THE ONLY BAND THE RAMONES FEARED
by DUNCAN 'KID' REID of THE BOYS

Duncan Reid: "Mick Jones was one of the first musicians I met in London. This was 1976. I was a naïve, fresh-faced, 17-year-old, small-town bumpkin, freshly arrived in the capital from Canterbury. I'd fallen in with a crowd who invited me round to the legendary 47A Warrington Crescent, home of Matt Dangerfield and Barry Jones, equipped with a tiny 4-track studio where a motley bunch of wannabe musicians would jam on a Sunday.
Very prominent among the unknowns who would go on to form/join the Sex Pistols, the Damned, the Boys, Generation X and, of course, The Clash was a tall, long-curly-haired, confident and loud-mouthed character Mick. None of us could play much. We'd play the opening bars to Slow Death by the Flamin' Groovies for hours on end because no one knew enough to play the rest.

I first saw The Clash in a barn of a Town Hall in Chelsea. The Boys were by then 'a band'. We had not played anywhere and were yet to have the epiphany of hearing The Ramones. We were therefore still a 'beat group'. Heavily into The Stones, The Beatles, The Kinks, The Who, The Small Faces, etc., and sporting mop tops.

Casino Steel, a man renowned for having bright ideas, which fail spectacularly in the execution, persuaded me to join him in visiting a posh Kings Road 'hair salon' to have my hair hennaed black, to be followed by a visit to see The Clash supported by The Vibrators. Henna, as you probably know, is a mud-like substance said to give the hair body and strength. We arrived in the salon to see a range of aristocratic female customers attended to by Warren Beatty-like stylists wondering why these male throwbacks to the sixties had wandered in asking for treatment. But, we persevered.

Both of us emerged looking like skinny-legged shop attendants with golliwog wigs on. 'I feel like a poof,' said Cas. 'So do I', I said. So there we have it. Two extremely un-pc references to a hair treatment for which I apologise, but it was the 70s, Benny Hill, Jim Davidson and Bernard Manning were riding high and the phrase pc had not even yet been invented. So on we walked to see The Clash, trying to keep a low profile and hide our embarrassment, not mentioning to anyone that we were in a band for fear of frightening them off.

The room was terrible. The sound bounced all over the place, especially as it was sparsely attended (The Clash were yet to sign a record deal). None of the songs were at all distinguishable from each other in the cacophony, but I could see that there was something special there. Terry Chimes was still on drums but at the front was a three-man attack. You don't see that often. Most bands will have a lead singer front man, maybe the guitarist will join in and be a show-off as well, but three people who can pull it off is rare. The Clash, however, exploded on stage, the front three careering all over the place and it looked great. It's something I've always wanted to emulate and have only come close recently.

I saw, and indeed played on the same bill as The Clash many times over the following year. When I saw them in places where the sound was up to scratch, it was stunning. The quality of the songs and the performance was top. As Johnny Ramone said, The Clash were the only band The Ramones feared."

Photos copyright: Julie Longden

PUNKS IN THE TOWN HALL
by ANDY BLADE of EATER

Andy Blade – "As the train pulled slowly into Fulham Broadway station, and Brian and I prepared to alight the train, a deranged-looking hippie suddenly came into view. He appeared to be already staring at me, as though he had been waiting. His gaze did not waver once.

'Is he looking at us?' I asked Brian, who had noticed the long-haired freak.
'I think he's looking at you,' he replied, a twinge of nervousness in his voice. 'He looks like a fucking psycho. Look, his eyes are glowing red — he's out of his skull on something like a demonic hippie Rasputin and all that. Boney M were onto something, I reckon.'

Before I had time to think about the connection, all of a sudden the man began pointing at me, screaming a stream of words, mostly unintelligible. All I could make out was — 'You fucking think you're a punk do you?'

I was relieved that he only hated me because I was a punk. I had been in the throes of taking his animosity way too personally.

As the train slowed down and pulled into the platform, the man slowed down with it, gauging the best position to rest and await the imminent standstill of my carriage. Panicked, I turned to Brian.

'He looks like he wants to tear me apart with his bare hands. What shall we do?'
'I don't know,' came my friend's reassuring reply.

