Chairman Ralph's Ministry Of Truth

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 weight than others. As Van Halen's representer David Lee Roth has so aptly observed...wearing the likes of Hall & Oates doesn't make a statement.

So it goes with my Clash T-shirt collection (even if those XL sizes don't sit as comfortably around the old belt buckle as they once did). My sleeveless white T-shirt that opens this photo set is surely the rarest prize, originating from the Clash's May 10, 1984 show at the MSU Auditorium (East Lansing, MI): 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 needed to interview somebody for an 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 -- went out 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. How did it feel, I wondered, 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!).

Four years after the band's demise, I finally made it across the pond, and -- as these designs demonstrate -- the Clash were gone, all right, but more firmly embedded in the local culture 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.

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 eventually did, but that's another story for another time).

I acquired most of my shirts for a fiver each, maybe six quid on occasion, which seemed fair enough (even if that 125-150 quid that I earned 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 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'!"


TAKE TWO
Let's start with the obvious: getting the costume down is half the battle of any tribal identification, or you're dead in the water before you start. These T-shirts sprang out of a lifestyle, one that invariably focused itself around all-nighters...because I'd set my sights high, "digging for the bones of Strummer and Jones," as the song goes. I'd come to make a mark as the ultimate scribe, or certified rock pig, so what was the point in waiting?

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 Camden Market opened...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 an existing design? No object, I wanted it.

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 the offshoot groups, like Big Audio Dynamite, or Havana 3AM, which is where I scored 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 sloppy, 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). Cut to the Big Question that I'd brainstormed for a week, or so, on the job...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, though -- 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.