There Goes Gravity: A Life in Rock and Roll

by Robinson, Lisa

  *

  Despite some really bad front teeth, Paul Simonon was incredibly handsome. Patti had told me to make sure I checked out his Jackson Pollocked paint-splattered clothing. In Manchester, Paul had a silk-screened image of Patti on his shirt. He told me that there were so many Fleet Street journalists at their hotels he could never go down to the bar. The Clash had been put together by Bernard Rhodes, who thought Joe Strummer would be a good lead singer for Paul and guitarist Mick Jones (drummer Topper Headon would join later). Joe Strummer was born John Graham Mellor in 1952 in Turkey. His father was in the British diplomatic service. By the time he was fourteen, Joe had lived in thirty-four countries. He went to an English boarding school, hated it, went to art college, lived in a London squat, busked on the streets, re-named himself “Woody” and played in a rockabilly band called the 101ers. When he joined up with Mick and Paul to form the Clash, he wanted, he later said, “To change things. To play the unplayable, say the unsayable. Authority was to be avoided—attacked, actually. We conspired together to make noise.” Later in his life, Strummer would credit the Ramones with showing him not to “muck about a stage, not spend hours shambling around.” But egged on by their manager Bernie Rhodes, the Clash initially adopted a more socio-political point of view. And like the CBGB’s bands, none of the British punk bands sounded the same. The Clash had a variety of musical influences: they were turned on to reggae by Don Letts, who sold clothes in a stall in the Chelsea Market and made Jamaican dub tapes that Patti Smith played before her shows. Clash guitarist Mick Jones had been a former Mott the Hoople groupie; he had literally followed them around on tour. At the Electric Circus, the music playing over the sound system before the show was Patti Smith’s “Ask the Angels,” the Modern Lovers’ “Roadrunner,” the Dolls’ “Personality Crisis” and the Stooges’ “No Fun.” When I first saw Iggy perform at Ungano’s on West 70th Street in New York City in the early 1970s, he was shirtless, bleeding, wearing a dog collar and dragging spectators across the floor. The Stooges, led by Iggy, were dangerous. To put it in perspective, the Doors, by comparison, led by Jim Morrison, were a pretentious college band. The Stooges’ Ann Arbor colleagues, the MC5, caused riots in New York City in 1969 when they came to blows with an East Village “community” group called the “Motherfuckers,” who threatened to close down Bill Graham’s Fillmore East. Whether they acknowledged these influences or not, here’s the truth—without the Dolls, no Sex Pistols. Without the Stooges and the MC5, no Ramones, no Clash. And without the Ramones and the Clash, no U2.

  *

  I had my small Sony cassette recorder with me at the Electric Circus and was excited enough by the first opening act, the Buzzcocks, to tape the show. Then the Clash went onstage. They performed for about twenty minutes. They only had twenty minutes’ worth of material. I stood right up front with people pushing and shoving into me. I taped their set. Thirty-six years later, that tape (which has the Pistols on it too) is rough; it sounds like a lot of noise. But it still sounds great. Paul didn’t really know how to play bass yet, but he knew enough to wear it very, very low. Nothing reveals the personality of a bass player as much as where he wears his bass.

  To me, the mark of a very good bass player is to wear the instrument low; it’s much sexier. Paul McCartney, without question, wears it too high. The Clash’s set—such as it was—included “White Riot” played at breakneck speed. The Ramones played at what I had formerly thought of as breakneck speed, but next to the Clash, the Ramones sounded more melodic and tame. The Clash were urgent, intense, furious. After their set, I raced back to their dressing room to tell the band how they literally took my breath away. I was excited. They seemed pleased. I was a journalist from America who had traveled with Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones and wrote for the NME and was enthusiastic about their set. Despite the fact that I had traveled with “dinosaur” bands, that I was (just) a woman, and I was not a “critic,” there was enough of a credibility factor here for them to feel encouraged about their future.

  The Clash came along and musically smacked me in the face. Joe Strummer was the most exciting live performer I’d seen in ages. He was manic, hoarse, angry. I loved the Rolling Stones. I loved Led Zeppelin. I’d been turned on by the Ramones. David Johansen was the wittiest, and certainly one of the best live rock and roll performers ever. Tom Verlaine’s guitar playing was transcendent. Patti Smith was unique. But the Clash, at that moment, made everything that came before it seem obsolete. This band mattered. And, as is always the case with any new music, it fulfilled a need that no one even realized was there until it was there, in front of them. Right band, right place, right time.

