Ok, so DomP's Clash remaster from Hammersmith Palais got the thumbs up from me, but what did the music journos make of it at the time. The verdict? Generally positive, but not without some criticisms. Read on.
New Musical Express (28th June 1980)
The Clash/Holly & The Italians
Hammersmith Palais
Mythman In The Hammersmith Palais
Really, it's all too easy to sneer now at the returning heroes, immensely confident with their American
conquests behind them. But, for better or worse, just another rock'n'roll group well versed in the mores and manners of the genre seems to be all that people wanted, after all.
And as the distance in time from The Clash's forgotten days of cheap, if well-meant political sloganeering grows, they do seem to get better. America has obviously helped. The Clash of today are
extremely polished and prepared, most every gesture and action pre-planned, And whenever the Clash play London, they do so as conquering heroes anyway, regardless of being away or not.
So to Hammersmith Palais, this step already immortalised in their best single 'White Man In , . .' The Clash are what you'd expect and more, not so much the last gang in town, as the only one left, all opposition obliterated in their own eyes. But as their playing has obviously strengthened with the passing of time, they've become less prone to error, and consequently more predictable.
While their music has been enriched by the assimilation of their roots, it does make them more conservative musically. Their lack of adventurousness is reflected in their programming, which followed the pattern established on their last tour.
'Clash City Rockers', 'Brand New Cadillac' and 'Safe European Home' are rapidly performed by a band at their most winning. Simonon's great curved bass lines combined with Headon's drumming to create a prefect springboard for Jones and Strummer's cross-cut chording. Strummer's voice, as garbled as ever, battered this listener at least into temporary submission.
As usual Micky Gallagher came on for 'Jimmy Jazz', but wasn't really effective until the dubby effects of 'Revolution Rock'. This time more songs from 'London Calling' were included, which become The Clash far better than their earlier stuff, but the brace of new songs they showcased was largely too inaudible to be properly assessed.
'White Man In Hammersmith Palais' was prefaced with "Let's not get too sentimental about this," from Mick Jones, but they seemed conscious of another myth being completed, by their presence.
While maintaining a high level of professionalism they were OK, but they're too far gone to be forgiven for the forced endearing amateurism that surfaced for an impromptu 'Hit The Road Jack' that fell into a lazy version of 'Police And Thieves'.
Strummer later accidentally dropped his mikestand into Topper's drumkit and the gig had suddenly degenerated into a shambles. I got bored, well wishers got confused.
Holly and The Italians share The Clash's trad rock leanings, but have yet to attain their sharpness. Whereas the billtoppers are always colourful, the Italians make hard work of their dull, grey music based around well-churned over riffs. Since adding an extra guitarist they've forsaken-heppy poppiness for more determined-power chording, and have consequently lost the reedy charm they once had. Holly upfront is their one contact with the new age, but her yawning accent apart, they have nothing new to offer.
But then, neither have The Clash.
Chris Bohn
Melody Maker (28th June 1980)
THE CLASH/HOLLY & THE ITALIANS
Hammersmith Palais
HOLLY and the Italians play a short, powerful set with confidence and an adhesive guitar mix that occasionally needs to get a little more this side of flexible. Apart from "Tell That Girl To Shut Up", the lyrics remain a mystery and Holly sings like she plays guitar: no embellishments or lead breaks but it's a clear, strong sound succeeding in accelerating without lift-off. Not that they have much chance of tapping the energies reserved for the Clash, who used to be contenders until they saw the dead end of the campaign trail.
Clash City has become a larger, more sprawling metropolis than the inner urban area it used to be, and the Clash stand accused or admired for demolishing the walls of a narrow framework to become regular rock 'n' roll "entertainers". Some people sneer easily. The word "professional" sounds ill at ease in the context of garage band origins but in this case their increasing skill opens up choices and leaves their affective vehemence intact.
A string of excellent "London Calling" numbers feature in the first half of the set of which the title track stood up to be counted. Strummer's somewhat untrustworthy voice was at its best here, although throughout he made extensive use of echo and punchy dub effects, and often toasted a song to conclusion, any errors being disguised in the dense treatment. However, Jones's lead vocals appeared on the scene like a 90lb weakling struggling to overcome the backing onslaught and Strummer and Simonon's considerably beefier harmonies. The more Jones squawked in a semblance of aggression, the punier it sounded: all the muscle was in his guitar.
The encores came in two chapters. The first brought on Mikey to shovel some 16 ton reggae, the spaces gradually closing up into an advancing wall of sound - 'Headon's fine, splintered drumming becoming a solid crash and Mickey Gallagher continuing to play understated keyboards to precise effect. I only lost enthusiasm when the toasting went downhill fast and smacked into the usual excess of lengthy repetition.
The second was a series of Clash classics - "London's Burning", "What's My Name" etc - with rhetoric starting to show through the spirit of '77 veneer. They were performed in such quantity and rapid succession that their familiarity tied the Clash down to a definite moment. But, playing to a
diverse audience of neo-punks, skins, packs of little Miss Selfridge girls and battered survivors of the glory days, the result is classy mainstream rock: imagination minus innovation. Gone is the heavyweight K.O. of political aggression but the Clash are still bouncing off the ropes with the staying power of former champions. – DEBRA DALEY
Record Mirror (21st June 1980)
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