We were well used to being chased after being identified as 'punks' by now, but it was normally Teddy Boys or local Finchley lads. Hippies were supposed to be stoned peace-loving folk, but this crazy man — this dirty-looking Rasputin — he looked psychotic. I wondered if he might be on a murderously bad trip, in which case anything was possible. I didn't want to have my eyes gouged out with a potato peeler, or whatever it was that violent hippies carried. I sidled up to Brian, as we both eyed up the nutter on the platform, before muttering quietly: 'I think we would be better off staying on the train until the next stop. We can walk back, wotcha reckon,' Brian nodded in agreement.

We allowed the other passengers to push in front of us, before surreptitiously sinking back, as low as we could into our seats, without looking like we were about to engage in some lewd behaviour, and waited. Finally, the doors began to close. From the corner of my eye, I could see Rasputin glancing around the concourse, looking for us... or me. The train started chugging into gear. Just at that moment, the nutter saw me. Once again he began pointing his long, bony finger in my direction, all the while, laughing manically.

The train juddered to a halt. He was standing right in front of us, clicking an imaginary pistol at his temple as he strode forward. My heart sank to a stop, just as the train jerked into regular motion, and we glided away to safety. Another close scrape. One day my luck would run out, and my time would come, I was sure of that, but on the whole, we'd learned to take such things in our stride.

We were on our way to see The Clash play Fulham Town Hall, and would be late now, thanks to the detour. The Melody Maker writer, Caroline Coon, had invited us along. It wasn't The Clash's first gig, but it wasn't far off it. Both of us were looking forward to checking out one of the other main players of the movement. The Clash were number two in the hierarchy, the Pistols, naturally, were at the top. The Damned came third, above the Buzzcocks. There was little in the way of recorded output to go on at this stage, but because of our very early on acquaintanceship, and gigs with The Damned, and Buzzcocks, we'd already seen them in action. The Buzzcocks were pretty good, if a bit ramshackle, but The Damned were electrifying on stage. I wondered how The Clash would stack up against them. The Damned were a lot more 'fun' than I imagined The Clash to be, but then Joe, Mick, Paul... and the drummer, had a gravitas that the somewhat slapstick Damned lacked. I never understood the rivalry between The Clash and The Damned, but they hated each other.

'Black Fucking Sabbath' — was how Strummer described Dave Vanian and Co.
'Silly old cunt,' was The Damned's response.

The intro to London's Burning began blasting from the stage, the bar emptied in seconds, as the couple of hundred punters migrated to the hall. Joe's vocals, although gruff, and all over the place, his chaotic delivery worked. In a flash, I saw what made The Clash special. I liked the way Joe and Mick got so into it, they forgot to play or sing. Paul Simonon was the opposite. He stood still, pumping out the depth charges that held their raucous racket together. It was hard to believe he had only just picked up the bass recently. It gave both Brian and I all the encouragement we needed to keep going, and get in amongst the fray, regardless of absolutely anything. By the end of the gig, I felt I had been educated in an indescribable way.

Back for an encore, Mick grabbed the mike, and croaked at the audience.
'This one's called White Riot — 1-2-3-4.'

For two minutes, the floor felt as though it would give way, as the fans pogoed frantically, then in a flash, it was over.

The Fulham Town Hall show was a very special gig, for a few different reasons. I loved how they had blagged a gig at the town hall, which appealed to me for some reason. The fact that Brian and I then hung out with the band, of course, made it even more memorable. We even persuaded Joe and Mick to come and see us at the upcoming gig at our school. In spite of us sharing the bill with — 'Black Fucking Sabbath'.

Michelle Brigandage – "I went along to see The Clash at the Royal College of Art for the Night of Treason gig event. I had a panic attack and Mick, looking out to see that I was alright, told us to stand backstage, which we did. I soon became bored backstage so went back out and down the front. I wish I hadn't as Sid [Vicious] kicked off."

These early Clash experiences of 1976 — frenetic, primal, omitting an air of imminent danger whilst pushing the boundaries of rock & roll — were in the grasp of an intuitive group of music fans. Often arriving at these crucial and definitive Clash live outings by sheer chance for some, in all instances these performances would be memorable and remain firmly etched within the annals of pre-Grundy punk history.

Kris Needs was already avidly supportive of punk by the time he experienced a memorable series of Clash gigs between October and November 1976: events that were to help kick-start a lifelong love of The Clash.