  That night, I took the train back to London to my room at the Montcalm Hotel. I couldn’t sleep. When it was morning in New York and an ungodly hour in Los Angeles, I called every record company president I knew to tell them they had to immediately sign the Clash and the Sex Pistols. My friend Ahmet Ertegun, the president of Atlantic Records, told me that he’d been told they sounded like noise. I told him that thirteen years earlier, he might have said the same thing about the Rolling Stones. Casablanca’s Neil Bogart was worried they would say “fuck” onstage. Arista Records president Clive Davis told me he’d signed Patti Smith already so he felt he’d done his part. And he added, “Lisa, I’m telling you as a friend, you shouldn’t become too closely identified with punk rock.” Elektra’s Joe Smith and Warner Brothers’ Mo Ostin both chided me: “Oh Lisa, you and your punk rock.” It wasn’t hard to get to know a president of a record company then. I knew these men from traveling with the Stones and Zeppelin (Ahmet). Or when they made an occasional foray to check out a band at a club (Clive). Or through Richard’s work at various labels (Neil, Clive). Or seeing them at press parties. Or just because I had a byline. But only CBS Records president Walter Yetnikoff said, “Okay, fine, I’ll sign them. Tell their managers to call me.” They did. He eventually signed the Clash. And I stupidly never even asked for a finder’s fee.

  Of course the Clash, when they did sign to CBS, had no idea what label they were signing with. They thought they were signing to Polydor. They also thought they were being signed by Columbia Records’ UK chief, Maurice Oberstein, who everyone said was taking a big “risk.” Certainly, the band’s manager, Bernie Rhodes, took all the credit for the predictably lousy, standard record deal. The band probably had no idea who Walter Yetnikoff was. A year later, I was at the CBS Records convention in London when one night, I saw a young singer named Elvis Costello at the tiny Hope and Anchor pub. The next day, Elvis’ manager cooked up a scheme for Elvis to “petition” the CBS Records convention by singing on a flatbed truck in front of the Intercontinental Hotel. I badgered Walter Yetnikoff to go downstairs; you have to see this kid, I said. He’s really talented, I said, you should sign him. Walter, who was eating breakfast in his suite, wouldn’t budge. I kept at it until he finally agreed to go downstairs for a minute. We went downstairs to the street, he saw Elvis sing for about a minute, turned to me and said, “Okay, I’ll sign him. Can I go upstairs and finish my breakfast now?” Again, I never thought to ask for a finder’s fee. Thinking back, I realize I wasn’t thinking ahead.

  • • •

  In late 1977, when the Pistols planned their first (and last) tour of the U.S., Malcolm McLaren told me they would only play the New York area if they could do a show in Harlem—presumably for the many black fans of the group. I pointed out to him that the residents of Harlem could care less if Johnny Rotten hated the Queen of England. But Malcolm was insistent on having the Pistols play for “the people,” to identify with the downtrodden. Then, the band refused to do interviews except with Time and Newsweek—which at that time were the two most important American weekly magazines. In early 1978, the Pistols performed eight shows only in mostly secondary and tertiary markets: Atlanta, Memphis, Baton Rouge, San Antonio, Dallas, Tulsa and San Francisco—where the band famously broke up after Johnny Rotten’s parting line: “Ever get the feeli
ng you’ve been cheated?” It summed up his contempt for the audience, his contempt for the band, the audience’s contempt for the band, or perhaps all of the above. The Clash, by comparison, were the Rolling Stones. They took their time getting to the U.S. They released six albums—five of which were great. They performed incredibly exciting shows. They played bigger venues over the course of the next six years. And then they broke up.

  • • •

  Between 1977 and 1983, I talked to the Clash a lot. While I’ve carefully kept all of my interview tapes all of these years, a few of the thousands of cassettes are haphazardly labeled. Sometimes, it’s not clear who said what, when, or where. But Joe Strummer’s voice was unmistakable. He was the one I talked to the most. For me, the most compelling member of the Clash was always Joe. He was the one I couldn’t take my eyes off of onstage. On our interview tapes, his voice is hoarse and raspy. You can hear him inhale on the cigarette he always had in his hand. (In Julien Temple’s 2007 documentary The Future Is Unwritten, Joe would protest the anti-smoking movement: “If you took cigarettes away from the 20th century,” he said, “we wouldn’t have any of the writers [you] go on about or anybody worships. This wouldn’t exist. And I want this acknowledged. Non-smokers should be barred from buying any product that a smoker created.”)

