The Clash/The Slits: Village Bowl, Bournemouth
Kris Needs, ZigZag, December 1978

IT'S 5.30 in the morning and for some reason I'm stuck on a ledge halfway down a several hundred foot cliff overhanging Bournemouth beach... And I only came here to see The Clash!

Still, I'll leave y'all biting your nails and get to that later. Right now the matter in hand is The Clash, sorting out this seaside town a few dates into what looks like their most successful tour yet.

Yes, I was looking forward to this gig. Last time I'd seen The Clash was at the Music Machine in July, when a healthy dollop of Give 'em Enough Rope was included in the set. Since then Joe and Mick have had their lengthy US sojourn to finish the album, the record has at last come out, they've done Harlesden and Europe and wound up in a mess of management troubles. All along there has been the worst press flak of their career, a seemingly concentrated anti-Clash barrage - a switch from when they couldn't put a foot wrong and were called the Best Group in the World every week.

Well, ever since I first saw The Clash supporting in a Leighton Buzzard hall over two years ago in front of a handful of rabid admirers and apathetic hippies (who probably love 'em now) they've been me main band, and nothing could shake that. I always believed, despite what I read or people said to the contrary, that they were something special, that they cared and were setting their sights higher than most groups can think. If you think this is leading up to a "but now they've finally sold out" punch-line, piss off! They ain't. On a big record label reaching thousands of people they still fight, 'cept it's big business instead of rumbling stomachs, and hold true to The Clash - a group you kids can talk to, listen to, dance to and feel to.

Today they're stronger than they've ever been (although pretty hurt that there are few early allies who haven't fallen by the wayside or betrayed them as they follow their straight but obstacle-strewn path). The group seems internally strong four-ways, is sounding better and this tour is reeling 'em in...and it looks like 'Tommy Gun' could bust open the charts (even "Tone" played it, well had to, when it was a heat of some contest).

Tonight in Bournemouth Village Bowl, a huge place which looks like an underground car park, The Clash turn in just the set to lay to rest any doubts that they've "lost it", "got slick" or "turned rock stars".

They played with all the spontaneous combustion and attack they would muster in The Old Days at places like High Wycombe Nags Head, careering through the songs despite technical hitches onto an accelerating escalator of white hot intensity, eventually dissolving into...well, tonight Joe finished the set with a solo just-me-an'-my-guitar rendition of 'London's Burning' while being swamped by singalongaClashers. Reason was, Mick's lead went in 'Complete Control' (first encore) and as luck would have it the replacement was a dud! By the end of the Mick-less song all I could see from my square two inches was the black-clad guitarist's arms flailing yards of tangled cable in the air like an octopus. The number finished he ran off...presumably to get a replacement - and the bouncer wouldn't let him back on! Thought he was a stage invader and tried to strangle him! Exit Paul and Topper in confusion. But Joe starts up 'London's Burning' and Paul reappears to play along (Topper can't 'cos he left his podium through the drumkit, it fell over).

With the stage a mass of singing kids and roadies fighting to save the gear the set screeches to a chaotic, premature end. Cue Barry Myers and his sound system.

But I leap forward. Before the flood The Clash had delivered an hour of electricity which made me feel great. Most of Rope (even 'Julie'), an explosive treatment of 'I Fought The Law' (Crickets but better known by Bobby Fuller), plus singles, B sides and a select few survivors from the first album.

It was the best sound I've heard 'em get - clear, balanced but demonically powerful - and with that advantage plus the howling thousands and the group's high-speed calorie burn-up, they couldn't go far wrong.

Earlier I saw The Slits for the first time with their new drummer Budgie (ex-Big in Japan). It was a t'rill (sorry). No, seriously I was bowled over to see The Slits - one of my favourite groups and a long-championed cause for over 20 months - at last exploring some of the potential of their foreboding line-up.

Tessa's bass locks onto Budgie's buoyant, powerful drumming like a dancing clam. You dance to The Slits and so do they. The new rhythm gives Viv room to move and she constantly busts out with sprayed-on razor-chords and licks. Ari's voice gets better all the time - she's well in control but still totally uninhibited.

Old songs like 'So Tough', and 'Shoplifting' have been re-arranged, there's much of reggae's stop-gap loping in there now, and things like 'New Town' and 'Femme Fatale' sound so good. I'm so happy...no qualms about sticking The Slits in my Tips for '79 list, for the second year running.

Sorry to say I missed the Innocents, the three girls and ex-Electric Chair Greg Van Cook, who opened the evening. But I plan to catch 'em soon.

Afterwards The Clash dressing room is besieged by fans, who are let in a few at a time. The group don't go till they've all been seen.

Oy Mick, where's that brandy bottle gone? Yes, he is pissed - "I'm going to be a drunken idiot tonight!" he'd announced earlier, after a silent ten minutes with the music papers.

As we settle down in the Greek restaurant Mr. Jones decides to dance on the table, much to the disgust of The Slits and Don Letts and Leo, who are trying to have a quiet meal in peace (!)

Later Mick and I indulge in a lengthy heart-to-heart which I can't remember a lot of (bet he can't either!) but a lot of it rang true - he is pissed off by those writers ('specially tonight by our own Mr. D. Baker, who slaughtered 'Tommy Gun' in NME - the shame! Jokes of strangulation can't hide the disappointment).

Mick describes himself as over-emotional, he's aware of faults. I'd say he was a rare, caring commodity these days. Seems like his "black cloud" has lifted tonight at last but we agree it's a weird coincidence that him, me, and several of our mates, have all felt pretty pissed off and suffered from headaches for the last month - "Perhaps they've put something in the air."

We also talk about the new album (more than adequately reviewed by "Gnatlegs" Banks in a minute). The Clash stand by it and are proud of it. I think the controversy arises because it takes longer to realise it's a great album - I keep hearing new bits! Worth waiting? Yeah. If that's how it had to be done, fine. And guess what, Mick would like Pearlman to produce the next one.

We hop back to the seaside hotel and assemble in the lounge for a nightcap (where I inadvertently find myself saddled with a four quid drinks bill).

"Where's Topper?" is the question. The answer comes when an excited tour geezer rushes in clutching an armful of clothes. "Topper and Dee (his girlfriend) went swimming and we nicked their clothes! They're on their way back now with only Dee's boots between them!"

And sure enough, within minutes, the great drummer and his young lady nonchalantly stroll through the foyer past the desk (the night porter wouldn't let 'em in at first!) absolutely naked! Drunken businessmen gawp as the unclothed pair step into the lift.

Denied further drinks and beset by the aforementioned businessmen ("Ahm a poonk in desgahse, y'knor") the group retire. Of course drinks can still be obtained so faithful Clash roadie Johnny Green and me do.

About an hour or so and several more scotches later the cliff incident takes place.

It started as a stroll along the promenade but within seconds the crazed Green was over the fence and sprinting downwards like a mountain goat. "COME ON!" he ordered and before I knew it I was in on the descent. Johnny's six foot plus build gave him a distinct advantage and there were several heart-clasping moments. 'Twas only down the bottom that I realised what I'd just done...without being given any rope (I can't decide whether to end it like that or not)!

© Kris Needs, 1978