1982 (18 page)

The Clash
debut album T-shirt (various colours)

“Clash City Rockers” T-shirt (yellow, red, and white on black)

Sandinista!
T-shirt (black and red)

As you can see from this short list, there were many sartorial options for Clash gear—options exercised by members of the Clash as well. This practice of wearing one’s own T-shirts was quite anomalous. It was very punk. Who else could get away with such shameless self-promotion? Maybe the Clash were being ironic or cheeky, but they seemed too angry and political for that. Most artists look ridiculous or opportunistic if they’re donning their own merchandise. Not the Clash.

Let this be another lesson in cool: If you are considered groundbreaking and hip and on the leading edge in contemporary pop culture, you can get away with things that others cannot. In fact, these things may become a trend. But you will stop getting away with them when you are no longer cool. And everything becomes uncool eventually. That is, unless you experience a premature end or a tragic death. Endings and death help maintain cool. In 1983, the Clash broke up
acrimoniously after just six years (even if there was a new lineup that soldiered on until 1986). Basically, the band came to a premature end. They never became uncool.

If the Clash wore their own T-shirts with aplomb, very few others could. Can you imagine the guys in REO Speedwagon wearing REO Speedwagon jerseys while they sang their corporate hit ballads? No. You can’t, because they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t, because wearing an REO Speedwagon T-shirt as a member of REO Speedwagon would be even less cool than actually playing in REO Speedwagon. They had a special REO logo that looked like an airplane brand, but they still wouldn’t have worn their own T-shirts. The individual guys in REO Speedwagon were probably cooler than their band.

The same is true of Gowan. If emerging 1980s Canadian New Wave-ish singer Gowan had worn a Gowan T-shirt onstage, it would have been considered desperate, or at least goofy. Gowan was a pop-rocker who was born in Glasgow, Scotland, but had grown up in Scarborough, Ontario, and was tapped in the early ’80s as a new Canadian star. His full name was Lawrence Gowan, but he just went by Gowan. Later, he would put out an album entitled
… but you can call me Larry
. So, later, he wanted to be called Larry. But in 1982, he just wanted to be called Gowan. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was catchier. I once told my father about Gowan, and he repeated Gowan’s name back to me as if I were making up words.

“Gow-van. I do not understand thees name. Why he has thees name?” My father grew tired of such things sometimes.

Gowan released his debut album in 1982, and by the mid-’80s he would score a couple of hit songs, including “A Criminal Mind” and “(You’re a) Strange Animal.” He was a
very fine musician, but New Wave tastemakers were not at all convinced of Gowan’s merits. And Gowan had an odd habit of doing karate kicks in the middle of performing his songs. I wasn’t sure why he did these kicks and chops. Presumably, Gowan had mastered karate in his youth and had thereafter decided to make the martial arts a part of his rock show. Use what you’ve got, they say. But his propensity for the kicks was a bit uncool. Add to this his overblown pop anthems, and the tastemakers were really on the fence when it came to Gowan. The punk and New Wave elite of 213 were not wearing Gowan T-shirts. And so, if Gowan had worn a Gowan T-shirt, it probably would not have been a very successful career move. Gowan would later go on to be the singer of the re-formed ’70s band Styx. Now, he is Larry Gowan. He is very nice and talented. But it would still be strange if Larry Gowan wore a Gowan T-shirt onstage. And it would make even less sense now that he is singing with Styx.

In contrast to REO Speedwagon and Gowan, the Clash could get away with overt self-promotion because they had musical and aesthetic credibility. And they were tough. And then they came to a premature end. During our subway ride heading towards the Police Picnic, Wendy had told me she really wanted to see the Clash play live. That was one of her ambitions. I decided at that moment that I needed to get a Clash T-shirt with cut-off sleeves. I also decided that I might need to start doing push-ups so my arms would look less skinny. These Clash outfits came with significant collateral implications.

The Clash had released their third album in 1979, an iconic rock record called
London Calling
.
Rolling Stone
magazine would later declare it the best album of the 1980s, even though it
came out in 1979. That is how good the record was. In the early ’80s, the Clash had gained an international cult following for their raw punk sound, defiant lyrics, and undeniable melodies. By the end of Grade 9, I had become a true fan. Unfortunately, my big fandom was a bit late for the cool crowd. I caught on to the Clash in the spring of 1982, when they released
Combat Rock
. It was an album that sold very well, but many purists considered it lame and sellout pop by Clash standards— especially because it garnered hit singles like “Rock the Casbah” and “Should I Stay or Should I Go.” Hit singles were not cool. But I was captivated by the sounds on
Combat Rock
, and I eventually worked backwards through their previous albums until the Clash became one of my favourite bands ever. Still, at the time of the Police Picnic, I didn’t know the music of the Clash very well. I had been too young when
London Calling
came out, and I had been busy attending concerts by performers like The Dan Hill with my parents.

For the most part, in 1982 I reacted to the Clash the way I reacted to most things punk when I was in my early teens: with a mixture of admiration and terror. I had a deep desire to meet the Clash, if I ever had the opportunity, but I imagined they might punch me in the head if we ever met. They would likely realize I was a comfortable suburban kid with the wrong hair and a lack of knowledge about class warfare in England. They might find out I knew the lyrics to Andy Gibb songs about love being higher than mountains and thicker than water. They might also discover that I did fairly well in school and liked my parents and didn’t smoke cigarettes, even though I sometimes tried to smell like cigarettes. It was clear I had it all wrong. The Clash would probably hate me in Grade 9.

Still, I wondered if the heroic leader of the Clash, Joe Strummer, would have actually thrown my Adidas bag at Joan Jett. Probably. He was a punk. But maybe he would’ve shown mercy towards me. He had integrity and seemed smarter than Forbes. Maybe he would have pitied me because I was an immigrant and immigrants had it tough. Maybe he would have had an intuitive sense that three decades later “Spanish Bombs” would become the fourth most-played song ever on my iPod. It is impossible to know what Mr. Strummer would have done. But surely, for some other punks, it is a given that my Adidas bag would be fair projectile fodder in taking a stand against corporate rock. Jello Biafra, of the San Francisco punk band the Dead Kennedys, would probably have thrown my Adidas bag at Joan Jett. Mind you, he would also go on to become a prominent member of the Green Party of the United States. So it’s hard to imagine that he would throw the bag at Joan Jett later in his life. That doesn’t seem like something a member of the Green Party does. As you can see, there are many issues and nuances when it comes to judging who might throw my Adidas bag on the day of the Police Picnic.

I have made a short list of well-known punks who likely would have thrown my Adidas bag at Joan Jett in 1982:

Johnny Rotten

Joe Strummer (maybe)

Joey Ramone

Jello Biafra (pre–Green Party membership)