OOR. "Walkie-talkie me The Clash." Muziekkrant OOR (Dutch), no. 11, 1 June 1977, 1 page

— A lengthy feature following The Clash around Amsterdam during their 1977 European tour, capturing their raw, antagonistic dynamic and political ethos.

— Interview with Joe Strummer, Paul Simonon, and Mick Jones as they critique hippies, discuss their fears of fascism and the approaching "1984", and explain the meaning behind songs like White Riot and 1977.

— Incidents include a staged photo at an Amsterdam police station, attempts to buy cannabis, and a tense dinner argument between the band and manager Bernie Rhodes over their lack of control and their £25 weekly wage.

— The piece portrays the band's nihilistic worldview, their rejection of the music industry, and their stark, class-conscious commentary on English society.

Muziekkrant OOR is a Dutch music magazine founded in 1971 by Berry Visser and Barend Toet, becoming the Netherlands’ leading pop/rock publication with in-depth interviews, reviews, and coverage of both international and local scenes.

The 1 June 1977 issue (No. 11, 7th year) featured a multi-page interview with The Clash in Amsterdam during their early European tour, alongside coverage of Ramones, The Damned, and Talking Heads.

MUZIEKKRANT OOR
Published fortnightly, seventh year, number 11, 1 June 1977
fl. 2.25/Bfr. 38

In a number of drinking establishments in Amsterdam, on a random trip through the city, three members of The Clash explain why they sing about politics.

The interview was, more than once, conducted via walkie-talkies.

Together with the group, who wore buttons depicting police officers, we once walked into an Amsterdam police station to see what would happen.

Two friendly officers willingly staged a generation gap for the photographer.

During dinner Mick Jones told Joe Strummer in a candid interview ... (missing last lines)

'Shall we go in here,' I ask Joe Strummer, 'because within a hundred metres there’s nothing better to be found anyway, and what does it really matter. You can sit downstairs or upstairs, in the tearoom.' We climb the stairs to the wide gallery.

They are all a bit odd. They sit in shop windows along the canals. There are two or three you might like, but then when you think about the possibility of catching the clap, you lose all interest.

'That can’t happen because I have them do it with their mouth,' says Paul laughing.

He has a thin and boyish face and dark grey-dyed spiky hair. Five minutes later it turns out he can’t play pinball. He throws his whole weight forward when he presses the buttons on the side and is always just a little too early. He leans over the machine just as someone else is trying to work a tricky ball upwards. He drinks advocaat.

Joe Strummer walks to the railing and looks down. 'If you want, you can spit right into someone’s tea from here,' he calls to the others.

Joe Strummer curses hippies. 'They’re hypocrites. They pretend to have all sorts of ideals, but all they really want is dope. We have no illusions — that’s the difference between the hippies and us. They thought they could change the world. We know that’s not possible. Look... we’ll get famous, right?'

'Well, then we’ll first get really good and over time the success will start to alienate us from the people and we’ll become a bunch of bastards, maybe without even realising it. Then some new band will come along — The Wank or something — who’ll say that we’re assholes. Fine.'

'Our manager says we don’t need to worry as long as we stay thin.' Mick Jones laughs. And to think that we’ve now saddled him with those guys from CBS. He’s probably still talking to them now.

The Clash are the most political of the five major punk groups making themselves heard in 1977. The Ramones from America, The Saints from Australia, the Sex Pistols and The Damned from England are each much less obviously on the other side of the generation gap that has once again been created.

In 1977 there’s knives in West 11
Ain’t so lucky to be rich
Stenguns in Knightsbridge
Danger stranger
You better paint your face
No Elvis, Beatles or The Rolling Stones
In 1977

If I say something that rubs Joe Strummer the wrong way, he mutters maliciously: 'You’re a rich journalist. You can afford that.' The Clash have at least one thing in common with the Sex Pistols and The Damned: they give interviews in exchange for free drinks.

We walk from the Concertgebouw (they’re staying somewhere nearby) via the Rijksmuseum to the Leidseplein. Joe Strummer and Paul Simonon each have a walkie-talkie, which they use on stage during Police And Thieves. They walk fifty metres apart. 'Here comes three cheese,' hisses Paul into the device when he sees three girls walking towards him.

