Get Out Of Control Tour
Supported by Richard Hell & The Voidoids & The Lous (+ Whirlwind?)

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POSTER

Ticket

"The Clash were amazing"

James Radford - What a fantastic memory for me; this was my first ever gig, the Clash were amazing and so were the Voidoids. Mark Bell was the Voidoids drummer before he became Marky Ramone. There were two other bands on that night as well, an all girl French band I think they were called the Lous and a local Coventry band that I was later told had some of The Specials in but that might not be true.

The Clash: Clash City Rockers On Tour

Kris Needs,
Zig Zag, December 1977

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DERBY KINGS HALL. The thickset geezer with the appearance of a frustrated rugby player - too short to make the scrum but just as tough if they'll only try me out..

DERBY KINGS HALL. The thickset geezer with the appearance of a frustrated rugby player - too short to make the scrum but just as tough if they'll only try me out - stands at the edge of the crush around the stage and looks at the bobbing, shoving throng in between wet stares at all-girl French group the Lou's, who are whacking out their punqe frogga in the face of a constant shower: of gob and plastic glasses. The Lous are soaked and matted but don't let up.

The frustrated one drains the last drop of the warm-piss-that-passes-for-beer into the beer-belly which hangs over his baggy disco trousers, weighs the glass in his hand and flings it at the stage, narrowly missing a lou.

The Clash's Mick Jones breaks away from the crowd at the side, walks over to the bloke and puts a hand on his shoulders. "D'you wanna come outside?" or words to that effect. The hurler is embarrassed and surprised that a member of the group he's paid to see tonight is acting bodyguard for the third-on-the-bill act.

I've met few people who CARE as much as Mick Jones, apart from the rest of The Clash. Stranded fans are allowed to sleep on the group's hotel room floor. The group will talk to non-sheep fans with warmth and interest. Joe Strummer will take the stage for a punishing hour-long set a few hours after a doctor has told him he must rest for three weeks to get rid of the glandular fever which has kept him in pain for days.

It must be a bit of a piss-off that when the group takes the stage the first crowd response is an eyeful of gob. Must make it all seem worthwhile.

I thought it might just be the fact that Derby rates high in the audience-retard stakes, but it was the same messy story down in Cardiff. How can a group play its best when guitar strings are all gobbed up and you can't see cos some twat's sprayed beer in your eyes? Are groups gonna have to put glass screens in front of the stage then play behind them like a giant T.V. set. Still, gobbing's great "Punk Fun!" just like the papers told ya to. Beer adds a bit of wet-strength. Not to mention the odd glass, for effect. Anyone can do it. You don't have to wear a dog collar, as Derby proved with its legions of stringy-haired denim Quo-troops and the aforementioned Lads from the Sports and Social club, joining in the fray. A funny sight.

The King's Hall is a cavernous barn which doubles as a swimming pool, of all things. The water is covered by boards. Too much pogoing and ka-splosh! Maybe that's why there ain't too many punks in Derby with this Instant Punk Disposal Unit in the hands of the local council! Remember, Derby was the council which wanted an audition from the Pistols before they'd be allowed to play there after the Grundy Affair.

It seems anything which could possibly pass as Punk is not welcome in this city, as me, Danny, Robin Banks and Adrian Thrills (Zigzag staff outing no less!) found out when we ventured across the road to a local pub in search of more be&#0&#0-l&#0&#0e liquid.

As we're getting 'em in its not too hard to notice the two semi-teds at the bar flashing hostile glances in our direction. We pass 'em to sit on the other side. The hate-looks continue, Then he removes his flat-cap (yeah!) and slow-but-sure slick's back his hair making sure we'll notice, Still, there's four of us...

Danny gets up to make for the toilet but why's he talking to the two geezers. A few minutes later he was walks back and sits down, with the pair in tow.

Turns out Dan saw what was coming and thought he'd try and talk 'em out of it. Or at least kill the suspense..

The two locals are surprised and confused. They're being treated like humans by the species the papers have told 'em to hate and destroy. We go through the "Why beat us up we're all the same underneath", bit and they seem to take it in. Bloody good job as it transpires the dozen or so bikers/big blokes sitting opposite were all set to weigh in against us when the action started! Our pair still ain't entirely convinced. "But-why-does-he have-to-look-like that" they say, pointing at me.

