Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
We were broke. The Clash then had no manager and were
lurching from one financial crisis to the next. The band
was recording London Calling at Wessex Studios, although the
crisis of confidence between record label CBS and the Clash
was so deep that no one was sure if the record would ever be
released.
Joe Strummer, Mick Jones and Paul Simonon had no money.
Topper Headon certainly had none. Neither had I or the Baker,
who between us shared in all the band's decisions, did all of
the Clash's administrative tasks and lugged around and set up
the amps and PA. CBS was trying to soften the Clash -- toning
down the band's image and its political stance -- by withholding
money. The last-minute offer to appear at a music
festival in Finland was a chance to earn some cash which was
too good to miss.
But it had to be cash. We owed money to banks, and all
accounts had been frozen pending a deal with former manager
Bernie Rhodes. The Clash's appearance at the Russrock
Festival, Finland, had been set up by Ian Flooks. He had
recently set up his own agency, Wasted Talent, and was
touting for trade, with a watchful eye on the managerless
Clash. I had to impress on him that we were not interested in
cheques or banker's drafts, just British pound notes -- up
front, in the hand.
I conducted lengthy negotiations from the wall-mounted
telephone in the corridor of Wessex Studios. Eventually the
fee was agreed. That left just one more problem -- equipment.
All the Clash's gear had been set up in the studio for the
recording session. There wasn't time to dismantle it and send
it to Finland. And anyway it had taken three days to get the
right sound, and we just couldn't afford the cost in studio
time to go through the whole process again.
From phone calls to Scandinavia, I achieved a personal coup
through Thomas Johansen, Abba's road manager, who agreed
that we could use Abba's PA and sound equipment. Abba were
the only group which had ever made me star-struck. I anticipated
the tingle of excitement when I would plug my
jack-plug into Agnetha's amp ... As it turned out, I received
more than a tingle.
We flew to Finland with the minimum crew. Rob Collins, a
sound engineer whom we had used before, was called in at
short notice, and Jeremy Green, the tape operator at Wessex
Studios, was recruited on the spot to look after the guitars and
amps. With the lift-off of the plane we all felt the lifting of
pressure on the band. A kids-out-of-school atmosphere took
over, which lasted for the whole trip. We were away from the
pressures of recording and our money problems, with the
prospect of earning cash-in-hand. We were on holiday!
The festival site just added to the holiday feeling. The
changing rooms were some caravans behind the stage, next to a
beautiful lake, with fir trees and sunshine. It was a long way
from the streets of Notting Hill and the garages of Camden
Town -- the subject matter of most Clash songs. And the band
were playing outdoors, in the daytime -- almost unknown for
them. The Clash had second billing at the festival, after Graham
Parker and the Rumour. They hadn't played support for any
band since the Sex Pistols on the Anarchy in the UK tour of
December 1976. We knew Graham Parker and his gang, and
they couldn't understand it: `How come you're playing support?
How much are you getting paid?'
We played dumb and giggled up our sleeves.
Shortly before the Clash were due to play, the band asked:
`Where's the money?'
`It's OK. It's safe back at the hotel' said the organizers,
surprised at the demand.
`No, we want it now, in our hands, before we go on'
I was dispatched to the hotel with one of the Finnish
promoters to fetch the money. He found it hard to believe that
I was standing in the hotel room counting out 7500 [pounds sterling] in
sterling, all wrapped in 100 [pounds sterling] bundles. This wasn't the normal
way of doing business. The festival was funded by the Finnish
government, under a youth arts development programme, so it
was unlikely that they would have paid us short. But we had
learnt from long experience not to trust anyone. Satisfied that
it was all there, I bundled the notes into my atomic pink
flight case and rushed back to the stadium.
`We've got the cash, lads. On you go!'
The band prepared to run on-stage when I noticed a buzz
from the PA. I rushed on to connect a loose jack-plug, grabbed
a mike-stand with my other hand and performed a backward
flip across the stage as an electric current took a short cut
across my chest. The crowd went mad with excitement.
They thought my acrobatics were part of the act. I went mad.
Grabbing the microphone, I yelled abuse about incompetent
Finnish technicians and generally called for the whole of
Scandinavia to plummet into an obscene hell, led by the
cheering folk in the audience. They loved this even more, and
as I went backstage to resume my grip on the case full of cash,
the Clash went on-stage to a huge roar. The band put on a
good show, fuelled by the Finnish vodka they'd demanded
backstage before the set.
After the set the holiday mood continued. We watched
Graham Parker's band from the stage wings, shouting
encouragement and taking the piss. I had a cheap camera, and
went on-stage and asked Parker to smite for a photo mid-song.
He would sing a line and then say, `Fuck off, fuck off', to me
out of the corner of his mouth.
