Record Mirror - Music Machine Tuesday 25 July 78

PREVIOUS SIGHTINGS of the Clash in action have been disappointingly distant: the Anti - Nazi League Rally in April, where their music and their message were both scuttled by insoluble sound problems, and before that the Rainbow, always a cold, alien venue, where the band might as well have been on' film for all the contact there was with the audience.

- No such complaints about the Music Machine though: just the right size; to keep things intimate I and tolerable. On a good night, the best gig in London. And Monday was a good night.

Unlike the Rainbow, concerts, there was no real tension: the atmosphere was too enervating for any of that. Everything — the floor? the walls, the audience — was sticky with oozing sweat, with the result that you were soon too-exhausted even to fight your way to the bar.

Even the obligatory resident loony contented himself with grinning dumbly around, advising? people to 'be happy' and grabbing half - heartedly passing female bums.

Then at 12.15 — crash, bang, lurch, and the Clash were off, heaving their way into their distinctive rocking rhythms.

The set, as expected, was a mixture of old favourites and tracks off the forthcoming album — most notably, 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home,' 'Stay Free' and a fun version of 'Blitzkrieg Bop'. 'White Riot' was, happily, left to the final encore, to soak up the-last. ounce of energy lurking in the exhausted crowd.

I still don't think the Clash have the onstage personality to achieve total communication with the audience: there was still a gap there, particularly during Strummer's totally unintelligible announcements. (What was that you were saying about the music papers, Joe?)

During the songs themselves, though, that gap simple disappeared. ' The music itself said it all. And that sums up the Clash, for me — though I still feel that the practical realities inevitably fall Short of their ideals, the intention is still there.

The words might seem glaringly inadequate, the message become muddled, but somewhere in there, the motives are pure, and because of that, their fans — the kids pogoing frantically in the dance floor crush, the serious critics who see them as political commentators, the sceptics (like myself) who can't help respecting — they all understand.

Stick with the Clash: they still deserve your support.

SHEILA PROPHET