We leave after one pint to "See yer mate", and half-smiles. It's only when we come out that Danny explains the potential-seriousness of the situation, i.e. the hidden on-hand reinforcements just waiting for the chance to paint the streets of Derby red - with our blood. Phew. "I must have been pissed", says Danny.

Back at the Kings Hall. Richard Hell and the Voidoids have been on and got similar gob-and-glass treatment to the Lous.

While Hell sits staring at the floor behind his shades the rest of the dressing room is buzzing with pre-Clash gig tension, which is spasmodically uncoiled by good-natured piss-taking.

Joe's ill, reckons it's toothache but finds out differently next day. Mick looks a bit out of it. Paul tries to think of ways "adapt" the name Lester-Bangs. Why? Well, Lester noted US rock critic is along on this leg of the tour for New Musical Express. The Clash are one of his favourite groups along with the Ramones. Paul eventually comes up with (wait for it)..."Molester".

It takes the likeable Lester about a day to get fully accepted in the Clash camp. At first the group treat him politely but are not over-friendly. But with a little time and several "incidents" he was soon the lynch-pin of tour social activity. He eventually ended staying on the tour, double the time he should have. But more later...

Well, those who'd seen previous dates on the tour and the group themselves seemed to agree afterwards that Derby wasn't much cop. I don't care. I thought they were great. Seeing The Clash below their best brings home I just how much craperoo is currently going out under the "Punk Rock" banner.

The Clash roared in with 'London's Burning' followed by the orgasmic chord-rush of 'Complete Control', which would have got higher in the charts if there was any justice but there ain't.

The set was shortened 'cos of bozos bunging; 'The Prisoner' was left out but you shoulda heard the other new ones. 'Clash City Rockers' will be the next single and should destroy the charts. 'White Man in Hammersmith Palais' is...for a start unlike anything else The Clash have done before. Slower than usual, with a melody I love. At last a white group's assimilated reggae music into its own style without resorting to the "This is our obligatory reggae song" blatancy of most that try. It works with Paul's bass and Topper's drums pureeing the rhythm in gaps while Mick's guitar soars out on a deep ring. This number throws the "we wants pogo" brigade.

The rest of the set is made up of album tracks, which the group can toss out with their eyes closed now and naturally seem less into than the newies. As usual the corkers are pulled out towards the end - 'Janie Jones', 'White Riot', two-minute speed of light blurs. The Clash storming the outer limits of intensity is still one of the most exciting experiences in rock'n'roll. It ill comes to a head with 'Garageland', perhaps my favourite Clash song ever. As usual Strummer has discarded his guitar by now.

In the terrace chant finishing blast Mick and Paul are on the drum rostrum, either side of the machine-gun-drumming Topper, guitars blazing: Joe's bent double at the front, tearing his throat apart.

The mood in the dressing room is rather deflated. Fans trickle in and take photos of themselves with Joe and show their Clash scrapbooks. Lester holds court and asks some questions the group don't really feel like answering WHEN...the mood abruptly changes. Everyone is helpless with laughter. Because Mr. Bangs has stood up revealing the most shapeless jeans-arse we've ever seen! "The Light of the East" cries Danny. Lester is a big fellow and pissed, which don't help the situation. But it breaks the ice and he laughs too.

Back to The Clash Motel, where we sprawl around the foyer drinking drinks and throwing salad sandwiches, sometimes in our mouths, mostly at each other.

The sobre desk clerk has a bald head. Paul lobs bits of cake to see if he can pop one dead on centre-pate. The unfortunate bloke carries on writing fiercely in his book as if nothing was happening least of all bits of cake raining all around him!

A full-scale sandwich battle breaks out. Joe holds up an NME-shield for protection. I get a cucumber in Paul's drink but then find several in me lap. Someone produces some Green Slime which is the Toy of the Tour. It's wet, bendable, green and slimy. It's great fun and looks like mould when you put it on cheese. Paul flicks little pellets around for the next few hours and secretly drops some in my beer. Later he proudly boasts: "I got Bernie (Clash manager) right in the mouth and he went 'Errhh!"

Friday is Cardiff. Mickey Foote, (Clash sound mixer) is taking Joe to hospital because his toothache is getting worse. It turns out to be glandular fever. We don't see much of Joe for the next couple of days 'cos he's resting for the gigs.

It's a long journey to Cardiff on The Clash minibus, and it's here that Lester passes another stage of the initiation to becoming a bona fide Good Bloke in The Clash's books.

The journey starts off cold and quiet. Mick slumps asleep, Danny and Robin read, Ellie and Pennie from NME look at the scenery, Lester sits in front of me and Paul and plays his reggae cassettes.