After the concert all the bands and their entourages went
to a huge banquet in the dance hall of the hotel. Everyone
was working hard at getting wrecked -- Finnish beer is state-licensed,
and labelled with one, two or three stars according
to strength. We went for three-star. As was my way, I got
more wrecked than most, and fell into a stupor, still with a
dead-man's vice-like grip on the case of cash.
Eventually Joe and Paul decided to carry me to the
bedroom. They told me the next day that they couldn't lift me
and had had to drag me across the floor to the lift. My back
had the carpet burns to prove it. As Joe passed Graham Parker,
pulling me and the pink cash bag, Parker had shouted to him:
`Who is that cunt?'
`He's our road manager,' said Joe. `He's looking after us.'
Waiting at Turku airport for our return flight, we were still
in high spirits. We felt like we had got away with a bank
heist. As photographer Pennie Smith said later: `Being on the
road with the Clash is like a commando raid performed by The
Bash Street Kids.' During the flight I sat with the briefcase on
my lap and handed out wads of cash, making a real game of it.
`One for you, one for you, one for me ...'
Everyone stuffed wedges of notes into their pockets, to the
shocked astonishment of the other passengers and flight staff.
We had cash at last and wanted to flaunt it. We had bypassed
our creditors and the banks, and had been fellow conspirators
throughout the gig. Little did Graham Parker and the Rumour
know that although we had played support, we had been paid
more than them.
We changed planes at Stockholm, and each of us bought a
copy of Playboy for Tony Sanchez's expose of Keith Richards
and the Rolling Stones. Mick Jones was a `Keef' lookalike, and
he knew it, but his attempts to live a Keef-like lifestyle were
better hidden from the public gaze. He leant across and
swiped me across the back of the head with his rolled-up
Playboy. `Don't you ever do the same thing to us, Johnny,' he
said.
And now I have. When I told Mick about this project he had
no objections.
`Don't worry, I won't go on about the cocaine and the birds,'
I said.
`That's a pity,' said Mick. `I could do with the credibility.'
`Fuck authority,' said Joe. `I loved that, "Who's in charge?"
"He is ..." and there was you completely out of it,' and he
leapt on to the burning log straddling the bonfire, sparks and
flames leaping up around his fire-dance, his frame, still
sporting a fine quiff, silhouetted in the aureole surrounding
the eclipsing full moon. He looked just slightly older, slightly
wiser, than the figure he cut on-stage twenty years previously.
And I clicked and slipped backwards. The Clash were filming
a video for London Calling ...
The Baker and I had turned up at Battersea Park at midday. A
bright spark at the council had thought of installing sleeping
policemen in the park road, presumably to slow down runaway
wheelchairs. It was murder manoeuvring the Clash's atomic
pink flight cases of amps and speakers over them to the
floating jetty, grandly called Battersea Pier, which bobbed up
and down with the tide. Don Letts, who was doing the filming,
turned up on a motor launch, dreadlocks flying, with the film
crew. We set up the backline as if we were playing at the
Lyceum -- amps, leads, mikes, stands, PA to roll back the
sound. And we waited and waited for the band to arrive. We
buttoned our coats against the growing cold of the afternoon
and even Letts' good humour began to wane. Cold hours
passed and the sun set. It began to rain and the Clash turned
up. All the band's equipment was standing in the drizzle
getting soaked. Don had sent out for some lights and I sent
out for some Remy Martin. I wanted to pack up and go home.
The boat pulled out, riding the swell of the river, and Letts
was shouting instructions to the band through a megaphone,
like he was at the Boat Race.
`All right, hold it. When we do that section again all gather
around the mike then spread ...'
It was so weird it cheered me up, and the band ran through
it again and again, patiently and professionally, looking urban
and urbane, and wet. It was as if they had known it was going
to rain, and known it was going to be filmed at dusk. Joe
wielded his faithful old guitar, with its `Ignore Alien Orders'
sticker. Paul sported a wide-brimmed gangster hat; Mick was
in a dark suit, with a red tie and handkerchief sending off
flashes of colour. Every time Topper hit the drums spray
bounced up into his face, sparkling in the artificial light.
Between takes I mopped at their rain-soaked guitars and faces
with towels in a little wooden hut nearby, as they slugged
Remy and hugged each other against the cold.
Finally, it was done and the band pissed off in a cab. Baker
and I, cold, wet and starving, were left to pack everything
away, without even the roar of the crowd to see us home.
Baker whinged. `Look at this stuff -- it's soaked. How are we
going to dry it off? It's ruined."
I grabbed a mike-stand and dumped it into the water.
Anger welled into strength, and I picked up a wedge monitor,
hired from Maurice Plaquet, and with a roar hurled it into the
Thames. To our surprise it floated, and, rocking with laughter,
we watched it bobbing under the fairy lights of Chelsea Bridge.