Redemption Song: The Ballad of Joe Strummer - Softcover

Salewicz, Chris

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0865479828 ISBN 13: 9780865479821

Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008

Synopsis

With exclusive access to Strummer's friends, relatives, and fellow musicians, music journalist Chris Salewicz penetrates the soul of an rock 'n roll icon.

The Clash was--and still is--one of the most important groups of the late 1970s and early 1980s. Indebted to rockabilly, reggae, Memphis soul, cowboy justice, and '60s protest, the overtly political band railed against war, racism, and a dead-end economy, and in the process imparted a conscience to punk. Their eponymous first record and London Calling still rank in Rolling Stone's top-ten best albums of all time, and in 2003 they were officially inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Joe Strummer was the Clash's front man, a rock-and-roll hero seen by many as the personification of outlaw integrity and street cool. The political heart of the Clash, Strummer synthesized gritty toughness and poetic sensitivity in a manner that still resonates with listeners, and his untimely death in December 2002 shook the world, further solidifying his iconic status.

Salewicz was a friend to Strummer for close to three decades and has covered the Clash's career and the entire punk movement from its inception. He uses his vantage point to write Redemption Song, the definitive biography of Strummer, charting his enormous worldwide success, his bleak years in the wilderness after the Clash's bitter breakup, and his triumphant return to stardom at the end of his life.

Salewicz argues for Strummer's place in a long line of protest singers that includes Woody Guthrie, John Lennon, and Bob Marley, and examines by turns Strummer's and punk's ongoing cultural influence.

About this title

About the Author:

