The Clash
The Magnificent Seven

THE REVIEW

In 2014, the Supreme Court ruled that it is gravely damaging to a woman's reputation and personal honor to compare her to a training ship, implying a reference to the breadth of her romantic relationships.

Obviously, as I remember such an image often associated with the walking woman, albeit in times when she was a romantic and affectionate figure in her own way, like in a film by Federico Fellini or a song by Fabrizio De André.

Then came the time of the prostitute and the whore looked at with disdain by those who think well, and a reality not at all imaginative swept away the romantic and affectionate veneer.

Better this way, after all, because the veneer only exists in some films and songs.

This brief aside by way of introduction, albeit confused, I hope serves to dispel any suspicion of defamation on my part for the recurring association between «Sandinista!» and a whore.

«The Magnificent Seven», «Junco Partner», «Ivan Meets G.I. Joe» and many other grooves etched on those three vinyls are the whores that introduced me to and taught me the love for unheard sounds.

«The Magnificent Seven» above all.

That first approach marks one of the countless moments when my existence changes direction, the sliding door consciously crossed.

Moreover, the first approach with a Clash album has always renewed that feeling of turning point, it went like this with «Janie Jones», «Safe European Home», «London Calling», «Know Your Rights»; even «Dictator», even if this, as an approach, meant the end of a cycle, instead of the vision of new horizons, like when you realize you are no longer at an age to go to whores.

Of course, it went like this with «The Magnificent Seven».

It happened that the classmate who understands passes me under the table a TDK90 chrome, the one with the purple label for those who remember it. And on the tape, Pretenders, Cure, Sex Pistols, Ramones, Joy Division play fast. But opening up are the over five minutes of «The Magnificent Seven».

If he had passed me under the table the solution to the trigonometric equation, I wouldn't have failed math, but my life would have passed without surprises.

«The Clash changed my life. So say all those who listened to them, loving them. I understand what they feel, they changed my life too», is, roughly, the opening of «Death or Glory», the beautiful book Brad Gilbert wrote about the London band. One wouldn't need to read further to understand everything.

«The Clash were a strong voice. If they changed the life of just one person, they achieved their purpose». So says Joe Strummer once his and Paul Simonon's run comes to an end and I am sure that in that ideal embrace Terry Chimes, Nicky Headon, and the accomplice Mick Jones, even if their run ended at previous stops.

Michael Geoffrey Jones.

To him, we owe «The Magnificent Seven», the idea is his.

New York 1980, the place and the year: The Clash are touring the United States to ride the long wave of «London Calling».

A few months earlier, Sugarhill Gang released «Rapper’s Delight», 15 minutes of "new" music on 12 inches, revolutionary in form and substance.

Mick is the main receptor of new sensations. He incessantly frequents all the record stores of Brooklyn spreading that new gospel and makes a collection. He spends a week absorbing that unheard sound. Then he reaches Joe at the Electric Lady Studio.

It is during those days that Joe transforms the recording studio founded by Jimi Hendrix into a joint bunker, building a rudimentary trench by stacking flight cases of instruments against a corner; Joe who loses his head getting in and out of taxis in the hope that the driver will pass him a joint, and his hopes are rarely disappointed. «It's sensational. This is New York», Joe's exact words.

John Graham Mellor.

To him, we owe «The Magnificent Seven», the idea is his.

Joe is in the bunker with Mick. Mick pops out of the stack: «We need something really funky, Joe wants to do a rap». While his companions invent a riff and put it on loop, Joe writes the lyrics on the spot, a flow of words that pours uninterrupted for two hours, «The Magnificent Seven Rap-O-Clappers», then just «The Magnificent Seven».

So Norman Watt-Roy remembers its genesis.

Norman Watt-Roy, the bassist of Ian Dury's Blockheads, arrived a few days before in the joint bunker to replace Paul Simonon, drafted to act in a film in production in Vancouver. There is no time to wait for his return, and so Norman finds himself playing the bass line instead of Paul in «The Magnificent Seven».

Of Topper Headon, I never know what to write.

Nicholas Bowen Headon is the one who stays a bit on the sidelines, away from the spotlight. He is the metronome of the band. The first piece lost along the way. I think the end of The Clash began with Topper's dismissal more than Mick's. Few words, for him, the drums in «I’m Not Down» speak.

It is April 8, 1980.

«It was pouring down rain and we were completely drenched. Then Norman and I sat down and started improvising, after a while, what would become The Magnificent Seven came out. Then the guys started coming in and they said “Oh yeah, it's fine”. Topper arrived and put a drum beat and Joe disappeared to write some verses. We kept on improvising for a bit more: Joe sang, Norman played. We did a huge job on that piece», so says Michael William Gallagher, keyboardist, also in The Blockheads.

They are the creators of «The Magnificent Seven».

The first rap piece by a British white group. Paradoxically, the most representative of the funk and dance rhythms that invade the streets of New York on that rainy April 8, 1980. The Sugarhill Gang but also the Chic.

On December 12, 1980, «The Magnificent Seven» opens the fourth album by The Clash, pushed beyond all limits: rockabilly, punk, reggae, funk, disco, dub, soul, R&B, gospel, calypso, salsa.

Funk, disco, dub, the whores that introduced me to and taught me the love for unheard sounds.

The red and bloody cover, that bruised and filthy wall in contrast to the white image of the Pink Floyd wall.

The Clash emerge from the ghetto with the radio on their shoulder and bring the new sound to the safe European home.
On April 10, 1981, it is the third single extracted from «Sandinista!»

The most uncompromising or merely more obtuse punk community does not accept yet another shift, just as in 1979 in the face of «London Calling»: it is war, and the concerts are the opportune occasion to declare it.

«It is much more fun to play in front of a hostile audience than in front of one already on your side. You don't play the same way when you have to dodge the cans thrown on stage», words of Paul Simonon.

Only he was missing to close this story.