Clash

Fleeing from punk, with a police car in hot pursuit, sirens blaring. Police On My Back. One question running through their heads: "What have I done?". That's how we picture the Clash of 1980, grappling with the sprawling "Sandinista!". Just swap the cops for the hordes of first-wave punks who had already cried betrayal over the previous "London Calling", or even just the label executives who'd struggled to swallow the decision to sell the double predecessor at the price of a single LP, and who now found themselves facing an actual triple album of 36 tracks to shift at a discount (in the end the compromise saw the band forgo royalties on the first two hundred thousand copies sold). A genuine commercial suicide. Add to that a title chosen specifically to needle the Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher, who tried to ban the word "Sandinista" among the subjects of the United Kingdom to head off dangerous Marxist sympathies (the name refers to the Nicaraguan guerrillas who had just ousted dictator Somoza). So yes, an everyday escape was very much in order, as suggested by that blazing cover of a 1967 track written by Eddy Grant's the Equals.

But "Sandinista!" would go on making enemies, more or less openly, well into the future, including even a Clash admirer like Kurt Cobain, who reckoned that this jumble "didn't match at all the idea he had of punk". And of course it didn't, because Joe Strummer and co. were already somewhere else entirely, unconcerned with fans' expectations or with critics wary of such heterodox contamination. As mentioned, though, the Rubicon had already been crossed with the previous "London Calling", the true watershed that marked the end of an entire musical season - that of original punk, the London of '77 in which Strummer and co. had been among the leading figures, and which, as the album's very title suggested, they now viewed from a distance. But if, despite all this, "London Calling" could still be considered a product - and among the very best - of British punk, a masterpiece of coherence and cohesion, "Sandinista!" was a leap into the void, toward new and still-undefined sonic horizons, certainly too vast and heterogeneous to be fully grasped. It's the fate of rock's bulimic works, shared by many noble predecessors, chief among them the White Album by the Beatles, to which "Sandinista!" can in many ways be compared: overflowing, at times chaotic. And yet, which of its countless tracks would we do without today?

Well, roughly the same reasoning applies to the Clash-branded behemoth that hit shops on December 12, 1980, as the most bloated of Christmas gifts. A manifesto of militant "combat rock", with its 36 tracks spread across three LPs (later repackaged as a double CD) and its feast of genres: punk, reggae, dub, ska, funk, gospel, rap, jazz, calypso, rockabilly, singer-songwriter pop and whatever else you can think of. Mickey Dread's production (aka Michael George Campbell, the reggae guru who passed away in 2008) acts as glue for a Babel of sounds that also experiments with instruments unusual for a typically rock band like the Clash, and that looks out at the world, with references reaching well beyond the Anglo-American sphere, crossing into Europe, the Soviet Union, Asia, Africa, Latin America and the Caribbean.

Disc 1: Welcome to Hitsville Uk

Off the blocks and it's straight into white rap. Not the first, though, as many claim, since Blondie's "Rapture" had beaten "The Magnificent Seven" to the punch by a few days. Two tracks, each better than the other in their own way, that once again confirm how hybridizing languages is always an opportunity, never a limitation. Here, the funky, syncopated backing, built on a pulsing bass-and-drums groove (with Topper Headon shining, and plenty of credit due to a bass line by Norman Watt-Roy of Ian Dury's Blockheads), frames a frantic spoken-word rant targeting consumerism and urban alienation. It's a dazzling opener that anticipates by years the crossover approach of bands like Beastie Boys or Red Hot Chili Peppers. Barely enough time to shake off the euphoria before an organ-bass-drums intro straight out of The Jam hurls us into a super-catchy pop duet between Mick Jones and his girlfriend at the time, Ellen Foley, in which the euphoric chorus sarcastically celebrates the birth of the British indie scene as a response to the majors' monopoly ("Hitsville Uk" as in "Hitsville Usa", Motown's headquarters).

There's no punk here, no. If anything, its spirit lives on, dissolved into chants of pure Dadaism. There is reggae, though, always the Clash's "call of the wild", blending with the Caribbean rhythms spread by Sound Systems, via ska and its offshoots. Enter "Junco Partner", a tribute to a 1951 New Orleans r'n'b classic by James Wayne: all straightforward enough, except that amid the dub pulses creep in violins that sound thoroughly Irish folk and clash deliciously. Echoes, reverbs, deep basslines and loops allow the Clash to deconstruct their music, reshaping it as an open sonic space. It's no coincidence that this approach would prove crucial for the post-punk era and for the nascent British electronic scene.