Chris Salewicz's writing on music and popular culture has appeared in publications around the globe, including New Musical Express and The Sunday Times (London). He is the author of more than a dozen books.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One Straight to Heaven 2002 This is how I heard about Joe’s death: Don Letts, the Rastafarian film director who had made all the Clash videos, called me at around 9:30 on the evening of December 22, 2002. “I’ve got to tell you, Chris: Joe’s died—of a heart attack.” “Oh-fuckin’-hell-Oh-fuckin’-hell-Oh-fuckin’-hell” was all I could say. I poured a large glass of rum and stuck Don’s documentary about the group, Westway to the World, in the VCR. I called up Mick Jones, who in between sobs was his usual funny self, telling me how glad he was he’d played with Joe at the benefit for the Fire Brigades Union five weeks before. “I don’t even know what religion he was,” Mick said. “Some kind of Scottish low-church Presbyterian,” I suggested. “Church of Beer, probably,” laughed Mick, tearfully. I went to bed late, and although I hardly slept I didn’t get up until around 9:30. At around 9:55 the phone rang: ITN News. Could they interview me for the 10:00 bulletin? I sat down on the sofa and made some quick sound-bite-sized notes. I’m not even sure what I said. The phone rang again: The Independent wanted me to write an obituary, a long one, two thousand words, by four o’clock. I started up the computer, opening up my assorted Strummer files, pulling out quotes and phrases. Then the phone rang once more: ITN News again. Could they send a car for me to be on the 12:30 news? Call me back in a minute, I said: I need to work out whether I can do it—the obituary is what counts most. I put the phone down. Someone’s got to do this for Joe, I thought, but I don’t want to blow the obit by doing too much. I called Joe’s home in Somerset and left a message of condolence for Lucinda, his widow. By the time the car came for me at half past eleven, I’d got a good amount done. As it always does, the TV stuff took much longer than it was meant to—they wanted to record something more for the evening news. It was 2:00 p.m. before I was home again. I still had a lot to do. But somehow time stretched, giving me many more minutes an hour than I might have expected. I e-mailed the obituary through at ten minutes to four. This is what I wrote:    The job of being Joe Strummer, spokesman for the punk generation and front man for the Clash, never sat easily with the former John Mellor. Always prepared to give of himself to his fans, he still felt a weight of responsibility on his shoulders that often made him crave anonymity, as much as the natural performer within him needed the spotlight. But when—after a hiatus of almost a decade and a half—he returned to recording and performing with his new group the Mescaleros in 1999, it was business as usual: seemingly the same huge amounts of energy, passion and heart-on-sleeve belief that were his trademark with the Clash and that drew a worldwide audience for him and the group. After a show the dressing room or backstage bar still would be crammed with fans and friends as Joe held forth on the issues of the day, in his preferred role of pub philosopher and articulate rabble-rouser for the dispossessed. (But even here was the endless paradox of Joe Strummer: he could argue the case for Yorkshire pitworkers or homeless Latinos in Los Angeles, but if obliged to reveal himself through any interior observation, he would generally freeze. Even other members of the Clash would complain about his hopelessness at soul-baring.) Yet when he played a show at London’s 100 Club two years ago, he was so exhausted afterward that he had to lie down on the floor of the dressing room: his Mescaleros’ set included a good percentage of Clash songs, and you worried that the frenetic speed at which they were performed would test the health of a man approaching his fiftieth birthday. In an irony that Joe Strummer no doubt would have appreciated, his death last Sunday afternoon came not from the stock rock ’n’ roll killers of drugs, drink or travel accidents, but after taking his dog for a walk at his home in Somerset: sitting down on a chair in his kitchen, he suffered a fatal heart attack. [I later learned it was in his living room, and it was “dogs,” not “dog.”] Neither of his parents had lived to a ripe old age. Joe Strummer, who earned his sobriquet from his crunchy rhythm guitar style, was born in Ankara, Turkey, in 1952 to a career diplomat. Christened John Graham Mellor, he was sent at the age of ten [nine] to a lesser public [i.e., private] school, the City of London Freemen’s School at Ashstead Park in Surrey. He had already lived in Cairo, Mexico City (“I remember the 1956 earthquake vividly; running to hide behind a brick wall, which was the worst thing to do,” he once told me) and Bonn. Strummer’s father’s profession of career diplomat didn’t arise from any position of privilege—quite the opposite, in fact. “He was a self-made man, and we could never get on,” said Strummer. “He couldn’t understand why I was last in every class at school. He didn’t understand there were different shapes to every piece of wood, different grains to people. I don’t blame him, because all he knew was that he pulled himself out of it by studying really hard.” All the same, such a background was not especially appropriate in the mid-1970s punk world of supposed working-class heroes, which may explain why Strummer always seemed even more anarchic than his contemporaries. Mick Jones, like Strummer a former art-school student, discovered Joe when he was singing with squat-rock R&B group, the 101’ers, and poached him for a group he was forming called the Clash, becoming his songwriting partner: matched to Jones’s zeitgeist musical arrangements, Strummer’s lyrics were the words of a satirical poet, and often hilariously funny—one of his first creative contributions on linking up with Mick Jones was to change the title of a love song called “I’m So Bored with You” to “I’m So Bored with the USA.” Verbal non sequiturs were a specialty: his gasped aside of “vacuum cleaner sucks up budgie” at the end of “Magnificent Seven,” inspired by a newspaper headline on the studio floor, is one of the funniest lines in rock ’n’ roll. Strummer had one brother, David, who was eighteen months older than himself. By the time he reached sixteen, the younger boy had become accustomed to his brother’s far-right leanings—he had joined the National Front—and to the fact that he was obsessed, “in a cheap paperback way,” with the occult. Was it this unpleasant cocktail that led David to commit suicide? Whatever, it was clearly a cathartic moment for his younger brother: Joe Strummer often seemed overhung by a mood of mild depression, a constant struggle. After dropping out of Central School of Art (“after about a week,” [he lied about this]), he threw himself into the alternative world of squatting. Moving for a time to Wales, he spent one Christmas on acid listening to Big Youth’s Screaming Target classic and so discovered reggae. One of the main themes propagated by the Clash was the rise of a multicultural Britain; in the group’s early music reggae rhythms jostled with an almost puritan sense of rock ’n’ roll heritage; as the group progressed, it osmosed and absorbed Latin, blues and early hiphop sounds, with Strummer’s never-less-than-heartfelt lyrics making him a modern-day protest singer, in a tradition stretching back to Woody Guthrie. Positive light to the darkness of the Sex Pistols, the Clash released an incendiary, eponymously titled first album in 1977, the year of punk, a Top Ten hit. With Strummer at the helm, the group toured incessantly: at a show that year at the University of Leeds, he delivered the customary diatribe of the times: “No Elvis, Beatles or Rolling Stones . . . but John Lennon rules, OK?” he barked, revealing a principal influence and hero of his own. The next year, after a night spent at a reggae concert, he wrote what he himself felt was his finest song, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” a blues-ballad that opened up the musical gates for the future of the group. In that song, however, was contained the seeds of a paradox that would become more and more uncomfortable for Strummer: one line spoke of “new groups . . . turning rebellion into money.” Through writing such outsider lyrics, he became a millionaire; his problem was one common to many radical figureheads: how do you remain a folk hero when you have succeeded in your aim and are no longer the underdog? Touring the country that summer of 1978, the group’s concerts were shot for a feature film, Rude Boy, directed by David Mingay and Jack Hazan. “He already seemed to be suffering terribly from the notion of being Joe Strummer,” said Mingay. “He wasn’t exactly lying back and having a great time. Joe was always full of contradictions, one of which was that he managed to be both ultra-British and anti-British at the same time.” With London Calling, their third album, the group achieved commercial American success. Sandinista!, a sprawling three-record set, followed. When it became clear that the album was commercial folly, Joe Strummer demanded the return of their original manager, Bernard Rhodes, a business colleague of Malcolm McLaren and someone with whom Mick Jones had always had an awkward relationship. With Rhodes’s sense of wily situationism powering the group, the potential disaster of Sandinista! was turned into a triumph after the group played sixteen nights at Bond’s in New York’s Times Square. The group were the toast of the town, and only a big commercial hit stood between them and superstardom. That came in ...

About this edition

• Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
• Publication date: 2008
• ISBN 10: 0865479828
• ISBN 13: 9780865479821
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 640