  *

  In 1978, I talked to the band in London. They were a big deal in the British press but had not yet done a show in the U.S. I asked Joe if the same jealousy that existed at CBGB’s was true of the British punk bands. He told me that there had been camaraderie in the London punk scene for about a week. “Everybody’s jealous as hell in this business, and if they don’t admit it, they’re just lying,” he said. “Of course I’m jealous of everybody. Anybody who’s successful, for a start. Everybody’s like that—they just don’t admit it. If Elvis Costello brings out a record, I’ll go ‘bloody rubbish,’ and I don’t even bother to listen to it. And I can’t stand all that hard driving rock, all those butch singers, screaming. I’d rather be a wimp than that. I hate them all.” Paul Simonon told me that when they first started to play with bands like the Pistols, there was a big rush to see who could get a single out first, who could get an album out first, and then—who could get to America first. “People get obsessed with ‘breaking America,’” Joe said. “So they bash out a decent tune and then the album sounds like something’s gone wrong somewhere. I don’t know—look at Slade. I can remember [manager] Chas Chandler saying, ‘Slade is going to be the biggest band in America—headlines like that.’ And well, I mean, what’s the hurry?”

  *

  On February 17, 1979, the Clash played their first show in New York City. Backstage well wishers at the Palladium on East 14th Street included Martin Scorsese, Robert De Niro, Bruce Springsteen, Debbie Harry, Nico, Andy Warhol, John Cale and Paul Simon with his then-wife Carrie Fisher. In the band’s small dressing room after the show, Mick Jones was clearly upset with the ads that CBS Records had taken for them in the U.S., ads that read: “The Clash claim they’re the only band that matters.” Mick said, “This wouldn’t happen in England. We’d die of shame under the sofa.” He talked about how he couldn’t believe it when he saw his name above Keith Richards and Eric Clapton in some magazine’s Best Guitarists poll: “I was twelve years old when I saw the Stones in Hyde Park,” Mick said, “when they tossed out all those butterflies. I’ll never forget how I pushed my way up to the front of 100,000 people to get up there. I love the Stones, it’s the music I grew up with, and I have no quarrel with them. I don’t know how I see [our] scenario ending, but we really are determined not to follow all that rockstar biopic. I find it disgusting.” Paul said he didn’t feel like a rock star: “I feel like an ordinary geezer. We don’t ride around in limousines, drinking champagne—all of that makes me sick. We’ve always been a punk band and always will be. I don’t care what the term means in America, I’m proud of it.” The night after that Palladium show, I went with the band to Bob Gruen’s studio to take pictures for Rock Scene. By then, the Clash was used to posing for photos. They had never not been comfortable posing for photos: their collars were turned up, their jeans were rolled up just enough to reveal heavy boots. They were a cool looking band and they worked it. Mick told me that he couldn’t imagine what he’d be doing in ten years time. Maybe, he said, he’d go back to painting, which is what he started out to do. “Or maybe I’ll be standing here telling you I don’t think we’re too old to rock and roll.” After the photo session, we went out in the snowy night to the Brasserie restaurant on East 53rd Street. In those days, the Brasserie was open all night. Many restaurants were open all night. You could go there and have hamburgers, or eggs. And you could smoke. Then, at around two in the morning, we went to Studio 54. Proprietor Steve Rubell, wearing his trademark, Norma Kamali–designed puffy, down coat, greeted us at the front door. The velvet rope was pulled back to let us in. Joe had been there earlier that week and (shades of Mick Jagger) wanted the band and their crew to see the lights and hear the sound system.

  • • •

  For a very long time, longer than anyone usually did, until it became impossible, the Clash met fans after their shows. The band just wandered into the crowd and hung out. In 1980, after the release of the Clash’s London Calling album, we ran a photo spread of the band in Rock Scene titled “The Clash Call Collect.” The Clash—much like the Stones—invited black acts like Sam and Dave, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Lee Dorsey, Grandmaster Flash (who got booed off the stage at Bonds in 1981 when he opened for the Clash) and Bo Diddley to open their shows. Years later, Bo Diddley said that his ears were still hurting from “that crap.” Joe told me that growing up, he’d been inspired by Jackie Wilson and black music. “If you didn’t know who Howlin’ Wolf was,” he said, “you were square. We used to buy those Chess records. Blues was hip. But the cliché was that the Rolling Stones discovered Chuck Berry, copied the music and re-sold it to the white American kids who never heard it before.”

