In fact, one thing that has made English punk so attractive—both to well-wishers like me and to fulltime recruits—has been its idealism. Despite all the anti-hippie feeling, it really is Haight '67 that it most recalls—not in content, but in form. It's a new counter-culture; the sense of ferment and burgeoning group identity more than compensates for the confused sectarian squabbling, although maybe I'd be harder to please if I'd been around when hopes were highest. And in a way, it is the tragic end of hippie—not the disintegration of a generation the punks were never part of in the first place, but the way longhaired guitar assholes have continued to preach their hypocritical go-with-the-flow—that has imbued punk idealism with its saving skepticism. These kids may be naive, but they're not foolish. They know the world is a hostile place.

First Person Plural
Having watched the Lous (enjoyed with no audible sexist remarks) and Richard Hell and the Voidoids (received with fair enthusiasm in back and moderate-plus pogoing up front) from a limited-access balcony, I decided to take my notebook down into the Clash crowd at the University of Leeds, 200 miles north of London. The capacity of the room, which looked like an old-fashioned church rec hall only bigger, was officially 2200; 1800 tickets were sold to a crowd that appeared to break down two-to-one student-to-punk and at least nine-to-one male-to-female. Everyone was standing, even though it was intermission, and the rear half of the hall was mostly empty. I'd found out that as a competent New Yorker I could push to the front of most English crowds, but that was out of the question in this press so I stood toward the back and listened to two students behind me talk like upper-class twits. Phil Spector and even some Kraftwerk came over the P.A. to augment the customary dub, the bass-based reggae English punks love the way early hippies loved blues. But as the wait stretched past 45 minutes push began to turn to shove up front, and I wrote with some annoyance: "an intermission worthy of Black Sabbath." That was the last time I thought of my notebook until after the Clash had finished.

The beginning I remember clearly. The band came out looking quite hale in what might almost have been store-bought punk safari gear, shirts and chinos with lots of zippers; the sole bizarre touch was the artfully tattered fishnet top on bassist Paul Simonon. Straightaway, using a conversational version of the friendly, stump-toothed, wet-mouthed, muttery snarl he sings with, Joe Strummer leaned into the mike and said, "We've come to play some of the heavy metal music you love so well." Then there was a rush of fast guitar noise and everything became an exciting blur. I remember a lot of up-and-down motion in the audience—timid bobbing to the balls of the feet in back, wild pogoing up front. I remember the twits behind me singing along. I remember thinking that it was quite good, but not mind-blowing, and going upstairs to be with my wife. I remember the entire crowd shouting along—"I'm so bored with the Yew, Ess, Ay," "White riot, wanna riot"—with no coaxing from the stage. I remember wondering how I would feel when they finally got to my favorites—"Career Opportunities," "Garageland," "Janie Jones." And I remember my mind gusting away when they did.

Before I left the States, The Clash had replaced the Vibrators' Pure Mania as my favorite English Punk LP. Apparently tuneless and notoriously underproduced, it was, I knew, a forbidding record, especially since the mix was dominated by Strummer's vocals, which I loved for an unmusicality others found ugly. Because of Strummer's cockney pronunciation and bad teeth, lyrics were hard to make out; my enjoyment increased markedly after I obtained a crib sheet, but I was annoyed at times by the band's more cynical me-firstisms. After seeing them, though, I stopped hedging.

Visually, the three front-liners—guitarist Mick Jones, Strummer, and Simonon, the cute one—generated a perfect, condensed punch. They occupied their far-flung locations on stage like a unit of partisans charged with some crucial beachhead—instead of roaming around to interact, the way most exciting rock groups do, they held to their posts. Yet at the same time they seemed to be having lots of fun, with Jones marching jubilantly behind his mike, Simonon executing flashy Cossack split steps in his big boots, and Strummer eventually falling to the floor in an elation that seemed entirely of the moment. It became clear that many of the bitter lyrics that had always made me laugh—"I wanna walk down any street/Looking like a creep/I don't care if I get beat up/By any kebab Greek"—were in fact intended to be funny. Also, I began to hear what was missing in the album's sound—there was a lot more guitar in the live mix, good punk guitar, chordally elementary but rejecting hip musical platitudes, with Jones's terse leads clanging irrepressibly against Strummer's below-the-belt rhythm. This music lacked neither craft nor melody; it did what it set out to do with formidable verve. The songs were about as synical as one of the football cheers they recalled, and they had a lot more content.

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