We head for a photo session to the Leidseplein police station. The sergeant is called over. He hesitates when I ask if The Clash, a band that sings about its relationship with the law, can pose for a moment between some uniformed officers. 'That’s a nice contrast, their scruffy clothing and the uniforms,' I say. In the end, it’s allowed.

'In England we wouldn’t even dare to enter such a station,' says Joe once we’re back outside. 'Do they have our record there?' asks Paul as we pass a record shop. We go in to look. They don’t have it. Swearing, the three band members leave the shop.

With the tram to the centre. Joe says that two years ago, as a street singer in Amsterdam, he always rode the tram for free. 'Keep a sharp eye at every stop to see if you spot a conductor.' Joe Strummer ends his song 1977 by shouting the year 1984. 'What’s announced in that book, we’re actually experiencing already now.'

'But not that I’m afraid of it, mind you. You can’t stop it anyway. I don’t care what happens. I’ll manage. But it’s going to be worse than what’s said in there. That book was written in the forties and the man saw it very cleverly, but he couldn’t have foreseen that we’d now have much more ingenious equipment than he describes. He also couldn’t have foreseen that it would go so fast. The National Front in England is growing quickly. That’s what we’re fighting against, against fascism. And we’re prepared to really fight, not just in songs.'

Everything in England is based on the class system. Poor people try to be rich and rich boys and girls come to school in filthy jeans just to look poor. Everyone wants to escape their class. We have no solutions, no alternatives for how it is now. We’re not Lenin or Marx or anything. We're just young wankers.

But we do know that everything is terribly badly organised, so that all the schools are overcrowded, that the boys and girls come out of them like idiots, when they could have been great. We’re against all the restrictions the government imposes on everyone. We believe that everyone should be able to decide many more things for themselves.

Once we were at a demonstration for something specific, where a lot of black people were involved. But apart from Paul, me, and our manager, there wasn’t a single white person. Yes, the police, of course. We pelted them with stones. That’s why we sing about a riot of our own.

Because I love the music black people make, but they have their own mentality and their own problems. We’re not liberal idiots who necessarily have to walk hand in hand with black people — that’s not necessary at all. We solve our problems and they solve theirs.

Before long, we’ll all be neat members of that one Party. Not me, but people like me, I mean. I’m too crazy for that; by then I would have already committed suicide. But the scary thing is that it happens without you realising it straight away. We’re silently sliding towards 1984. But I’ll always be the boy with the plastic explosives under his bed, the boy with the guns in his wardrobe.

That afternoon both Joe Strummer and Mick Jones fall asleep — Joe at the bar and Mick just somewhere in the corner. Bernie, the manager, a sort of Radar after brainwashing, walks up to me. 'You wanted an interview?' I explain to him that later we’ll walk back to the hotel and will surely end up somewhere you can talk quietly. While his eyes keep watching me expectantly, the rest of his face and body start acting agitated. 'Do you know that we’re ranked high in America?'

'Do you know that we draw 30,000 people when we play the Rainbow? Do you know that we’re going to score hit after hit? We don’t have to talk to little boys like you at all. We don’t give a damn what the audience in this shit country of ours thinks. That’s not even half a slice of cheese to us on a sandwich.'

Later he proudly tells me about his boys: 'They won’t take it any longer. A new generation has risen and you can bet everything will be different.' Bernie apparently also had something to do with the founding of both The Damned and The Sex Pistols. He is an English but above all pathetic version of Kim Fowley, a puny little wimp of thirty-two. Joe is walking across the street with a walkie-talkie. Paul is walking behind Bernie. 'Bernie is a rat, over.' Joe, whose voice sounds suspiciously like Lennon’s, shouted it across the street. Bernie laughs sheepishly.

'Bernie is an annoying piece of shit,' shouts Paul back. 'Beeernieieie.'

From the moment the boys have done the soundcheck they pester for dope. Finally Mick has found two guys, while Joe has already run to the Melkweg, which he still remembers exactly from two years ago. He runs there alone.

