The Clash are one of those bands that most folks are railroaded into appreciating, kind of like The Beatles or Nirvana or David Bowie, because of the cultural impact they had on music during their heyday. Critics and fans alike beat you senseless with bludgeons of melodramatic praise and sometimes you can't help but blindly agree as their irrational (or skewed) energy seeps into your brain. I think it's fair to recognize (and respect) the significance such bands have drawn in the history of pop music, but I don't think people should confuse "respect" with "enjoyment".
So it is with The Clash, a band I certainly respect but cannot say I enjoy on any consistent level. People are always quick to point to their album, London Calling, as the band's definitive statement to the world. I remember buying the album strictly because of its reputation when I was in high school. I had the "if critics like it, then I should too" mentality going on strong back then. However, upon listening to the much-lauded record, I discovered a lot of inconsistency, as if all the songs didn't make much sense together, but might have been better off spaced across several albums, each dedicated exclusively to a chosen style. As it stands, the album is really just a series of anomalies.
"London Calling" isn't a terrible opener, with it's pulsating guitar chords and playful bass line, but it doesn't have the gravity that Joe Strummer clearly thinks it does. He groans out a series of implicit, rally-cry phrases like "Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust", "London calling to the zombies of death/quit holdin' out as I draw another breath" and, of course, "London has drowned, and I live by the river". It's a song that critiques consumerism and the stifling of world awareness, but the midnight-punk music lacks enough power to hold it all up.
"London Calling" is followed closely by excursions into surf ("Brand New Cadillac"), lounge-lizard ska ("Jimmy Jazz") and straight-up reggae ("Rudie Can't Fail"). This is a jostling rotation of styles that conjures a feeling of uneasy disconnection. You almost already feel exhausted as The Clash sing "Rudie can't faaaailll" over and over at the close of the first chunk of the record. Then, in comes "Spanish Bombs" to knock your socks off in the right direction. The easy-going lead guitar is a hunky '50s pin-up, filled out by a quick and cautious drum beat. This bubblegum sound ironically frames the ultra political words by Strummer, where he teaches a violent history lesson. The song has this gratifying poignancy to it, thanks to the intersection of sweet melodies and horrendous lyrical imagery.
And the album seems to follow suit from there, a collection of strange influence-infused explorations that would become hallmarks for The Clash down the line, as well as tried and true punk rock anthems that jettisons the blood through your veins. London Calling sounds like a small old cigar box you'd discover by chance in someone's closet. The box would contain old war metals, pamphlets on radical liberalism, pictures of sun-burned vistas and grungy slums from far off places, pictures of old friends, lovers, pimps and thieves - and probably some leftover weed. It's a box that's interesting, but ultimately too jumbled to care about as a whole.
It's an odd sensation holding on to London Calling for so long. It's an album too sloppy to really get your hands around and too intriguing to get rid of. You feel the intensity in all of the songs, but the energy is too scatter-shot to be completely enjoyable. Palpable and righteous songs like "Clampdown" and "Train in Vain" are a perfect fit for the anthem rock archetype of The Clash, but at other times, such as the low-down reggae of "The Guns of Brixton", you can't help but feel how silly and ponderous they are. I can give credit to the band for stepping out of their tattered punk rock sneakers to throw a no-holds-barred soiree of world music, but when the overall direction isn't magnified, you're left with a bunch of good songs meant to be heard on a dozen different albums.
