THE CLASH

THE ICA, that home of lively experiment in London's Mall, is fast becoming the badly needed workshop-cum-watering hole for the growing number of jolly ravers following the rise and rise of the new-wave punk-rock bands.
Last Saturday, advertised as A Night Of Pure Energy, was the second in a projected series. In a spartan environment (a large, square room with an excellent view of the stage) a warm crush of people gathered to parade their finery and check out the band most likely (now that the Sex Pistols are signed-up and on their way) to become the "enfants terribles" of the scene.

The Clash are big news now. As soon as they set foot on stage they slam into their set. Ferry Chimes (drums) cracks out the tempo, Mick Jones (guitar) and Paul Simenon (bass) hit on their low-slung guitars, and Joe Strummer, clenching a fist at his side, angles his gaping mouth at the mike. They're off and, like the expert emotional marksmen they are, never do they embellish a single action with anything more than what is absolutely necessary to get to the heart of the matter as effectively as possible.

"White Riot" is their first number. It’s their theme song, their "Anarchy In The UK," and it's a fine introduction to the electrifying pace to come. So fast do these musicians attack their set that it's impossible to imagine them noticing if the place was collapsing around them. When the black shape of Patti Smith leaps on stage in front of Paul Simenon he hardly falters.

But perhaps the band do register that one of their favourite rock outfits is now in the audience, too (they all went to see Patti the night before) because, from that moment on, there's no stopping them. Even though Joe Strummer's guitar (which he has "treated" so that it rings with an extraordinary treble sound) claps out before he can mash into the second number, "London's Burning," they visibly pull out all the stops and deliver the most concise set they've yet played in public.
– CAROLINE COON

PHOTO: SATURDAY NIGHT. The Clash are playing. It's a regular gig. In the foreground, two young lovers fondle one another’s earlobes
Pic: RED SAUNDERS

CANNIBALISM AT CLASH GIG

(But why didn't anybody eat MILES?)

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 crystallised 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!"
("1977" by The Clash)

Lead singer-guitarist Joe Strummer was in The 101’ers 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 King’s 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, fishnet 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 earlobe 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

PHOTO: TEN SECONDS LATER. My God, they’re eating each other. These people are cannibals! The young man howls with pain as his blood-spattered young lady is dragged away, all the while trying to slash her own wrists. But for the dudes in the audience it’s just a regular Saturday gig. Maybe they eat earlobes themselves? Edgar Froese (left) wonders if they’ll be turning out for T. Dream. "Can’t these Englishers afford sausages?"
Pic: RED SAUNDERS

Shane MacGowan perpetrates
'Cannibalism at Clash gig,' 1976 ...

On Saturday, October 23, 1976, the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London hosted a show by the brand-new punk sensation known as The Clash. It was an eventful evening by any reckoning.

The openers were Subway Sect and Snatch Sounds, who seem not to have made much of an impression. At that point The Clash and the Sex Pistols were in a category of two in terms of being at the absolute pinnacle of delivering pissed-off punk music and generating the electric excitement of punk (and the associated publicity too). The night before—and that night too—Patti Smith was playing the Hammersmith Odeon but managed to make her way to the ICA so that she could dance onstage to "I'm So Bored with the U.S.A." As will be easily imagined, the audience was in a rowdy mood and the alcohol was flowing freely. The show had been billed as "a night of pure energy," and it surely lived up to that.

In the November 6, 1976 issue of the New Musical Express, an account of the show appeared, written by Barry Miles, who preferred to go simply by Miles as a nom de journalisme. The cheeky, startling headline of the piece was "CANNIBALISM AT CLASH GIG," with the subtitle "But why didn't anybody eat MILES?" At the top and bottom of the writeup were two pictures, taken by Red Saunders, of Shane MacGowan and a renowned punk fan named Jane Crockford, unflatteringly nicknamed "Mad Jane." The pictures show indistinct mayhem as well as a generous portion of blood flowing from MacGowan's right earlobe. Interestingly, both of the subjects were, or would be, in notable bands of their own: MacGowan was in the Nipple Erectors and (of course) The Pogues, while Jane was in The Bank of Dresden and The Mo-dettes.

