustles. For me, that meant building my already-bulging bootleg tape collection, to which I applied myself with characteristic gusto.
Indeed, I had little trouble working myself up into a slippery midnight to six (a.m., and beyond) groove, just so I could hit the tube around eight (or 8:30 a.m.), and get there when the market opened up...to touch, taste and browse what I wanted from the inevitable 90-second shopping spree from this stall, or Camden High Street store, where so many of these T-shirts originated. Time or money? No object, I wanted it. Knock-off or repro? No object, I wanted it. Duplication of design? No object, I wanted it.
And, besides, since the real Strummer-Jones duo weren't working together anymore, pledging my allegiance to them via my chest looked about as close as I'd ever get to touching the magic they'd brought to all those rockin' tunes from Clash City.
That went double for seeing any offshoot groups, from Big Audio Dynamite, to the likes of Havana 3AM, which is where I got ahold of the last shirt -- as I understand it, designed by Paul Simonon himself -- from a one-off showcase gig at The Borderline, an overpriced little bar just a mile south of me, down Charing Cross Road (11/21/89).
Here was the latter-era Clash blueprint in all its ragged glory, from revved-up rockabilly ("Wash your face, grease your hair, you can win," or something to that effect), sped-up reggae-rock ("Reach The Rock," a faster variant on "The Guns Of Brixton" riff, basically), Latin swing maneuvers ("The Hardest Game"), even spaghetti western dub ("Hey Amigo") -- driven by a clattering electronic drumkit, of all things, yet the sound still made people jump back.
Gary Myrick wrung the crunchiest sounds from an absurdly tiny guitar, while the late Nigel Dixon ably carried the frontman's load. Of course, "Guns Of Brixton" had to be the inevitable encore, turning the frontline into a seething, whirling dervish of a mosh pit -- through which Paul ducked, dived and dodged like an eternal teenager, heaving sweat through his blue matador's vest.
To make the mandatory foray backstage, I simply followed some people who seemed to know the band -- including the gal from whom I bought my T-shirt, and this blonde, wispy twentysoemthing who kept trying to snatch my black, wide-brimemd hat -- and waited for the boys to make their entrance.
Sure enough, Paul's six-foot-plus frame soon filled the room, where a line had already formed. I trust my Clash VISUAL DOCUMENTARY into his hands, to which he grinned and added the Simononon touch (see the photos).
Cue the Big Question I'd brainstormed for a week or so to ask...for those who like their backstage nuggets fast 'n' breathless, the exchange went something like this:
"Hey, Paul, I've been turning this around for awhilw, but...what are the chords to 'Red Angel Dragnet?'"
"Oh, God...I dunno, I forgot." Paul rubbed his fingers against his forehead. "If I had a bass, I could probably figure it out..."
"Well," I reassured him, "you don't need to work 'Guns Of Brixton,' eh? It's one of the first songs I ever learned..."
"Yeah, it's dead easy, innit?" Paul smiled.
"Where'd you get the vest?"
"At a Mexican market, in Los Anglees!"
"So who writes the songs?" I pressed.
"The group!"
"When are you comin' to the States, since Detroit was so good for the Clash?"
"Well, someone'll have to bring us over, 'cause we can't afford it now..." Paul's voice trailed off, and heads turned toward the reason: a bottle of champagne, making its way slowly down the line of well-wishers. His public duties satisfied, Paul crept back into the dressing room, and I took my cue.
I paused to sit on the now-empty stage -- after all, I'd been standing on my feet all night, so five minutes wouldn't hurt, right? Not in London -- the bouncers told me to go home, leaving me with sore legs from a two-mile-plus trudge home. I'd missed the tube (again), but I had my autograph, ticket stub, and -- of course -- the stautory black T-shirt. For that night, at least, nothing else mattered.
CLASH T-SHIRTS I HAVE KNOWN (TAKE ONE)
For almost as long as rock 'n' roll has existed, T-shirts have been a crucial signifier of musical allegiances, an identifier of membership in a particular musical tribe, if you will...though it goes without saying that some allegiances carry greater weights than others. As Van Halen's original representer David Lee Roth so aptly observed, wearing the likes of Hall & Oates doesn't make a statement.
So it goes with my collection of Clash T-shirts, of which I've been posting photos on the If Music Could Talk board...but I thought it'd be nice to collect them here, all in one place. It's not often that you go through your closet while preparing to write a website post-cum-essay, let alone a potential entry for a book -- as I'm doing here -- but it's proven more fun than I'd imagined (even if those XL sizes don't sit as comfortably around the old belt buckle as they once did)....just click on the first photo, and take it from there!
The sleeveless T-shirt that opens this photo set is the rarest piece I've ever seen, originating from the Clash's May 10, 1984 show at the MSU Auditorium (East Lansing) -- my one and only time seeing The Only Band That Matters, post-Mick Jones stylee, if you will. Like so many keepsakes, I acquired it by total accident, about three years later. A journalism class buddy of mine needed to interview somebody for a class assignment, only to have that person back out at the eleventh hour.
Enter yours truly, for a couple of beers and this sleeveless T-shirt, which -- according to my buddy -- had been given as a "thank you" to the ushers who worked that night's gig, himself included. I duly wore this shirt out for the next couple decades, imagining what it must have been like sporting this particular piece of cotton, chasing people like me away from the aisles, all caught up in that uber-frenzy spat out by a certain J. Strummer ("Popwilldienrebelrockwillruleblahblahblah, sulkingispopstarismblahblahblah, gowritesongswithyerlawyerblahblahblah, and on and on that night, that year, forever and ever on many bootleg tapes, amen -- ahem!).
