Rolling Stone | The Clash in 1980: There’ll Be Dancing in the Streets [x]
And if you’re in the Crown tonight, have a drink on me.
But go easy, step lightly, stay free.
“You made me cry out there, man.” Freddie, a nineteen-year-old Englishman transplanted to San Francisco, grabs Mick Jones around the shoulders and gives him a big hug. Jones gently pulls away, his dark eyes staring mournfully at Freddie. “I made you cry? How do you think we’re gonna feel when they bring you back with a hole in your chest?”
Backstage at the Warfield Theater on Sunday night, the Clash have just completed their exhilarating second and final show in San Francisco. Near the end of the set, Jones dedicated “Stay Free,” a song from Give ‘Em Enough Rope, to “someone I know who’s going into the marines tomorrow.” And now Freddie, that someone, has come to thank him.
“Aw, come on, man,” Freddie says. “Stop it. You’re making me cry again.”
“I mean it,” Jones says, his sadness almost turning into anger. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? One way or another, you’ll never come back alive. They’ll ruin you.” Jones pauses and surveys Freddie’s rock-hard physique. “Freddie here used to be as skinny as me,” Jones says, turning to me. “We used to see him at our shows in London. Now look at him. He’s joining the marines,'boot camp,’ I think he called it.”
Freddie, straining to hold back tears, is obviously shaken. “But Mick, it’s a roof over my head and $500 a month,” he protests.
“Five hundred dollars a month!” Jones erupts. “Fuckin’ lot of good that’ll do you when you got a hole through you.” Jones stops and looks around the dressing room. He spots Kosmo Vinyl, the band’s assistant, PR person and jack-of-all-trades. The two huddle for a few seconds, then leave the dressing room.
Finally, Jones wanders back in. I ask about Freddie.
“He’s not goin’,” Jones says. “Me and Kosmo and Joe will give him the $500 a month. He’s coming to work with us.”
blakekathryn
discoholicmusic
jbbartram-illu
origamiaround
romaincrisis
2087