In Bob Gruen's must-own book The Clash he gets Mick Jones and Paul Simonon to comment on the show:

Mick: "That was the night of Shane MacGowan's earlobe, wasn't it? He didn't really have it bitten off, you know. Isn't that the same show where Patti Smith got up on stage during our set?"

Paul: "That was the ICA—it was called A Night of Pure Energy. My haircut's gone very mod; it had flopped down from all the jumping around onstage. In the beginning all that jumping about was a way of dodging gobs and missiles generally. There's Joe with his sharks' teeth—when I first met him they looked just like a real shark's teeth."

Gruen notes of the MacGowan incident that it gave The Clash "their first significant press coverage." He also quotes Joe Strummer as saying, "Without Mad Jane's teeth and Shane's earlobe, we wouldn't have got in the papers that week."

In The Clash: Return of the Last Gang in Town, Marcus Gray writes about that evening:

When the Clash started playing, a couple in front of Miles and Red were obstructing their view of the band. Apparently intent on attacking each other while laughing like maniacs, they refused to move out of the way. So Red took pictures of them. "I had no idea how famous those photos were to become." The NME used them to accompany Miles's report under the headline "CANNIBALISM AT CLASH GIG": "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 [while the crowd] watched with cold, calculated hipitude." ... the Clash gig was a wild night fuelled by speed and alcohol. The bar staff entered into the spirit of the evening to such an extent that they gave away a further £80 worth of booze ... and the twosome Miles and Red observed, Mad Jane and Shane MacGowan, were by no means content to loiter at the back of the queue.

"Me and this girl were having a bit of a laugh which involved biting each other's arms till they were completely covered in blood and then smashing up a couple of bottles and cutting each other up a bit," Shane informed ZigZag's Granuaille in 1986, setting the record straight on the occasion of punk's 10th anniversary, and, in the process, offering another insight into the mythopoetics of punk. "That, in those days, was the sort of thing that people used to do. I haven't got a clue now why I did it or why anyone would want to do it, but that was how teenagers got their kicks in London if they were hip. Anyway, in the end she went a bit over the top and bottled me in the side of the head. Gallons of blood came out and someone took a photograph. I never got it bitten off—although we had bitten each other to bits—it was just a heavy cut." As Shane noted, though, the anecdote was exaggerated with each telling. "It's like the old story about the bloke who catches the fish. He says that it weighs this much and it's that big, and within a couple of days it's a whale." Over the years, few have been prepared to let the fact that his earlobes are both present and correct stand in the way of a good story.

Extensive photos in Bob Gruens book

Shane MacGowan, a noted punk face, was entwined with "Mad" Jane, later of The Mo-dettes; only when blood began to stream down his face and neck did he realise that in her passion she had bitten off most of an earlobe. (Within the culture of punk, this was held to be a rather impressive statement of primal art). The incident gave The Clash their first significant music press coverage.

“Without Mad Jane’s teeth and Shane’s earlobe, we wouldn’t have got in the papers that week,” said Joe Strummer.

Mick: "That was the night of Shane MacGowan’s earlobe, wasn’t it? He didn’t really have it bitten off, you know. Isn’t that the same show where Patti Smith got up on stage during our set?"

Paul: "That was the ICA – it was called A Night of Pure Energy. My haircut’s gone very mod; it had flopped down from all the jumping around onstage. In the beginning all that jumping about was a way of dodging gob and missiles generally. There’s Joe with his sharks’ teeth – when I first met him they looked just like real sharks’ teeth."