  In March 1980, the Clash were back in New York City for another show at the Palladium and some recording at Electric Lady Studios in Greenwich Village. I went with Joe, Mick and Paul to the Minskoff Theatre on Broadway to see the (first) revival of West Side Story. They arrived at the theater in a limousine. Wearing leather jackets, Doc Martens and tight jeans, Joe, Mick and Paul looked like they could be in the cast of the show. Their vivacious record company publicist Susan Blond was with us and muttered that while we usually sat in the orchestra, we were sitting in the balcony this time because she was sure the band wouldn’t want to sit in the “elitist” seats. The band’s ever-present aide-de-camp and tour manager Kosmo Vinyl said that as a child, he listened to the original cast album of West Side Story every day. We talked, as we always did, about music. I asked Mick Jones if he’d ever heard of Thelonious Monk. He said no, but he was just starting to get into John Coltrane and Sonny Rollins. I told him I’d send him some Monk tapes. “OH NO!” shrieked Susan Blond. “Don’t let them listen to jazz!! You’ll ruin their music!” I was surprised to hear both Joe and Mick say that one day they wanted to try to write a Broadway musical: “Perhaps when my stomach gets too full to fit into these tight trousers,” Joe said. After the show, we went to the “trendy” French “bistro” Un Deux Trois in the theater district. Susan Blond pointed out the fashionable stylist Marina Schiano: “She does all the stuff for Yves Saint Laurent,” Susan said, to an unimpressed Joe Strummer. Mick said he always ate too many eggs, and proceeded to order an omelette. Joe ordered a steak and french fries. We had many cocktails. Afterwards, we went to the funky Mudd Club on White Street—which today is Tribeca but then was considered all the way downtown—to see art-rocker Lene Lovich. On another night that same week, I met the band at Studio 54 to see a performance by James Brown. Later that week, I stopped by Electric Lady where the band was recording. Upstairs, in a different studio, Mick Jagger was re-mixing one of the tracks for the Stones album Emotional Rescue.

  *

>   At that time, I was still a regular at Studio 54—which I always called “54,” although many people referred to it as “Studio.” Often, I went back and forth in the same night to Chin Ya—a Japanese restaurant in the basement of the funky Hotel Woodward in the West 50s—then on to Studio 54, the Mudd Club and CBGB’s. Cabs were cheaper then. Or I’d go to the newly opened, multi-floor Danceteria—which drew both a punk rock and the new rap crowd. It wasn’t at all disconcerting to dance to Alicia Bridge’s “I Love the Nightlife” at 54, then go to a performance of Don Letts’ dub tapes at the Mudd Club. It was normal to come home at three or four a.m. To sleep until noon. Being married to someone who was involved in the same life, and thankfully, not having children made this life possible. (Not having children wasn’t ever a “decision”; I never wanted any. This was neither the 1950s nor the 2000s—no one I knew had, or was having, children.) This wasn’t social life, it wasn’t work life, it was just life. Writing about bands, or going with them to parties or the recording studio, with or without a tape recorder, didn’t feel like work. It wasn’t as if these people were friends exactly—although Pretenders leader Chrissie Hynde was, Patti Smith was, and Lou Reed had spent a lot of time at our house. For a while, we just were all in this together. Until we weren’t. It never felt like a job; it was fun, it was new, it felt like a “calling.” Whether I was in a private plane with Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones or at a ballroom in Manchester or standing in two inches of beer on the floor at CBGB’s—it was exactly where I wanted to be.

  • • •

  In the late 1970s, I became friendly with Chrissie Hynde, who formed the Pretenders in 1978. In 1980, I introduced her to the Kinks’ Ray Davies, also a friend. She had wanted to meet him. I told her it would be a mistake; he would break her heart. She said she just wanted to thank him for the Number One hit the Pretenders had with a Kinks song that Ray wrote called “Stop Your Sobbing.” The night I introduced them, Chrissie, who usually dressed in black leather pants and motorcycle jackets, showed up at a New York City club called Trax wearing a dress. She was acting all flirty. The two of them disappeared into the night, had a stormy relationship for years, had a child together, then broke up.