That already seems like a lot, but it's nothing compared to the madness that follows. In rapid succession come an improbable dance-off between an American and a Soviet soldier set to a disco/funk beat ("Ivan Meets G.I. Joe"), with Headon on lead vocals (for the first and only time in Clash history); the lightning-fast, Elvis-style rockabilly of "The Leader" (aimed at tabloids hunting for sexy political scandals); the hybrid music-hall-punk of "Something About England" (with Mick Jones engaged in a dialogue with a homeless man about England's history from World War I to the present); the disorienting, dreamlike waltz in three-quarter time of "Rebel Waltz"; an overexcited swing number ("Look Here"); and a return to dub atmospheres, now more seductive and minimal ("The Crooked Beat"), with Paul Simonon on the mic.

Perhaps to give listeners a break, still reeling from this sonic whirlwind, the Clash pick the punk primer back up for the frontal assault of "Somebody Got Murdered" (inspired by a brutal real-life incident: a murder in a parking lot over trivial reasons), which foreshadows Mick Jones's more pop-rock side and will serve as a bridge to "Combat Rock", before handing the close of the album's first third to the loping reggae-punk of "One More Time" and its almost entirely instrumental dub remix ("One More Dub"), which turns hypnotic with its drawn-out pace, awash in reverb, flanger and fade-outs. An almost subliminal game of variations on a theme that will recur elsewhere too, starting with "Version Pardner", the "double" of "Junco Partner" placed on the third disc alongside other reworkings.

Disc 2: Invectives and Chases

Yes, but what happened to the Sandinistas? To find the answer you have to wait for track 23, the eleventh on the second disc and the only one where the term actually appears. An ideal follow-up to the debut's "I'm So Bored With The USA", "Washington Bullets" builds a calypso-paced invective, complete with a xylophone in full swing, denouncing US interference in Latin America in the period between the Cuban revolution and the Nicaraguan one, running through — in a tone that's almost too didactic — well-known coups, CIA crimes and imperialist policies, though it doesn't spare the Soviet Union either, which had just invaded Afghanistan. It's the militant heart of Disc 2, matched by the heartfelt funk of "The Call Up", an exhortation to reject the call to arms in the name of a new way of life ("You're the victim of a military style of life"), in a sonic triumph punctuated by a fanfare and a tinkling xylophone, while the near-gospel of "The Sound Of Sinners" launches a frontal attack on Christianity.

But the impression is that — a bit like their fellow countryman Ken Loach on the big screen — the Clash are more at ease with the small-scale portrait of the suburbs, the glimpse of urban rage, than with the universal sermon. Like when, in the proto-pop-wave of "Up In Heaven (Not Only Here)", reminiscent of the Cure, they call out the inhumane conditions in English council housing. Or when they roam the sidewalks of New York inciting revolt, like modern-day James Browns possessed by the frantic soul-funk of "Lightning Strikes (Not Once But Twice)", a sort of more morbid, obsessive "The Magnificent Seven". And above all when they stage the famous getaway recalled at the outset. Because the vibrant "Police On My Back" — the second disc's climax — is a cover only in name: the Clash completely overturn the original anti-apartheid pop song by the Anglo-Caribbean band to turn it into the album's punk heart. It's an assault that's already a masterpiece, with distorted guitars mimicking a police siren, then the eruption of a hysterical Jones repeating like a mantra the line "I've been running Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday..." to underscore the protagonist's sense of being surrounded. Specifically, an individual on the run from the police, day after day. Maybe he killed someone ("There was a shooting... And the victim, well he won't come back") or maybe not, but ultimately it doesn't matter, because it's simply a metaphor for an oppressive society that persecutes and keeps the weakest in check. A paranoid, devastating anthem, built entirely on the raw, accelerating guitar walls and the frenzied pace set by Headon's martial drumming.

Rounding out Disc 2's rich menu are episodes only seemingly minor, like the Pogues-flavored funk-rock of "Corner Soul", the Latin-tinged vibrations of "Let's Go Crazy", which again winks at tribal rhythms and Caribbean calypso, the reggae-dub breath that resurfaces amid the violins of the hallucinated "The Equaliser" and amid Gary Barnacle's soul-jazz sax flourishes on "If The Music Could Talk" (with one lyric on one channel and a different one on the other), the rock 'n' roll shard of "Midnight Log" and the whisky-soaked spoken word of the decadent, jazzy "Broadway", which closes the disc with a jarring "remake" of "The Guns Of Brixton" performed by piano and a five-year-old girl (!).