INSTITUTE OF CONTEMPORARY ARTS,

23 October 1976, London
ROADENT

I got my travel warrant from HMP Birmingham to London. I’d only been there for a short visit. Miscarriage of justice, of course, and I went to the ICA where The Clash were playing. I was over early doors, and I met Joe. I asked, "Do you know anywhere I can sleep?" and he said to come and sleep at the rehearsal room. Then I asked if I could carry boxes and get into the gig for nothing... and so I became their road filth!

I know that people talk about all that "last gang in town" thing, but we were a very close-knit bunch. Joe, Paul and I spent a long time sleeping in Rehearsal Rehearsals. I think we had something like four sheets, one blanket, one sofa, two cushions and a one-bar electric fire, and we’d take turns having the blankets. Paul was lucky he didn’t have a sense of smell!

Joe used to spend a lot of time at Sebastian Conran’s flat, or the house when Sebastian was meant to be looking after it for his father. His allowance was meant to be the rent he collected, which wasn’t a great deal because Joe certainly never paid very much!

With punk we couldn’t quite believe the moral panic that was being caused. I remember me and Joe discussed it, once saying that if a band hadn’t made it after two years you may as well knock it on the head because you’re never going to make it—but The Clash did. We did think we were something special. You know, all of us did.

We knew Siouxsie from going down Club Louise’s on Poland Street. Everybody used to be down there and at the 100 Club. We all thought we were special because we weren’t of the same ilk as everything that had gone before.

Certainly, with The Clash there was no feeling they’d go on to become this sort of massive thing and there was no feeling that Joe would be canonised into St Rummer, but we did feel we were special.

INSTITUTE OF CONTEMPORARY ARTS,

23 October 1976, London

Michelle Brigandage: "The next time I saw The Clash was at the ICA. I bumped into* Mick Jones on the Strand and we talked a while and then walked to the venue together. I remember this gig as being absolutely rammed, but my friend took photos from behind us and it was only three or so lines thick, the rest was empty space filled with music biz people drinking and chatting between themselves. There's a photo of me at the ICA, looking horrified as Shane McGowan got his ear bitten off and Adrian Thrills not even noticing, he was so intent on pogoing away right at the front! Another time, Patti Smith jumped on stage and started dancing; I really enjoyed those early gigs."

"I was frightened when I first saw The Clash at the ICA. I was shit scared. To see a punk show is very frightening, it's the music. It's very heavy, the vibe in the music and the vibe in the audience is very frightening for a first-time onlooker."
— Gene October, Sniffin' Glue, Issue 10

At the ICA gig, Patti Smith showed her approval by joining The Clash onstage, later taking Paul Simonon to Birmingham ahead of her next gig.

By autumn 1976, punk remained largely unrecognised outside its small circles. Despite growing music press attention and dedicated fans, punk's music, fashion, and ideals were still evolving — a time of artistic freedom and endless possibilities. By year’s end, much of that would change forever.

In The Seventies:
Adventures in the Counter-Culture

Bernie Rhodes, the manager of Subway Sect, Snatch Sounds and The Clash, invited me to see his bands perform at the Institute of Contemporary Arts (ICA) at a gig billed as ‘A Night of Pure Energy’ on 23 October 1976. NME had not yet mentioned The Clash, though from what I’d heard, they were more politically committed than the Sex Pistols and their lyrics were more interesting, so I went along. I found Subway Sect virtually impossible to listen to and I was talking with Bernie Rhodes when Snatch Sounds were on and returned only for The Clash.

As soon as The Clash took the stage, the punks erupted in a frenzy of activity. Pogo dancing was supposedly invented by Sid Vicious, slam-dancing at the 100 Club, and had not yet completely taken over as the only correct punk mode of rhythmic expression; there was also prizefight sparring, the rocking-horse ride, several examples of West Side Story-style knife-fight choreography and even some old hippy high-steppin’ and boogying-on-down, though a hard core in the centre pogoed furiously, slamming into each other and twisting and turning with the music, rather like seals leaping up to be fed in a crowded aquarium.