As we get past Birmingham our conversation gets sillier, aided by Paul's refreshments.

"Doesn't Molester sound like Kermit?" says paul.

"Kermit's the only muppet I really like. I don't like Fozzle Bear 'cos he always does things wrong." A Muppet Show sticker is carefully transferred from my bag to the back of Lester's jacket. He doesn't discover it for three days and says he'll never take it off when he does.

"Do you wanna hear the new Ramones LP?" Lester asks innocently. YEAH! Is Rod Stewart a prat? Lester inserts his pre-cassette and for the next half-hour it's paradise all the way. Trouble is we get the giggles pointing at the Muppet sticker. The cold reality of a motorway cafe in a power cut should bring us back to earth. It doesn't. It's still giggles all the way to Cardiff.

Cardiff Post House is like every other Post House...gauche, riddled with muzak and slick-suited businessmen. Oh, and Stoke City, in town for a game tomorrow. Mick thinks its funny cos he got their autographs as a kid.

Horrors when me and Danny get to our room. It's only got a double bed. But then we notice the convertible couch. Phew. To celebrate not having to sleep with me Dan goes to bed upside-down for half an hour, then hangs out of the sixth-floor window in his underpants singing "Just One Cornetto!"

I sit down and watch a silly Welsh kiddie-quiz. I reflect: This is one huge CRACK!

Downstairs Glen Matlock has turned up for the gig. Paul has got a new game. "A budgie with human arms...hee hee...A fish with a penis...ho ho...Bernie with a giraffe's body and the legs of a vole...hoo hoo." So it goes on till we're all joining in.

Two hours in the bar and we're well ready for the gig...which is being held in the hall at Cardiff University. Looks like a better audience though 'cos The Lous go down well and escape without much gob-shower. I really like them.

Richard Hell's lot fare better than the previous night with the studenty crowd. He looks pleased.

The Clash. Tonight they play a blinder. There are more numbers - 'Police and Thieves', 'What's My Name', 'City of the Dead', 'The Prisoner'. Joe's mustering every bit of fevered energy he can while Mick leaps and struts and Paul simmers with suppressed aggression.

This time the mood in the dressing, room is brighter.

A bloke from the students' magazine wants to interview Mick but Mick don't really wanna be interviewed. Still eager questions are fired, and greeted with one-line answers. "Do you still think, the audience can get into your lyrics when they're doing Left salutes?" brings the whole dressing room down.

Meanwhile a bloke from a magazine originally called Punk Rock is talking to Joe and someone who calls him-self "A social worker" keeps asking Paul what'll he do when The Clash break up. "A horse with the eyes of a gnat...hee hee", is what he gets in reply! It must get a bit wearing to encounter this at each gig (that's why you won't find a profound, quote-packed interview in here right now).

"What a sample", mutters a doorman as we leave.

Another hotel bar, another sandwich fight. Paul goes mad and hurls a plateful at Bernie, places a well-aimed ham sandwich in my face and then covers my legs in milk.

Now it's 3 a.m. I'm sitting opposite Lester Bangs. For the last hour I've been trying to keep a straight face as Paul heaps everything from matches and paper cups to tomatoes on Lester's head, blows smoke behind his hair so it looks like he's on fire and finally builds a bonfire under his chair and sets it on fire Joan-of-Arc-style, singing the carpet and nearly catching Lester's now legendary strides. Lester laughs through it all, continuing to send us into further fits with anecdotes about Lou Reed and everything else he chooses to let fire about. The initiation passed. The Clash love 'im and it's days before he's allowed to come off the tour, despite NME screaming for his piece.

Rock Writers are s'posed to come back laden with carefully-probed quotes from their subjects.

The only verbiage I can report; goes something Tike this:

"I'm hungry. Is there anywhere round here still open" - Mick Jones.

"Hey! I'm on fire!" - Lester Bangs.

"A horse with human ears" - Paul Simonon.

"Oy! Stop throwing those sandwiches" - Hotel desk clerk.

No, don't get me wrong. The clash are dead serious about what they're doing, which is producing some of the most vital, uplifting rock'n'roll around. But they are sometimes misrepresented as tight-lipped messengers of urban destruction with a 24-hour cause. The Clash are about living today. Full stop. This includes having a lot of fun. I still didn't expect to come back from the tour with aching sides!

If you know of any recording, email blackmarketclash