We are the Clash: Reagan, Thatcher, and the last stand of a band that mattered

98 Pages·2018·7.25 MB·English

by  Mark Andersen

To my father Merlin and grandfather Otto, who were farmers, ranchers, and
coal miners; and to my mother Anna Margaret Vik.

To my son Soren, my daughter Sevgi, and my beloved Tulin.

To Jesús Arias and Martin Jenkinson, both gone too soon.

—M.A.

To “Budgie,” my dear wife, Lisa D. Quinlan Heibutzki: your inspiration, love,
and support mean everything.

To Anthony Salazar (1965–2005):
yeah, you were right, it worked out for the best . . .

To Don Hargraves, Tim Easterday, and John Hilla: the mission continues. Kick
down the doors!

—R.H.
So the forces gathered together
against the thorn a-piercing in their side
A brave new world is beckoning
so the olden world must die . . .
—Old English folk ballad, c. 1986
FOREWORD
JEWELS FROM THE WRECKAGE
BY BARRY “THE BAKER” AUGUSTE, LOYAL CLASH
FOOT SOLDIER, 1976–1983
The Baker in action, handing a restrung guitar to Joe Strummer midsong. (Photographer unknown.)
At long last, The Clash’s final incarnation has been definitively chronicled.
Mark Andersen and Ralph Heibutzki have brilliantly filled in the blanks of the
“Clash Mark II” era, including its eventual implosion. And while set three
decades ago, the political, social, and economic evils The Clash battled against
then are just as relevant today, if not more so. Both Clash fans and general
readers alike will be moved by this tale of onstage conquest and offstage turmoil,
so deftly woven into the fabric of the charged politics of that time.
Although the seeds of discontent were sown long before, 1983 was The
Clash’s time of bitter harvest. By one measure, the year held the band’s greatest
triumph—headlining the first day of the US Festival, before 250,000 people—
but also witnessed an astonishing act of self-immolation.
Joe Strummer’s DIY film noir Hell W10, shot in early 1983 when the band
was on break, foreshadowed the tragedy. By the movie’s end, the villain, Mr.
Socrates—enthusiastically played by Mick Jones—and his empire are wiped out.
By September, that would be the case in real life.
The irony is inescapable: Mick freely accepted the villain’s role, and would
be thus portrayed to the press after his purge. This suggests Mick was a
voluntary scapegoat; his expulsion was the purifying remedy for The Clash’s
maladies, just as that of Nick “Topper” Headon before him.
Mick was axed from the band in a scene plotted long in advance. Few knew
it was going to happen. Although valid reasons for the dramatic act were
apparent, it hit those close to the band like a death in the family; a killing, even,
committed by brothers. There could be no neutral ground. Friends and
acquaintances were forced to choose sides, and it would be years before many
felt comfortable enough to associate socially or professionally again.
I know, because I lived it. I served alongside Joe, Mick, and Paul starting in
the summer of 1976, hauling gear and doing whatever else needed to be done
while still a teenager living at home. I signed on shortly after Bernie Rhodes
assembled the band, was there when Topper joined in spring 1977, and
witnessed Bernie’s dismissal in 1978 and his return in 1981, forming a fateful
alliance with Kosmo Vinyl, who had become the band’s ad hoc mouthpiece in
the interim. Aside from the first show at the Black Swan in Sheffield, I was at
every show, rehearsal, and recording session.
No one knows what we went through during those years marching up the hill
—only us! As Joe once said, “We went to hell and back!” Words are inadequate;
it is impossible to convey the anguish of endless months of touring; nonstop
revolving hotel rooms; a different town every day; the months of monotony in
studios with endless retakes and overdubs; brain-numbing repetition done out of
duty and devotion. We had to turn into some kind of machine, or we would have
gone mad. Or maybe we did . . . PTSD isn’t confined to soldiers. But I’d do it all
over again, for such was The Clash’s irrepressible sense of mission, a calling I
embraced.
That level of dedication always comes at a cost, however. To maintain my
own sanity, I ignored the excesses of rock and roll to single-mindedly focus on
the equipment and work needed to enable the band to perform, record, and
rehearse. I didn’t waver from that purpose until September 1983, in a head-on
collision of interband politics, personal resentments, managerial manipulation,
and road-weary exhaustion.
Once reinstated in 1981, Bernie had set about reconstructing the band he had
originally created, resurrecting his Stalinist regime from 1976, with Kosmo’s
assistance. By 1982, the duo was pounding the table about all manner of band
diktats, with Bernie barking the orders and Kosmo cracking the whip to keep
everyone in line. From Topper’s removal; the decision to support The Who and
to play the US Festival; to the eventual firing of Mick—the two of them were
relentless. Joe found himself caught in an escalating tug-of-war between the
band’s founding fathers, Bernie and Mick.
Bernie did help the band break through in America, but in the process ripped