Disc 3: From Irish Folk to the Seeds of Trip-Hop

Put on the third disc and you'll think you've grabbed the wrong LP. But no. Because the furious Irish folk of "Lose This Skin", entrusted to the androgynous voice and violin riffs of Tymon Dogg (singer-songwriter, busker and friend of Joe Strummer), is just another voice from the global uprising. The voice of someone who feels the need to shed their skin to escape imprisonment ("I've got to lose this skin I'm imprisoned in"), a set of rules and responsibilities that end up suffocating. And the sound's own change of skin is a lucky one too: a punk-tinged folk that seems to anticipate the aesthetic of the Pogues and Billy Bragg (or, staying in Italy: Gang and Modena City Ramblers). A disorienting intrusion, yet coherent within an album that makes disorientation its own method. Anyone who considers it a foreign body simply hasn't understood the spirit of "Sandinista!".

In a third act that ends up feeling a bit stretched, with several variations on themes already heard — "Living in Fame" (dub version of "If Music Could Talk"), "Silicone On Sapphire" (dub version of "Washington Bullets"), "Version Pardner" (dub version of "Junco Partner") and a new version of "Career Opportunities" from the debut album, performed by keyboardist Mick Gallagher's two children — there's no shortage of other feats. Chief among them is the disorienting "Charlie Don't Surf", which behind atmospheric, almost wave-like keyboards and a breezy chorus conceals a bitter reflection on the American intervention in Vietnam ("Charlie" was the nickname US soldiers used for the Viet Cong), taking its title from a famous line in Francis Ford Coppola's "Apocalypse Now". Baustelle would take note for their "Charlie fa surf", but apparently so did Tears for Fears: in a 1988 interview, Strummer revealed he had met Roland Orzabal and told him, "You owe me five pounds", explaining that the title of "Everybody Wants To Rule The World" was lifted straight from the first line of the bridge of "Charlie Don't Surf". And good old Orzabal reached into his pocket and handed over the fateful banknote.

But even apparent filler tracks actually reveal the band's state of grace: take the lunar jam of "Version City", which starts off woozy with radio snippets and Zappa-esque distorted voices, before taking off on the cadences of an elegant piano riff that swings from bright high notes to darker, lower chords, with harmonica creeping in and drums pressing forward. Or the velvety blues of "The Street Parade" and the reggae of "Living In Fame", which turns "If The Music Could Talk" into a sprawling dub. And while the overdub collage of "Mensforth Hill" experiments in the name of anarchy, blending liturgical organ with ethnic cadences, the paranoid blues of "Junkie Slip" stages a surreal voodoo ritual, a prelude to the militant celebration of "Kingston Advice" ("In these days the beat is militant/ Must be a clash, there's no alternative"), where reggae is merely absorbed into pop-rock sounds that already seem to point toward the future hit "Rock The Casbah".

Closing things out is the dub hallucination of "Shepherds Delight", written together with producer Mikey Dread: dark, instrumental, futuristic. It already sounds like Massive Attack in embryo.

Epilogue

"Sandinista!" is above all a formidable team effort — it's no coincidence that, for the first time, the songs are credited to all four members of the Clash rather than just the Strummer/Jones duo, as in previous works. A sprawling collective session that makes contamination and cosmopolitan eclecticism its DNA, in the very same year that Talking Heads's "Remain In Light" was flinging open a door onto Africa.

Initially, predictably, it will divide fans and critics, though it manages to hold its own in the sales charts, countering a disappointing No. 19 in the UK with a respectable No. 24 in the US, their best placement up to that point (for what it's worth, it will also be the band's biggest success in Italy: No. 27 on the Sorrisi chart, spending 17 weeks in the top 50). With time — famously an honest judge — it will end up appearing on numerous best-albums-of-all-time lists, including Rolling Stone's, but above all it will plant the seeds for countless crossovers. Mano Negra, Manu Chao and the so-called patchanka sound? Practically unthinkable without "Sandinista!". But among those in its debt — more or less openly — we can also count Rage Against The Machine, Green Day, Beastie Boys, the Chilean band Los Prisioneros, and a great deal of dub, reggae-rock and trip-hop still to come. In Italy, the same has been said of bands like Gang and Modena City Ramblers. Not to even get into the countless covers and tributes, the most explicit of which, "The Sandinista! Project" (2007), brought together The Smithereens, Camper Van Beethoven, Matthew Ryan, Katrina Leskanich, Willie Nile, Jon Langford and many others, confirming the undying influence of this three-dimensional monolith from 1980.

Excessive, yes. Could it use trimming in places? Certainly. A forerunner of today's hyper-productivity, which pushes artists to record endlessly and release everything? That, perhaps, would be its only real fault, if one can even hold it against the record. Strummer himself put it best: "I've argued plenty of times with people about what we should and shouldn't put on it, but now, thinking back, I can't separate the songs. It's like the layers of an onion: there are stupid tracks and there are beautiful ones. The more I think about it, the happier I am with how it turned out". "Sandinista!", in short, can only be understood this way, in its omnivorous, reckless ambition: take it or leave it. And we, wholeheartedly, take it.

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22/06/2025