We Are The Clash. Mark Andersen
that is good and compassionate in our society, extra-parliamentary action will be the only recourse left for the working class and the Labour movement.”
These were powerful words—and they would be used against him. Scargill matched Thatcher as a polarizing figure, with the same air of righteousness. Like the Tory leader, he inspired fanatical followers, but also bred determined enemies and could alienate less-convinced sectors.
Scargill’s call for “extra-parliamentary action” was simple reality: Thatcher controlled Parliament, so the only way to resist now lay outside that institution. Still, darker notions of a Communist coup d’état would be spun out of the same thread, as the Tories portrayed the matter as a struggle for democracy, not jobs.
Thatcher was not above fearmongering, sketching Scargill as a dangerous radical out of step not just with Britain but with his own rank and file. MacGregor echoed this, describing Scargill’s speech as “a declaration of war” from an antidemocratic bully seeking to overturn the duly expressed will of the country.
This conveniently overlooked the fact that a majority of British voters had never pulled the lever for Thatcher. Even though the vagaries of the UK system had awarded the Tories a veto-proof majority in Parliament, their support in 1983 had actually dipped to 42.4 percent, some 700,000 less votes than in 1979.
Moreover, if Thatcher was so assured of the legitimacy of this path, why not share the plans with the public? Clearly she feared the consequences—so she and her minions would subvert the open discussion essential for democracy by never admitting to the true scope of the sweeping mine-closure program.
While there were reasonable arguments to be made over the economic health and future of coal as an industry, the central thrust of the Tory scheme was political, as was made clear by the existence of something titled, “The Final Report of the Nationalised Industries Policy Group.”
Nicknamed “The Ridley Report” for its author, Nicholas Ridley—Tory free-market evangelist and close Thatcher ally—this plan was drawn up in June 1977, just as punk was exploding across Jubilee-era Britain. The report contained many contentious suggestions, but most explosive was a two-and-a-half-page “Confidential Annex” entitled, “Countering the Political Threat.”
This addendum identified the nature of the “threat” and suggested a solution. Like Thatcher, Ridley took for granted that the NUM—by virtue of its organized militant strength and unique importance as the provider of electricity that ran the entire British economy—had become even more dangerous than the Labour Party itself. Any successful Conservative government in the future would need to tread carefully, aware that confrontation was more than likely.
Ridley did not fear this struggle. But he did seek to ensure that the battle would come on terms favorable to—or even chosen by—the Tories.
Ridley urged that coal stocks be increased to prevent power cuts in the event of a prolonged strike. Plans should be made to import coal from nonunion foreign ports, with nonunion drivers recruited by trucking companies, and with dual coal-oil generators installed. While these measures would increase costs, they would significantly reduce the miners’ leverage.
Police would also need to be equipped with riot gear and trained in mobile tactics to counter “violent picketing,” i.e., the flying pickets. Legislation should be passed to make such picketing illegal to whatever extent possible. The police force was to be readied to use as a blunt instrument in what was ultimately a political battle.
The Ridley Report was a map for winning a war with the unions, especially the NUM. Such inflammable material is hard to keep secret, and the plan was soon leaked, appearing in the UK press in early 1978.
That error had become a learning experience. Now that the game was afoot, a much tighter lid was clamped on preparations for the coming war. The election had given the leverage needed to put the Tory plans into action—all that stood in the way of the free-market renaissance they craved was the NUM.
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While Thatcher was drawing up battle plans, so was Joe Strummer—and his weapon was The Clash. But for many people, that entity no longer existed: The Clash was Strummer-Jones-Simonon-Headon. Vinyl called this the “John-Paul-George-Ringo Syndrome”—a band was certain people; no less, no more.
This purist idea was widely flouted in an industry ever more fixated on money. Still, it spoke both to an artistic reality—the mix of certain people could have a unique magic—as well as a compellingly romantic notion of rock bands made of friends who rise from the garage to the world stage together.
Jones himself had raised this question with rock journalist Mikal Gilmore in June 1982 by noting that the post-Headon Clash “feels like a new band now,” even wondering aloud if they should be called “Clash Now” or “Clash Two.” Such musing seemed odd given that The Clash had started out with their then-current drummer Terry Chimes, recording their first record with him. Moreover, The Clash had played the landmark “Anarchy” tour with Sex Pistols, Heartbreakers, and the Damned—as well as other key shows—with drummer Rob Harper.
Jones’s idealism shines here, as such attachment to specific members had become unusual. By the 1980s, most bands freely shed members, even losing central catalysts like Syd Barrett (Pink Floyd) and Brian Jones (Rolling Stones), but still rolling forward on artistic and, of course, commercial terms.
But what if “The Clash” was more than a band—if it was an idea? Was it the specific people or the mission that mattered? Jones’s rival Clash cofounder Rhodes believed in the latter notion, which was, in its way, just as idealistic as its opposite.
Rhodes was taken by the idea that The Clash could be like an army platoon, with no soldier irreplaceable and the shared objective paramount—a metaphor that Strummer and Simonon also embraced at the time. Indeed, Strummer would soon go so far as to argue, “I hope that if I start acting funny, I’d be fired, and The Clash would roll on without me.”
This could be taken to an extreme. The Baker skeptically recalled Rhodes’s admiration of the Puerto Rican bubblegum pop band Menudo whose members shifted at the whim of their producer/creator Edgardo Diaz. He later laughed: “Of course, Bernie would like that—it gave him all the control!”
This comparison might seem ridiculous. Yet the original Clash had hardly come together as teenage friends in some mythical garage. It was manufactured out of Jones’s striking musical vision, but equally assembled by Rhodes’s instincts and ideology. Miraculously, this fairly mechanistic mating had actually worked.
The Clash coalesced more deeply than Malcolm McLaren’s Sex Pistols, whose self-destruction was more or less assured. Strummer and Jones had chemistry as a writing team and—with Simonon added to the onstage mix—as an arresting live juggernaut. Headon soon added to this, helping to propel their ascent.
Could lightning strike again? For Strummer this was no academic matter. While marching in step with Rhodes, he also knew there was something more mysterious and organic required; more than anyone else, it would be up to him to make the new “platoon” cohere as an artistic and spiritual entity.
The pressure was immense. Strummer admitted he “was thinking all the time . . . maybe too much.” He had a depressive nature and in 1982 had spoken of “some bad times, dark moments when I came close to putting a pistol to my head and blowing my brains out”—an ominous admission given his brother’s suicide.
Although Strummer hastened to add, “If you ain’t got anything optimistic to say, then you should shut up,” his bouts with darkness might have been the natural result of a brain that refused to shut off. He now had more than usual to contemplate, as doubts about his decision to eject Headon and Jones nagged him.
The burden had a practical aspect. After his exit, Jones would pointedly question how The Clash might forge ahead without him, saying, “I hope that their new guys help them write the material.” Strummer hardly needed to be reminded of the hole in the band’s creative core, acknowledging, “If your song ain’t good, you ain’t gonna triumph.” He was already hard at work to meet this challenge.
Michael