view was backed up by history, and was shared by many believers. Priests and nuns served in the Sandinista government, for example, and had sacrificed their lives in El Salvador, part of a “liberation theology” that reclaimed this radical Jesus. While Thatcher and Reagan wore Christianity on their sleeves, The Clash’s stand with the dispossessed was more consistent with Christ’s life and teachings.
Unlike “Armagideon Time” or “Police and Thieves,” however, “The Sound of Sinners” did not seem like heavy message music. Yet clearly the song meant much to Strummer, and its comedic disavowal of messianic pretension sparked his most vulnerable appeal of the evening. The singer dismissed rock stars and their glamour, pointedly including himself in that “nowhere” crowd. His anguished outcry aimed to bridge the chasm between The Clash and its audience and, in so doing, perhaps to mend the similar gap widening within the band’s heart.
Schizophrenia nonetheless remained apparent. After a frantic stretch of blazing rockers—“Police on My Back” (with Jones again on lead vocals), “Brand New Cadillac,” “I Fought the Law,” and “I’m So Bored with the USA,” with Strummer pausing only to spit “Oh so you’re still there?” at the audience—the band segued into the pop love song “Train in Vain,” their first US hit.
Next the band brought the funk of “Magnificent Seven,” spinning its tale of workaday desperation before downshifting into the brilliantly bleak seven-minute epic “Straight to Hell.” The song gained further poignancy from Strummer’s extended rant against drug-addled rock stars. Such, the singer noted, made enough money to get their blood changed when their lifestyle grew too toxic, caring not a whit that they were leading others down a dead-end path—a clear reference to an apocryphal story then circulating about Keith Richards.
Strummer brought his improvising to a close with bitter lines like “Hey, man, let’s just party / while our friends are dying / let’s just party / hey, where’s the party at?” before spitting out the song’s aching final verse. Yet, after this sobering, artful challenge, it was back to the lightweight hit “Should I Stay or Should I Go.”
The shifts were jarring—but then it was over. The band went off the stage, returning for a short encore of “Clampdown.” Strummer once again launched into a tirade, blasting complacency about atomic weapons and nuclear power. The song drifted out across the multitude, moving some, no doubt mystifying others.
The band stepped back, intending to return for a final encore. When organizers moved to preclude that by dismissing the crowd, Vinyl tried to grab the mic. A fracas erupted, with the band in fisticuffs with the festival staff. As this unfolded, an emcee took the microphone and called out derisively, “The Clash has left the building,” echoing the fabled Elvis exit announcement. The show was over.
Likely the festival’s most dynamic set, it was surely the most unsettling. The Clash had flung itself against the wall of rock-biz hypocrisy and audience expectation, while being sure to showcase all its hit singles. In its inimitable fashion, the band simultaneously played the game and sought to burn it down.
It was one of their greatest performances. But if The Clash intended a righteous challenge to “business as usual,” it didn’t necessarily come off this way. To many, their behavior was simple rock star ego, self-servingly couched in revolutionary rhetoric. The Clash’s half-million-dollar fee seemed at odds with its concern for the poor. Why didn’t they donate some of their take? And if they didn’t like the festival, why play in the first place? While the band made noises about returning to California to play a free show, this didn’t stem the criticism.
As The Clash returned home with contradictions worsened and internal divisions unhealed, the crucial UK general election loomed. Thatcher’s popularity had dipped from its post-Falklands high but remained well above where it had been a year earlier. In part, this was due to an economy that was bouncing back in some areas—though not in Britain’s hard-hit north, reeling from industrial closures.
Meanwhile, the Labour Party had splintered. Dissident elements had formed the Social Democratic Party that allied itself with the middle-of-the-road Liberal Party. Thatcher’s opponents could not have done her a bigger favor.
Thatcher got a smaller percentage of the vote than in 1979—dropping from 43.9 percent to 42.4 percent—but thanks to the fractures on the left, the Conservatives swept Parliament. This meant Thatcher now had a vast, veto-proof majority—and a free hand to pass right-wing legislation—even though she had won considerably less than half the overall vote. It was an ominous portent, made worse by the news of rebounding popularity for Reagan, readying his own run for reelection.
Meanwhile, the members of The Clash had gone their separate ways after returning from the US Festival. No one seemed to know what the next step was.
June and then July passed with no movement. As The Baker remembers, “I started calling everyone in an attempt to find out what the next move was, but it seemed like no one knew or no one was talking. No matter who I called—Kosmo, Bernie, Joe, Paul, or Mick—I was met with a resolute, ‘I don’t know,’ or, ‘I haven’t heard from anyone.’ It seemed insane.” A conspiracy of silence had descended over the band, with clandestine meetings being conducted behind closed doors.
The Baker finally got a grudging agreement to restart rehearsals—the essential first step toward writing new songs—but with only limited results: “We set up the backline at Rehearsal Rehearsals and put the kettle on just as we did for previous occasions, but it was like flogging a dead horse. One day Paul would turn up, hang around for a while, and go home. The next day Mick would arrive late, miss Joe, and leave again, and so on. Poor Pete Howard was going out of his mind, having succeeded in getting the chance of a lifetime, only to have it turn out like this. I can’t actually remember a complete rehearsal that August.”
Unbeknown to The Baker, pent-up frustration, stoked by the pressure of mass success, was about to splinter The Clash. Jones was soon to be purged from the band that he, more than anyone save perhaps Rhodes, had built.
“The day Mick was fired, the air was thick with tension,” The Baker recalls. “Bernie came into the studio early, then left. Then he would call: ‘Anyone there yet?’ ‘No.’ Click.” When Strummer and Simonon turned up, nothing was revealed to them, and they went across the road to the pub with Rhodes.
The Baker was told to have Jones come straight over on arrival: “Mick arrived suitably late and I told him they were waiting in the pub. He ruffled his feathers and asked me, ‘What are they all doing in the pub?’ I told him I didn’t know.”
After only about fifteen minutes, Jones came back from the pub and without a word proceeded to put one of his guitars into its case. The Baker: “I was busy doing something on the other side of the room and heard Digby say, ‘Do you want me to take the guitar for you, Mick?’ Then Mick said, ‘They’ve asked me to leave the group!’ Digby interjected, ‘They can’t do that, it’s your group, isn’t it?’ Mick said, ‘They don’t want me in the fucking band anymore!’” Jones then picked up his guitar and left Rehearsal Rehearsals for the last time.
It had been an excruciating choice, and perhaps it was the right one. But The Baker articulates the first reaction of many observers: “What did I think when Mick was kicked out of the band? I thought The Clash was over and done.”
Yet how could The Clash end at the height of its popularity, with a battle of historic proportions looming? Was there a way to rebuild, to reinvent, to right the course and get on with its mission? Strummer, Simonon, Rhodes, and Vinyl were determined to find out.
chapter two
what
