CANNIBALISM AT CLASH GIG
(But Why didn't anybody eat MILES?)
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The Clash
ICA
A row of parked Vivas, Consuls and Zephyrs indicated that the
ICA had an audience a little different to the usual. It was
"A Night Of Pure Energy" with Subway Sect, who were
terrible, Snatch Sounds, who I missed, and The Clash.
The Clash were real good. I enjoyed them a lot more than the
Patti Smith Band the night before. They were not poseurs. They
are everything that Sniffin' Glue magazine promised they would
be.
It was as if they had crystallized the dormant energy of all the
hours of crushing boredom of being an unemployed school-leaver,
living with your parents in a council flat, into a series of
three minute staccato blasts delivered like a whiplash at the
audience, who were galvanised into frenzied dancing.
The audience stood out the disco, but now they demonstrated the
choreography of the West Side Story knife-fight, the sparring
partner bop, the villain seducing the virgin dance, the
horse-ride, a little basic pogo dancing and even some old
fashioned high-steppin' truckin'. Patti Smith was there, of
course, and felt removed to climb onstage to dance.
The Clash have the musical intensity of the Ramones - a concerted
high energy delivery - and their lyrics are much better. You
can't hear too well, but if you do catch them it's an extra bonus
to what's going down:
"In 1977, I hope I go to heaven
'Cos I been too long on the dole,
And I can't work at all.
Danger, stranger! You better paint your face,
No Elvis, Beatles or Rolling Stones,
In 1977!"
Lead singer-guitarist Joe Strummer was in the 101ers until
they broke up. The other guys are Micky Jones on guitar, Paul
Simenon on bass and Terry Chimes on drums.
The Clash weren't wearing pink plastic trousers, though a couple
of dozen of their fans were. The Punk Rock scene - or New Wave
Rock as it is better known - has already developed its merchant
class of magazine importers, purveyors of 'punk paraphernalia'
and, of course, journalists. The newly emerging independent
record labels are doing fine work, but I personally find it hard
to imagine a viable musical or social revolution coming from a
clothes boutique in the Kings Road, Chelsea.
Not that the clothes don't look good - many of the outfits were
really neat and were certainly freaking the NW3 crowd who'd come
to see one of the ICA's other shows that evening. There were
imaginative combinations of tri-colour hair, fish-net stockings
with plastic minis, the curious safety-pin fetish, the ubiquitous
plastic trousers and, of course, a lot of Keith Richard
look-alikes.
The Clash played some great numbers like "I'm So Bored With
The USA" and "Career Opportunities", all of which
had a vicious treble ring to them. Then Joe peered down at the
audience in front of the stage and muttered "I don't believe
what's happening down here at the front. . . "
A young couple, somewhat out of it, had been nibbling and
fondling each other amid the broken glass when she suddenly
lunged forward and bit his ear lobe off. As the blood spurted she
reached out to paw it with a hand tastefully clad in a rubber
glove, and after smashing a Guinness bottle on the front of the
stage she was about to add to the gore by slashing her wrists
when the security men finally reached her, pushing through the
trance-like crowd who watched with cold, calculated hiptitude.
Creepy, but not the much exaggerated violence that is rumoured to
attend the new wave bands. I've seen rumbles at everything from
Who concerts to pacifist folk singing sessions.
Meanwhile The Clash continued their 30 minute set, heads snapping
forward like snakes on speed. They ended with their theme tune:
"White Riot. I wanna riot
White Riot, a riot of me own!"
If anyone's got the energy for it, they have.
Miles
