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Wednesday, Nov 25, 2009
"The Clash on Broadway" wasn't their only logic-busting whim concerning the project (which, for me, turned out to be a financially satisfying fiasco), but it was typical of the irrational pragmatism that ruled an endlessly self-destructive but marvelous career. They ran hard and left a deep and lasting mark, but the Clash -- like the romantic rebels they worshiped -- were ultimately undone by the surprise of their own humanity.
My own memories of the Clash in concert are indistinct blurs of thrill, thrall and self-righteousness. At the time, the shows provided ear-splitting confirmation that the records were as real and direct as they seemed, that the band was neither a studio creation or an Oz-like projection. But what have we got to show for it now? "From Here to Eternity" is the genuine historical article, a sonic yardstick against which to measure those 20-year-old memories.
While by no means a greatest hits -- the band's eccentric song selection brashly (if not surprisingly) omits the top-20 U.S. hit "Rock the Casbah" (a song they couldn't make much out of live, anyway) as well as such classics of the studio and live canon as "White Riot," "Garageland," "Safe European Home" and "Tommy Gun" -- "From Here to Eternity" is raw, energetic and sloppy. With skinny tie culture relegated to bad-hair camp nostalgia on VH1, few bands of the period could suddenly resurface on record and not sound dated and ridiculous, but the Clash were no ordinary band. Except for Simonon's painfully numb vocals on "Guns of Brixton," these realistic performances are proud souvenirs, not embarrassing snapshots.
But the fact is (and I confirmed this suspicion by rewatching the concert sequences in "Rude Boy," the band's enthusiastically incoherent 1980 drama-cum-documentary), you had to see it to get it. The devout crowds, Strummer's leg-driving intensity and saliva-spattering bellowing, Jones' studied guitar-hero shuffle and frilly clothes, Simonon's animal poses -- the impossible cohesion of musicians doing their slashing and slamming with barely a flicker of acknowledgment that they aren't alone onstage -- that was the Clash. Their sound doesn't adequately convey the fury.
The Clash's stubborn refusal to do what was good for them was often mistaken for courage, but theirs was a bizarrely principled sort of nerve. Although their lyrics quickly abandoned the free-floating anomie that made so much punk interchangeable, record company malfeasance was a fight they liked. "Complete Control," the song that opens "From Here to Eternity" (as it opened many of the band's 1978 gigs), was the band's third 45, a rocking rebuke to English CBS for releasing "Remote Control" as a single against their wishes. (Not that either side of the dispute had any problems resolving their differences and plucking a hit single from the dust-up.)
While they would go on to name an album in tribute to Nicaraguan revolutionaries, sport Italian terrorist fan T-shirts and sing of "English Civil War," "Spanish Bombs" and "Washington Bullets," backyard culture wars were just as good. London Calling's "Right Profile," a film-freak's ode to the troubled life of Montgomery Clift, and "Capital Radio," which here provides Strummer with a platform to endorse exotic Americans Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs ("Wooly Bully") over London prole peers Sham 69, are typical.
In British parlance, the Clash were all mouth and no trousers, irrepressible rabble-rousers disinclined to shed blood. Their legal troubles were laughable -- petty offenses like spray-painting a wall and shooting pigeons. For a time, they did put themselves on the line for their fans, but as their enterprise became more ambitious and complicated (read former roadie extraordinaire Johnny Green's witty memoir, "A Riot of Our Own," for details), they generally marched into battle for more usual things. All egotistical rock stars make up twisted rules of conduct for themselves, but the code by which the Clash made people miserable was more twisted and paradoxical. In the end, the Clash disillusioned all but their blindest acolytes, capping a once-proud saga with a shameful coda (including a new lineup and an afterbirth album) and pained attempts to justify the same sort of hubris less self-conscious rock stars admit as bald arrogance. Their achievements in the uncharted world of big-league punk were unique, but their failings were absolutely ordinary.
It feels thoroughly ridiculous, like some old Bolshevik still mourning the death of Stalin, to be rehoisting the partisan flag at this late date, but the old records did, and still do -- to borrow from an advertising slogan used at the time -- matter. At least in their music, the Clash had standards. Their strongly worded statements about serious issues raised issues and challenged complacency while kicking asses with the sheer joy of their sonic assault. Leaving love, sex and the usual agents of angst to lower-minded outfits, the Clash took a literary approach to morality in songs that still seethe with bravado and invention.
Few groups of their day had the vocal and lyrical toughness to match their slashing slabs of guitar noise or the ability to proffer tender sentimentality without shame. And to their credit, the Clash have still not succumbed to the temptation of reunion, as have virtually all of their surviving contemporaries, from the Sex Pistols to Blondie. The enigma of who the Clash really were -- art-project phonies, naive political romantics, confused rock rebels, arrogant pseudo-intellectuals, substance-abusing hypocrites in camo gimmick gear -- will never be resolved. As Strummer warns here in a rushed and ragged "London Calling," "Now don't look to us/Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust." Don't expect an answer here.