I had seen the Patti Smith Group play the previous night, but they had been too distant, too New York cool and arrogant to really connect with the audience, and I had not liked them as much as at their gig five months before, which had been less studied. I preferred Patti as a poet. Now Patti was in the Clash audience to check out the competition and clearly felt that her own dance moves were being overshadowed by the crowd, so she climbed on stage alongside the band to dance where everyone could see her.

The Clash was everything that Sniffin’ Glue magazine had promised. Fast, high energy, with intelligent lyrics—though it was hard to actually decipher them—songs such as ‘I’m So Bored With the USA’, ‘Career Opportunities’ and ‘White Riot’. It was this last title which made my editor at NME, Neil Spencer, wonder whether the paper should be publicising them because to him it sounded racist. I was worried too, as there were a number of swastika armbands and patches on display and the audience was brimming with aggression.

At this time the Clash line-up consisted of Joe Strummer, lead singer, Mick Jones on guitar, Paul Simonon on bass and Terry Chimes (known as Tory Crimes) on drums. Terry left soon after, unable to deal with the violence of the fans. A wine bottle had shattered on his high-hat, showering him with shards of glass. The other members of a group can dodge if they see a missile, but the drummer is seated, an obvious target. He was replaced by Topper Headon.

Joe Strummer was born in Ankara, a public schoolboy whose father was in the diplomatic corps, but he hid his undeniable middle-class origins with a slurred working-class London accent.

...The show turned violent: a couple amid broken beer bottles suddenly lunged at each other and she appeared to bite off his earlobe. 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 crowd, who, apparently in a trance, watched but did not attempt to get involved.

‘Anyone’s into violence, go home and collect stamps!’ Strummer yelled at them. ‘Collecting stamps is much tougher.’

It turned out that not all the earlobe was lost and its owner, Shane MacGowan, later went on to front the multimillion-selling band The Pogues, and his girlfriend Mad Jane became Jane Modette of The Mo-dettes. MacGowan later told ZigZag magazine:

‘I was up the front at this Clash gig in the ICA, and me and this girl were having a laugh, which involved biting each other’s arms ’til they were completely covered in blood and then smashing up a couple of bottles and cutting each other up a bit. Anyway, in the end she went a bit over the top and bottled me in the side of the head. Gallons of blood came out and someone took a photograph. I never got it bitten off—although we had bitten each other to bits—it was just a heavy cut.’

I brought up the issue of violence when I interviewed the band for NME two weeks later at Rehearsal Rehearsals, their studio space next to the Roundhouse in Camden Town. Mick Jones was vehement:

‘We ain’t advocating it. We’re trying to understand it... It ain’t hip. We definitely think it ain’t hip. We think it’s disgusting to be violent.’

When I mentioned the earlobe incident he turned to Joe: ‘On that gig, it put me an’ you off, didn’t it? I mean, when I came offstage I didn’t feel particularly good.’

I got the sense that Joe didn’t agree, but he cleverly redirected the conversation:

‘But it’s energy, right? And we wanna channel it in the right directions.’

Paul Simonon had the words ‘Creative Violence’ stencilled on his painted boiler suit. Since I wanted to know about violence, Joe explained further:

‘Suppose I smash your face in and slit your nostrils with this, right?’

Joe had been opening and closing his flick-knife in a vaguely threatening way throughout the interview. Now he held it close to my face.

‘...Well, if you don’t learn anything from it, then it’s not worth it, right? But suppose some guy comes up to me and tries to put one over on me, right? And I smash his face up and he learns something from it. Well, that’s in a sense creative violence.’

‘And this sort of paintwork is creative violence too, right?’ he said, pointing to Paul’s white stencils and clashing colours.

It seemed to me that Joe had a fascination with violence that was at odds with his generally left-wing sympathies. I felt the same ambivalence in their lyrics and their political slogans, and I thought their audience would like a clear, unambiguous statement of their position. Joe spelled it out for me:

‘I think people ought to know that we’re antifascist, we’re anti-violence, we’re anti-racist and we’re pro-creative. We’re against ignorance.’