apart their very DNA. Mick became increasingly isolated, and scarcely helped
his cause by acting the prima donna, at odds with the Clash “anti-star” ethos.
The contradictions became inescapable: to prove a punk band from the squats
of London could conquer the world, The Clash had to become the very thing
they set out to destroy. In the end, it just proved too high a price to pay.
This was the “unanswerable dilemma” at the band’s heart since its creation:
how do you go to the top level of the music business and still stay true—and be
seen to be true—to your ideals? As original drummer Terry Chimes had
predicted, mass success called everything into question.
The dilemma was unbearable to Joe. In desperation, he adopted Bernie’s
military platitudes about having to cut off the gangrenous limb in order to save
the body, and how we all must be marching in the same direction.
It still confounds people today: how could Bernie even consider that he
could fire both Topper and Mick and still have a band? I was one of those
skeptics. Yet The Clash, in its purest form, was Bernie, and Bernie was a
fundamental extension of them. His relationship with the band was so intimate
and personal that, in the end, he would rather demolish it than see it become
obsolete. Evolve or die! Tragically, he didn’t see that there was more than one
way to evolve.
When Mick was dismissed, I instinctively knew I was next for the chop. So I
left of my own volition bearing no one any ill will. I had given The Clash more
than seven years of my life and had worked as hard and as loyally as anyone
could. But I’d done my job and it was time to leave. Regime change required a
total purge. I shook hands with Joe and Paul and said goodbye, quietly slipping
down the stairs of Rehearsal Rehearsals for the last time.
Like the band, I had given it my all—and then, suddenly, it was over and
done. The rupture was painful and complete. After the end of my Clash story, I
had no contact with any of my comrades for years, never saw The Clash Mark II
perform, and never even heard anything off the album that was created . . . so
total was my break with that scene and the people involved.
Eventually, I tried to piece together some of the fragments from my Clash
years, but it was a profoundly difficult undertaking. I refused all interviews for
over thirty years. Even when I finally decided to speak, I only wanted to
contribute to Clash-related projects that would rise above the cheap name-calling
and petty finger-pointing that inevitably rise in situations that have run their
course. The endeavors needed to have genuine substance, be deeply researched,
offer a different perspective, and, above all, exhibit the highest probity, integrity,
and honesty.
This book is precisely that for which I searched. Andersen and Heibutzki
obviously love The Clash, believe in the band’s values, and try to live by them.
Their continued passion and idealism is refreshing, a sign that The Clash did not
labor in vain, that listeners were touched deeply and indelibly. Both took to heart
Joe’s plea for his audience to become activists, as is shown by their community
work, especially Andersen’s involvement with the celebrated punk-activist
collective Positive Force DC and inner-city advocate We Are Family. Both take
their role as writers and historians equally seriously, as shown in the artistry here
and in their other books. They write with care and sensitivity while doggedly
pursuing the truth, letting the chips fall where they may.
In reading this book, I found my way back into Clash World, learning for the
first time of the trials and tribulations—and grand aspirations—of the last
version of The Clash, a Clash I never believed in and of which I was never a
part. Astonishingly, I found myself moved, angered, and even inspired all over
again. While the world was on the edge of thermonuclear destruction, Central
American wars raged, and the coal miners confronted Margaret Thatcher’s bully
boys, the new Clash struggled to create something real of their own, building
upon—but going beyond—past glories.
Now I can see that The Clash Mark II was an attempt to find an answer to
the unanswerable dilemma. Even if they didn’t locate one, there was drama and
value in the effort. I’m tempted to say their flameout was inevitable, but those
last two years were an attempt to evolve, to get back to basics, to walk that fine
line between commercial success and staying true to your roots.
It is true that an essential chemistry was lost with the firings of Mick and
Topper. With all due respect to the skills of Peter Howard, Nick Sheppard, and
Vince White, that intangible factor could never be replaced by merely slotting in
proficient musicians. Yet, from what I’ve heard and read, I believe they had a
chance to succeed had they just been left alone, to do what musicians do
naturally: to gel together, to create an alchemy of their own.
It seems that spark was never allowed a chance to fully flourish, given the
managerial dictatorship they had to perform under. Bernie was a visionary, and
Kosmo a true believer, but their relentless agitation—in addition to other