'First wait until Joe comes back,' says Paul. Joe comes back and from a distance already pushes his thumb down to indicate that the Melkweg was still closed.

'Yeah, we’re not doing that,' says Joe, who wants to buy for 25 guilders. 'Suppose it’s nothing. First see. You come along with me, Paul.'

Together they walk into the street with their heads down. Moments later Paul returns. 'It’s rubbish. We’ll move on.'

'Until five years ago I wasn’t poor at all,' Joe Strummer tells me when we go somewhere to eat. 'I was at a boarding school south of London and eventually ran away without money, living on the street. You had to have short hair, you were never allowed out, you weren’t allowed to have cigarettes, you’d eventually get terribly fed up and then you’d run away. I had annoying parents who wanted to see me succeed at university.'

My father worked for the army and was usually abroad for weeks with my mother. That was nice, because then I had the house to myself and could do what I wanted with the school fees. But when they came back, you had trouble again. I played for a while in the 101-ers. We made music à la Eddie Cochran and Bo Diddley, but then I met Paul and Mick and they had very different ideas. I then started playing their style of music, and we changed the name.

'Why I’m in this band, they sometimes ask me... well, for the free salmon (he points to his plate)... for the money... because I have nothing better to do, for fun... because then I don’t have to clean toilets.'

'I’ve worked in a bookshop, and in a department store,' says Mick. 'I had to number exam papers somewhere and I also worked in Social Security, where I had to open letters at a time when they thought letter bombs were coming in. And I had to scrub the floors.'

'I also often hung around Social Security,' chuckles Joe, 'and then Mick would slip me money.'

'Career opportunities
The ones that never knock
Every job they offer you
Is to keep you out of dock
They offered me the office
They offered me the shop
They said I'd better take
Anything they'd got
Do you wanna make tea
For the BBC?
Do you wanna be
Do you wanna be a cop?"
I hate the army
And I hate the RAF
You won't get me fighting
In the tropical heat
I hate the Civil Service Rules
And I ain't gonna open
letter-bombs for you'

Mick Jones has been staring ahead depressed for a long time. Only when a group of girls comes into the restaurant does he smile sardonically. 'They must be here for a ballerina competition.' When I ask him something about how he sees the future, he says: 'The future can only be expressed in terms of bankers. That’s the depressing part.'

'The future is as depressing as this piece of apple pie,' continues Mick. 'Good to be alive. Just imagine if you were dead.'

'Then I wouldn’t be in pain, then I wouldn’t know any of this. Then I wouldn’t have to beg for a joint if I were dead. I’ve thought about it, Joe, and I think I’m done. I think I’m quitting.'

The bill: one hundred and twenty guilders. That’s a week’s salary for a member of The Clash. 'We get 25 pounds a week and the Sex Pistols get 35 pounds.'

Joe: 'Wait a minute, I’m getting sick of this. That whining — you have to stop it.'

Joe: 'Of course I see them, but I can just handle them better than you. You...'

Mick: 'Then it is going wrong. I’m trying to give up.' (Bernie has nervously come to sit at their table.)

Bernie: 'Listen... I’m going to CBS tomorrow if you back me up. I’ll just storm in and say it can’t go on like this any longer. Okay?'

Bernie (angrily): 'So you don’t back me up. And tomorrow it’ll be something else again, and the day after that you’ll have something else again.'

Bernie: 'We already talked about that with White Riot. I said: wait first to hear what they say. Now you’re starting to push me into that corner again.'

Mick: 'And now you’re starting to go on about the same thing again, Bernie. How shall I put it to you?'

Bernie (quickly): 'Boys, there isn’t a single band in the world that has as much control over what happens to them as you do.'

Bernie: 'Malcolm can just sit and watch how well you’re doing, while his boys keep banging their heads against the wall. Do you think he’s happy now that he’s away from A&M again?'

Joe: 'No crap about control, because they tell me exactly what they’re going to do.'

Bernie: 'Fine, you have as much control as the others. And now you’re starting to realise how little that is — for every band.'

Mick: 'Listen, boy, we owe some people something. I mean the people who like our music — the fans — who keep asking us why we do this and why we do that. And we can only tell them... that we’re puppets!'