Saturday, March 29, 2014


The Clash were riding high, having a a few hits in the USA, and here they were opening up for some outfit called "The Who," who were maybe on their maybe first "farewell tour." David Johansen preceded The Clash--he sang that jungle song. Getting ahead of myself--getting into the stadium is a story in itself. No tickets, but when you have a friend who is an NYPD detective with the ability to "tin" one's way in, it was a piece of cake. Except for the fact that he had his off-duty pistol in an ankle-holster, which freaked out security. "I'm on the job, he's with me," became a mantra, as the security monkeys patted us down even 20 years before 9/11.

We wound up in the right-field loge. The stage was way out in center-field. A guy fell out of the upper deck into the loge a section over--injury extent unknown. You could barely see the the performers. The Clash, being smart men,sported garish and outlandish garb to make for a more visual effect--a bright red suit on Jones, a coonskin cap on Strummer. They really rocked up "Rocking The Casbah," making it a punk rock song. They sang all their anti-war songs, as I think The Falklands or some such was going on.

It was nothing like when I witnessed the group at the Palladium or Bonds, where those houses were blown, and I was singularly blown away.

And then The Who came on. Pete ripped his hand to bloody shreds. I only knew this because there was GIANT simultaneous video of the band performing behind them. If Johansen and The Clash were afforded this amenity, I might have enjoyed the evening more.

Thank you, Butch.