Chairman Ralph's Ministry Of Truth

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."


Chairman Ralph posts one last entry from his late friend, Anthony Salazar: in this case, an unfinished concert review of Joe Strummer's return show at Chicago's Cabaret Metro. Taking this review as a jump-off point, Ralph then contrasts it with the current pop scene, and how a performer's past collides with their present.

“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.

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.