Clash: Palais des Glaces (27 April)

“So this is Paris? The punks, huh? To me, you guys look like a bunch of hippies. Let’s go to San Francisco!” sneers Joe Strummer in almost impeccable French. The crowd reacts, screams and groans, spreading into an infernal chaos. When it reaches the height of fury, The Clash wake up. At full force, they slice through the din. Clash. The most beautiful war and death and napalm machine since Steppenwolf. Clash, the band whose blues would be reggae. Clash. The group that, when it plays reggae, makes the Rolling Stones look like the grand orchestra of Jo Donnat.

The problem is that Clash has a reputation to defend — that of an aggressive leftist commando, proud of its condition. Musically, this shows in the vocals: Joe Strummer screams less, the songs with very tongue-in-cheek titles (“Career Opportunities”) polish their image and fall into pitfalls that spoil the party. Because if the nihilism of the Sex Pistols can put up with anything, one is sorely tempted to ask Joe Strummer if his manager isn’t just another vermin, or if short hair isn’t the new conformism, or since when English proletarians speak such good French.

So many fears, all the more justified since, for the moment, Clash’s audience amounts to a pack of decadent defectors, rescued from Roxy Music and anxious to be in the loop. But apart from that, they’re a gift for no one. But give me Clash in the outer suburbs, and then we’ll laugh...

— P.M.