York City and Paris, turning residencies at the Bonds nightclub and Theatre Mogador into artistic and publicity triumphs. The Clash was especially captivated by New York, and had begun work on a new album.
Vinyl recalls the recording sessions themselves going smoothly—but not so the efforts at mixing or finalizing the record. Jones was even more dominant in the sessions than usual. He presented a finished double album tentatively called Rat Patrol from Fort Bragg that Strummer, Simonon, and Rhodes considered lightweight and too long. So producer Glyn Johns, renowned for work with the Who, the Stones, and other big names, was brought in on a rescue mission.
An impressed Johns later recalled to Tape Op magazine, “Joe let me rip it to pieces!” The result was a stripped-back single album that left Jones angry and aghast. Strummer was unapologetic: “I brought in Glyn Johns and I think . . . well, it isn’t all good but he shook some real rock and roll out of that record.”
If the musical disagreements were ominous, a more urgent crisis was the growing drug dependency of drummer Topper Headon. Drug addiction was a rock and roll cliché by now, and one The Clash had blasted with some regularity, despite the band’s obvious affection not only for alcohol but also marijuana—a predilection made public in a 1979 feature in pot bible High Times.
In that article, Strummer identified heroin as a bane to the counterculture, echoing the longstanding Yippie distinction between “life” drugs like pot and psychedelics and “death” drugs like speed, cocaine, and, above all, heroin. Clash antiheroin commentary dated back to “Deny” on the first album through “Hateful” on London Calling and “Junkie Slip” on Sandinista! as well as a new track, “Ghetto Defendant.” Yet Headon fell prey precisely to this drug.
On an early 1982 tour of the Far East, Strummer confronted Headon: “How can I be singing all these antidrug songs with you stoned out of your head behind me?” Headon was unmoved, and the issue remained unresolved after the band’s return, through the drama over the new album’s length and production.
Then on April 21, 1982—three weeks before the new record was to be released and only days before a UK tour was to commence—Strummer disappeared.
Much has been written about the time the singer was missing in action. The disappearance had its genesis in a stunt suggested by Rhodes, apparently worried about weak advance ticket sales on the UK tour. But it turned into a genuine reflection of Strummer’s desperation over pressures from the band’s growing popularity, the deepening tension with Jones, and Headon’s addiction.
Although Vinyl was able to locate Strummer in Paris after three weeks and convince him to return to do a lengthy US tour, the price was Headon’s ejection. Original Clash drummer Terry Chimes stepped in with five days’ notice before the two-month tour began on May 29, 1982, in New Jersey.
It was a challenging development, most of all for Headon, who felt betrayed and abandoned. Vinyl recalls, “Topper was the best drummer of his generation, but he had no interest in giving up drugs. We had no choice.” The Baker disputes this, but admits, “The band couldn’t just wait for Topper . . . things were moving so fast.”
Strummer would later bitterly regret his decision, and date the demise of The Clash to this moment. Yet it’s hard to see what else could have been done—not if the band intended to preserve its credibility.
* * *
By the time this drama had played out within The Clash, the political ground had shifted—starting when Argentine military forces invaded and occupied the Falklands Islands on April 2, 1982. The Falklands were a somewhat embarrassing vestige of the faded British Empire. They were situated just off the coast of Argentina, which claimed them as “Las Malvinas.” While this Argentine assertion had history and geography on its side, the Falklands had been a British colony since 1841, and were largely populated by descendants of British settlers.
A series of errors had sparked the war. Budget cuts pushed by Thatcher led to British ships being removed from the South Atlantic, sending a signal that the Falklands were no longer a priority. Reagan emissary Vernon Walters subsequently assured the leadership of the Argentinian military dictatorship that in case of an invasion, “The British will huff, puff, protest, and do nothing.” And the Argentinian dictatorship apparently felt that reclaiming the Falklands/Malvinas would distract attention from economic troubles and political repression at home.
In the last instance, the junta was proved correct, at least at first. Argentinian nationalism was sparked by the bold act, and approval of the government soared. But the first two assumptions would prove less sound.
Given that Thatcher’s decisions had helped precipitate the Falklands conflict, the war could have dealt a deathblow to her unpopular regime. Thatcher’s risky decision to dispatch a naval task force on April 5 to retake the islands raised the stakes even further. But this gamble would be her political salvation.
As British troops went into combat, nationalist fervor built in the UK, especially as the war went well for the home team. A popular tabloid newspaper, the Sun—mouthpiece for right-wing media mogul Rupert Murdoch—offered a simple huge “GOTCHA” as a headline in response to the sinking of the Argentinian ship General Belgrano, at the cost of 368 lives. The Sun adjusted the headline after the immensity of the death count became known, but the paper—like most of the British press—continued its gung ho war coverage.
Vinyl saw this war fever engulf a pub that the band had long frequented: “It was really ugly. We had been drinking beside these guys for months, and felt they were alright geezers. All of a sudden they were cheering Thatcher, cheering for the deaths of hundreds of human beings, all because they were ‘the enemy.’ It was a bit sick, really, and we decided to take our business elsewhere.”
Thatcher adamantly opposed any resolution short of outright Argentinian surrender. This tested her relationship with Reagan, who was torn between their alliance and his support for the anticommunist Argentinian military dictators.
When Reagan sided with Thatcher, the outcome was certain. After ten weeks, and with nearly one thousand dead, the Union Jack once again flew over the Falklands. Thatcher emerged victorious, with dramatically increased popularity not only at home but abroad as well. The Argentinian dictatorship was soon deposed in a return to democracy, but for Thatcher the message was chilling: War works.
Among the many repercussions from this episode was a small one involving The Clash. At the last possible moment, Strummer decided to call the new album Combat Rock, intended as an oblique comment against the war then raging. It was a sign that Strummer’s artistic gaze—largely diverted to Central America, Vietnam, and New York City—might soon come to rest back home.
For now, there was little time for reflection. Combat Rock was released on May 14, 1982, and the reunited original version of The Clash hit the road two weeks later. The shows tended to downplay Sandinista! in favor of the new record, the London Calling LP, and early nuggets like “Career Opportunities” now containing a revised line: “I don’t want to go fighting in a Falklands street.” “Charlie Don’t Surf” was a key Sandinista! track aired from time to time, with Strummer explaining, “We thought this song was about Vietnam, until we discovered it was about the Falklands.”
The band played virtually every night for two months. Although Chimes was not Headon’s equal as a drummer, he was skilled and tireless, providing a hard-hitting foundation for the songs. One seasoned observer, Rolling Stone critic Mikal Gilmore, complimented the band on “some of the best shows in years.”
Any doubts about the Clash trajectory were quickly overwhelmed by the imperatives of touring. After
