Richard Meltzer - The Clash (and PiL, and Throbbing Gristle, and The Fall) - Creem - September 1982

Richard Meltzer 

The Clash, Combat Rock

Creem, September 1982

 

Overpowered by Mere

 

Far and away the two most important musical whatsems of the seminal anti-deathculture late-70’s UK scene were the Sex Pistols and (it says here) Throbbing Gristle. In addition to turning the necessary stomachs (Bill Graham, Jann Wenner, etc.) the Pistols helped their cause (and ours) immeasurably by ceasing to exist as a rock ‘n’ roll whatsem at all, self-destructing with incredibly perfect timing and (in the case of Mr. Lydon) metamorphosing into the second most anti-arch of practicing whatsems, PiL. First most arch was – and still is (even in its own belated non-existence) – the above mentioned T. Gristle, who never for the merest second surrendered to the merest lure of mere success, never in fact allowed itself to be perceived as a rock ‘n’ roll beat group (or even a “group”) in any possible mainstream sense of the word. As people with ears and nervous systems life everybody else, both Lydon and the T.G. folks are certainly capable of enjoying music-for-mere-entertainment sake (Lydon, for inst, purportedly maintains one of Britain’s largest reggae collections and T.G.’s Genesis P. Orridge is an avid collector of – say hey – Martin Denny) but they have always been more scrupulous in their steadfast avoidance of that deathtrap called ROCK ‘N’ ROLL as a context and occasion for personal expression of same, and for that we really can’t salute ‘em enough.

 

Moving right along to now, the only shamefacedly brazen keepers of the anti-etc. UK flame anymore are the Fall, whose gamekeeper/groundskeeper Mark E. Smith recently wrote me in a barely legible scrawl: “Our last LP got best critical reaction yet, which surprised me, as it was mean to be a huge SOD OFF (his caps). Established celebrity status for 1st time around here, & honestly it cut me up much – people staring at me in the 1st/last domain, the pub, where formerly I’d go to forget. But it’s isolated me at last, i.e., I’m careful where I go & trust no-one again.” R&R fame and fortune is, to Mr. Smith, the lamest goal available to one of wit and spark and the man’s music extends his rejection of conspicuous achievement well beyond rock-out lifestyle to the pure plain of rock ‘n’ roll form: avoidance of hooks like you wouldn’t believe, riffing as neither expedient cyclicality nor reference to Bo Diddley or the Velvets (not intending generatrix of sperm-meets-ovum, nor Enoesque “minimalism” in a nutshell, not…you name it), the usage of pop as a more arch “out” factor than it is with Mingus or Albert Ayler, etc., etc., etc.

 

What I’m taking my time to get to (I guess) is if you take even a sloppy look at the last six years of anti-deathrattle UK ferment I can’t see placing the Clash at the forefront of either stage one or stage n + 90. Somewhere in the middle’s maybe a different story, like Sandinista! has gotta be the most arch subversion yet of a major label’s time and money for forcibly arcane purposes, plus it’s easily the fullest realization of specifically black (i.e., Jamaican dub), anti-mainstream, non-homogenized, non A = A, non-Anglo-Am-dead-end PRODUCTION VALUES in the annals of whiteboy recording per se, for which these guys certainly deserve a round of claps. But this new one, the one I’m supposed to be reviewing, doesn’t exactly put them at the forefront of anything unless you’re talking forefront of mere (qua mere) ROCK ‘N’ ROLL PRODUCT, a forefront/storefront shared by an enormity of hack pros equal to the population (at least) of say Bayonne, New Jersey.

 

What we’ve got here (pure and simple) is the merest mere ever perpetuated by a group of louts who weren’t purveyors of mere to begin with. Any by mere I’m not even talking thin in qual or product-for-product-sake (like to merely satisfy a contract or whatever), I’m just talking rock ‘n’ roll (regardless of qual or state of cynicism) without any lingering irony other than lyrical – and lyrics are (often) the biggest whore of all. ‘Cause like here’s the band that once sang “No Elvis, Beatles or the Rolling Stones in 1977.” I mean it was them and nobody else, and here they go shaking the same threadbare booty shaken by each of the three fabled no-no’s: mere rock ‘n’ roll to the mere goddam hilt.

 

With Combat Rock the Clash have finally (officially) opted to work from WITHIN THE BEAST, to pull the rock ‘n’ roll equivalent of GOING CLEAN FOR GENE (hint: 1968), to let the deathculture destroy them because (as they shabbily defined things) they could no longer hope to destroy it. Which actually come as much of a surprise, ‘cause in spite of an ever-droning refusal to “play ball with the company” they’ve ALWAYS been titillated to the short-hairs by 1. The ever-growing lure of total rock-out rockhood as at least a possible turf for the post-boho experience and 2. the debilitating fantasy of a nouveau-political power base, a potentially useful internationally visibility attainable for the continuing small fee of an increment here and there of artistic integrity. The (unintentional) irony of their whole-hog submission to the non-ironic rock ‘n’ roll “trip” is what CBS has ultimately gotten out of them independent of its own attempts at ultimate same: alternate Springsteen meets surrogate Nugent (y’know: anonymous ball-playing “boogie band” w/passably “thoughtful” lyrics). That the company still won’t know how to market them will only be their just dessert.

 

Which is not to say they ain’t swell people, and it really is too bad it had to be them as the first true martyrs (on any kind of true martyrdom scale) of punk sellout w/out laughs. Their swellness is manifest on virtually every cut, as they double over backwards to radically educate (without bravura or condescension) their new audience of rock ‘n’ roll sheep per se, a functionally lobotomized herd so many others have insincerely led by the nose (to slaughter or worse).

 

Okay, seeing as how I still haven’t said a goddam thing (“pro” or “con”) on the album as an album (mere merely rated) all I can say is this is their fifth album now. If they wanna be taken seriously for their mere-dimensionality, it wouldn’t hurt to stack ‘em up against some classic meres in their fifth outings. Fifth Beatles LP (excluding Hard Day’s Night) was Beatles ’65. Fifth Stones was December’s Children, Fifth Dylan was Bringing It All Back Home. If you want to get more thorough, fifth Doors was Morrison Hotel, fifth Dead was Workingman’s Dead, fifth Byrds was Notorious Byrd Brothers. In each case you’re talking about some level of departure (other than surrender), you’re talking buzzwords like thrust and self-assertion (with nary a second guess, generic or otherwise). Most of all you’re looking down the barrel of anywhere from eight to twelve great cuts.

 

So. Since the Clash offer at most 3.4 even decent cuts, since the fairest you could be about their sound is that it feels submerged in standard-issue rock-cut ruts, since their lyrical imagery could without difficulty be described as watered down, since the closest this LP comes to any of the above is the fact that two-thirds of the time you could easily be listening to the post-Beatle George Harrison, this mere word-jockey rates Combat Rock (by standards the Clash’ve brought on themselves) a RELATIVE PIECE OF SHIT.