Most of the remaining designs slithered out of any number of Camden High Street/Camden Lock/Camden Market shops and stalls, where I spent much of my ill-gotten University of London clerk's pay and free time trying to scarf down every design that I could find, between disposable chips and never-ending rounds of drinks ("Here's to the beginning of a new minute, why not?"), and fruitless auditions to find the perfect home for my bass-banging twanging talents (which I did, but that's another story for another time).
I acquired most of these shirts for a fiver each, maybe six quid on occasion, which seemed fair enough (even if that 125-150 quid per week wasn't much more than the "new" Clash members got for wrangling with the departed ghosts of Messrs. Headon and Jones). It all went with the quest for any kind of relic associated with The Only Band That Matters...as if, by wearing these black and white fabric flags proudly down the High Street, you'd end up mattering a little bit, too.
To me, it all seemed so exciting. I had a W1 address on Store Street, only blocks away from CBS Studios on Whitfield Street, where the Clash's classic debut album and the Stooges' RAW POWER were recorded. Now and then, when I needed diversion from another boring grocery shopping trip to Tesco -- "British meat," I used to snarl, "what an oxymoron" -- I'd go down the road to that dark black sound factory and stare through the locked glass doors into the empty reception room: "To think...this place gave birth to the likes of 'White Riot'!"
Four years after the band's demise, I'd finally made it across the pond, and -- as these designs demonstrate -- the Clash were gone, all right, but more firmly embedded in the local fabric than ever. It's funny to see the British Telecom tower immortalized on a LONDON CALLING-related piece of fabric, because it's not depicted anywhere on that album...but it's as much of a landmark as those red telephone booths that have gone the way of so many other markers of that era, and these designs too -- swallowed up by the never-ending demands of blockbuster commerce, and the condominiums that never sleep, consigned to the highways and byways of memory...gone, but not forgotten.
So it goes with my collection of Clash T-shirts, of which I've been posting photos on the If Music Could Talk board...but I thought it'd be nice to collect them here, all in one place. It's not often that you go through your closet while preparing to write a website post-cum-essay, let alone a potential entry for a book -- as I'm doing here -- but it's proven more fun than I'd imagined (even if those XL sizes don't sit as comfortably around the old belt buckle as they once did)....just click on the first photo, and take it from there!
The sleeveless T-shirt that opens this photo set is the rarest piece I've ever seen, originating from the Clash's May 10, 1984 show at the MSU Auditorium (East Lansing) -- my one and only time seeing The Only Band That Matters, post-Mick Jones stylee, if you will. Like so many keepsakes, I acquired it by total accident, about three years later. A journalism class buddy of mine needed to interview somebody for a class assignment, only to have that person back out at the eleventh hour.
Enter yours truly, for a couple of beers and this sleeveless T-shirt, which -- according to my buddy -- had been given as a "thank you" to the ushers who worked that night's gig, himself included. I duly wore this shirt out for the next couple decades, imagining what it must have been like sporting this particular piece of cotton, chasing people like me away from the aisles, all caught up in that uber-frenzy spat out by a certain J. Strummer ("Popwilldienrebelrockwillruleblahblahblah, sulkingispopstarismblahblahblah, gowritesongswithyerlawyerblahblahblah, and on and on that night, that year, forever and ever on many bootleg tapes, amen -- ahem!).
Most of the remaining designs slithered out of any number of Camden High Street/Camden Lock/Camden Market shops and stalls, where I spent much of my ill-gotten University of London clerk's pay and free time trying to scarf down every design that I could find, between disposable chips and never-ending rounds of drinks ("Here's to the beginning of a new minute, why not?"), and fruitless auditions to find the perfect home for my bass-banging twanging talents (which I did, but that's another story for another time).
I acquired most of these shirts for a fiver each, maybe six quid on occasion, which seemed fair enough (even if that 125-150 quid per week wasn't much more than the "new" Clash members got for wrangling with the departed ghosts of Messrs. Headon and Jones). It all went with the quest for any kind of relic associated with The Only Band That Matters...as if, by wearing these black and white fabric flags proudly down the High Street, you'd end up mattering a little bit, too.
To me, it all seemed so exciting. I had a W1 address on Store Street, only blocks away from CBS Studios on Whitfield Street, where the Clash's classic debut album and the Stooges' RAW POWER were recorded. Now and then, when I needed diversion from another boring grocery shopping trip to Tesco -- "British meat," I used to snarl, "what an oxymoron" -- I'd go down the road to that dark black sound factory and stare through the locked glass doors into the empty reception room: "To think...this place gave birth to the likes of 'White Riot'!"
Four years after the band's demise, I'd finally made it across the pond, and -- as these designs demonstrate -- the Clash were gone, all right, but more firmly embedded in the local fabric than ever. It's funny to see the British Telecom tower immortalized on a LONDON CALLING-related piece of fabric, because it's not depicted anywhere on that album...but it's as much of a landmark as those red telephone booths that have gone the way of so many other markers of that era, and these designs too -- swallowed up by the never-ending demands of blockbuster commerce, and the condominiums that never sleep, consigned to the highways and byways of memory...gone, but not forgotten.