BONDAGE AT BONDS!
By Michael Barnard

from Cream - September 1981

NEW YORK -- The word first got out in I chilly February; the Clash on Broadway. Neon lights, skyscrapers and everything. We've all heard how these New York clubs fight it out over the English bands, but for Bond's, reputed to be the world's largest disco, this was a coup.

In their desperation to beef up their bills with big English names, the handful of nightclubs on the New York circuit catering to the rock 'n' roll genre offer outlandish sums and operate at a loss. Naturally there had to be some casualties and the first to fall, ironically, was Hurrah's, a pioneer in the movement. Others will follow. Bond's is a comparative newcomer to the circle of clubs who compete for the rockers from across the Atlantic. Originally exclusively a discotheque and serving a disco crowd, it's branched out into "crossover." Its futuristic interior has a numbing effect and its huge expanse can hold up to 1800 people. It's rather like a shopping mall with bars and a dance floor... and telephone in the men's room.

The great day for ticket fans finally arrived in early May and an enthusiastic band of hopefuls waited around for several hours -- all in vain. As it turned out, no tickets were available after all and, er, could you come back another day? This was just a taste of things to come, and the sheer difficulty of obtaining a ticket made it all the more tempting an offer. Hysteria in Times Square as the precious slips of paper are doled out at ten dollars a time to the starving masses. Starving for good rock 'n' roll, and something to Get excited about.

With five nights already lined up, it came as no surprise when a further date wasadded to cope with the massive demand. The hottest ticket in town, up for grabs. Get 'em while you can.

The day of the Clash's arrival, Bond's issued mailgrams to the press with instructions to be at Bond's at 4 p.m. for a special bus, laid on especially so the boys could meet the beloved media on their arrival at JFK airport. Well, the bus idea fell through. Only a dozen reporters were sufficiently interested to turn up. Those few keen enough made their way to the airport by car for an on-the-spot press conference with the Clash as thev say, "direct from England." Little emerged apart from the Clash promising "something special" without really specifying just what.

By opening night, New York has swallowed the hype. There's confusion over the numbers game, and inside it's a sardine sauna. Fire marshalls count 3600 heads leaving the club in what has been a testy evening. Support acts suffered, being booed and hissed by the dieherd fans impatient for the arrival of their heroes. Bearing in mind an incident two week earlier at the Ritz, when bottles were pelted at the stage, Bond's issues its liquor and beer in paper cups only, so the shiny dance floor, host for so many would-be John Travoltas in the past, is littered with discarded containers, taking on the appearance of a junk food palace.

Somehow Friday night goes off without a hitch. The heads are carefully counted as they make their way past the barriers, and everyone is presumably sent home happy. Come Saturday, though, there's more confusion. The fire marshalls have ordered that nothing can go ahead until all fire doors are checked thoroughly and the number of spectators is strictly limited. Fans in a frenzy, Saturday's big night is called off in the early evening, with the Clash themselves pledging to go on one way or another if it's within their means, right up until the last minute. The stir is enough to shake New York's one and only "rock" station, WNEW-FM, into dispatching a reporter to Bond's to keep track of developments on Sunday, when another conference is called to solve the "Will They/Won't They" dilemma. The controversy even inspires the station to sandwich "The Magnificent Dance" between its usual Beatles and Elton John staples. Even the stoic New York Times carries a paragraph on the affair in its news section. Now even a non-event is an event.

Meanwhile, Public Image's Johnny Lydon (nee Rotten), newly relocated to New York, chuckles and gloats at his one-time rivals' apparent misfortune. But is it? Late Sunday afternoon. Switchboard jammed. No word yet. Clash yet to appear at press conference. Fire marshalls not saying much. Then the word comes through...it's on! Ticketron holders get preference but the Clash promise the fans that whatever happens, they'll be well taken care of -- the real fans, anyway.

And again, when the show finally gets underway, it's patently obvious what the punters are here to see. Support acts are greeted with varying degrees of tolerance, others with plain impatience. The kids just wanna ROCK OUT!! and at the moment there's only one band cabable of inducing that.

There's a hiatus after the last supporting band, the Slits, while people mull around. The disco floor hosts an army of anticipating adolescents, and soon the ripples of applause, the faint cheers, make their way toward the back, becoming a crescendo as The Great Event nears its climax. Lights, and there they are, in all their blinding brilliance, Joe, Mick and Paul...Superstars! They're wearing carefully coordinated outfits of black, turquoise and red, and Topper Headon's overwhelming kit dominates the stage, reflecting a multitude of lights like some indoor solar eclipse.

"London Calling" pounds out of the P.A. The sound is loud, professional, and immaculately played. The special effects put Close Encounters to shame. It's a big-scale maneuver all right, as the set unfolds into a fair summary of the Clash's career to date. The ever-popular early numbers -- "Safe European Home," "White Man In Hammersmith Palais." And highlights from Sandinista!: "The Call-Up," "Washington Bullets." "Guns Of Brixton" from London Colling. A distinct military flavor in some instance, all graphically illustrated by a backdrop of slides depicting starving children and tin-hatted sergeants, plus hastily-gathered newspaper clippings on South America and other items of current topical note.

There's even a stall on the outer area of the club distributing paraphernalia and propaganda on El Salvador. "lt's up to you not to heed the call up/l don't want to die," preaches Joe Strummer, his jaw at an angle. The peace signs go up. Resist the draft, huh? The whole affair starts to take on the air of a political rally, the Clash firing up the masses, goading and cajoling them into making a stand for their beliefs.

An anti-war stance is fine, but surely rock 'n' rollers would rather just jump around and forget their troubles instead of being indoctrinated with hard-line politics. There's little time-wasting, though. The Clash let the music speak for itself and they exit the stage; but not for long. They're brought back, naturally, by a rousing reception.

It's impressive to see just the four of them generate so much power without the help of dubman Mikey Dread or keyboards player Mickey Gallagher, who helped them out on last year's tour. The encore finish with, "London's Burning," and two solid hours of undiluted Clash is enough to send the crowds shunting home quietly, satisfied they've gotten their money's worth.

The next day (we're at Monday now, friends) the Clash issue yet another statement, which the by-now obliging media all too happily distributes. The shows will go on, probably until the middle of June. Now everyone gets a chance for the hottest ticket in town. Both the Clash and Bond's are set to clean up. Punks on Broadway? This one could run and run.