Vinyl Dust-off: The Clash’s Sandinista!

By Lliam Easterbrook
[senior features writer]

“The completion of the socialist revolution within national limits is unthinkable.” —Leon Trotsky

5/5 records

Arab Spring, unrest in Greece and Rome, anarchy in Britain, anti-capitalist protests in New York and Boston, and now, a widespread bloom of grassroots protest movements all across North America. It seems Trotsky was on to something.

Perhaps the Occupy protests aren’t necessarily a socialist or communist movement, but they are, at the pith of it all, about people–all people. They are the result of a generation finally snapping their eyes open, lifting away the veil of corrupt authority and institution, shedding the fetters of consumerism and corporatism, inequality and nationalistic jingoism, and replacing the plastic windows of their television screens with a real picture in a frame — a window overlooking a world of imperialism, hedonism, and miry consequence.

The protests are a long overdue slap in the face  to our generation’s complacency regarding  corporate greed. They reflect the desires of people all over the world, to relinquish  their apathy when it comes to kyboshing the perpetuators of climate change and inequality. If for nothing else, the Occupy protests seem to be calling for egalitarianism, once and for all, in the form of a unified all-for-one-and-one-for-all élan. The borders gone, walls fallen, nationalisms tossed aside. What remains is terse solidarity: for change around the world. Make no mistake, this is what could happen: a revolution to “occupy” the world. At any rate, it should happen–if humanity wants to save face before it’s too late.

The Clash began their assault on the music world by thrusting gritty, ugly, politically charged rock and roll at the throat of the masses. With classic albums like their self-titled debut, The Clash and the iconic London Calling, the Clash–once hailed as “the only band that matters” by Epic Records’ Bruce Harris–shed their punk rock skin and its limitations at the height of their popularity, opting to explore more diverse musical territories they had only hinted at on previous albums. Sandinista!  would turn out to be the most politically conscious and artistic album the band would produce before their demise in 1986. It anticipated the world music trend of the 1980s, and also drew opus-like comparisons to the Beatles’ White Album. Incorporating diverse musical textures such as reggae, jazz, calypso, gospel, rap, dub, folk, rockabilly and punk, Sandinista! was put out by the Clash as a triple LP for the price of a single LP.

Joe Strummer, lead singer and rhythm guitarist of the British quartet, became increasingly interested in foreign political movements in the late 1970s and early 1980s. He also explored his affinity for diverse music, opting to transform the band’s image from in-your-face political punk-rockers to world-conscious egalitarians, a new punk archetype that could adopt new musical forms while still maintaining credibility and attitude.

Sandinista! takes its name from the Nicaraguan socialist group the Sandinistas (the Sandinista National Liberation Front, or FSLN), who overthrew political leader Anastasio Somoza Debayle in 1979. They instituted policies of mass literacy, health care, and gender equality. They were opposed by  Contras, CIA-backed militant groups that repeatedly attacked state and civilian targets in Nicaragua — despite the electoral victory of the FSLN. Strummer was sympathetic to the FSLN and their movement toward social reform. If Strummer were still alive, he would be involved in the Occupy protests. Sandinista! is a quintessential political album by a quintessential political band.

The first of many around North America, the Wall Street protest, situated in Liberty Square, New York, has been engaging the “99 per cent”–the dissatisfied masses and enraging the corporatist “1 per cent” since Sept. 17.  Vancouver’s response to Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Vancouver, began on Oct. 15 at the Vancouver Art Gallery in the heart of the City’s financial district. Like the New York protest, Occupy Vancouver is a public reaction to the growing disparity between rich and poor — what is quickly becoming the dissipation of the middle class.

For me, the morning of Oct. 15 began like any other. I woke up, ate breakfast, tied my shoes, let my dog out, and packed my bag. The only difference, aside from the air of excitement hanging just above my head, was that I painted the back of an old pizza box with white paint, a sign that read, “I’m a surfer, not a serf,” a variation I would hoist proudly above my head in solidarity with countless others across the world. I also listened to Sandinista!–in particular “The Magnificent 7”, arguably the first politically charged rap song ever recorded. “Don’t you ever stop long enough to start?/ Get your car outta that gear!” Strummer sings questioning the sense of the 9-5 rat race.

And after missing my bus by seconds, I pointed my thumb skyward in a last ditch effort to make it from White Rock to the downtown core by 10 a.m. Unexpectedly, the very first car pulled over, and I hopped in. “Heya mate,” the driver exclaimed in an eastern-Australian accent: “Name’s Ken. Howrya?”
We went through introductions; he asked where I was going, and he said he would  be happy to drive me. He asked what my sign was for, and what it read. We talked about all the great surf spots in Eastern Australia, how Surfer’s Paradise is ridden with overhanging apartment buildings, high-rises and corporate infrastructure that looms over the beach, creating a thick shadow-blanket in the daytime–and how, in contrast, Byron Bay has grown organically to be one of the best natural surf spots in the world. He was on his way home to pack his stuff for a permanent move to Canada. He said he would have liked to join the protest, and that it was for a good cause. He mentioned social change, awareness and community–and that he hoped it would be peaceful. I told him I agreed with him. He dropped me off and wished me luck. I thanked him for caring about a stranger. He said we weren’t strangers any longer, and that was that.

I met up with my two friends. We grabbed coffee and walked to the art gallery, smoking and wondering along the way why we were the only people carrying signs. We thought, momentarily, that the whole thing was a bust—that nobody was going to be there, and that our hunches regarding Vancouver’s idiotic, booze-fuelled riot having resulted in factional dissymmetry and a general disdain for anything even remotely resembling a mob, were true. Boy was I wrong. We turned the corner and immediately heard the loudspeaker, the uplifting murmur of hundreds of voices, and a stoic air wrapping the whole shebang in a bubble of optimism—Christ, even the police were smiling. Oh enigmatic Vancouver …

I lifted my camera from my bag and began taking picture–children with signs, dogs wearing signs and people of every class–high-class suits, no-class boots and everything in between. It was everyone supporting everyone else–everyone hearing everyone else, instead of simply waiting for his or her turn to speak. Then my camera jammed on me.

Being an old Canon from the early 1980s: the film must have slipped or torn. An older man came suddenly skipping by with a sign that read, “a compassionate world begins with you.” He stopped, looked at me, and then blurted, “Hey, you there, take my picture!” I told him my camera was jammed. “I have the same camera, friend. May I?” He took the camera, fiddled with it for a moment, and then said, “Mine did the same thing twenty years ago. Tell you what … my name’s Ken, and my wife’s name is Gail. If you head across the way to the kid’s station, I have an extra disposable camera. Tell her Ken sent you for it.” I thanked him and walked through the throng of people in the direction he had pointed, found Gail who immediately smiled over a hot cup of tea, rummaging through her bag for the camera, which when found, she handed over like it was nothing. I thanked her, and said I would make good use of it. It was a day of Kens–literally. And with people all over the world suddenly becoming politically motivated–catching fire like a spark in dry brush, the range of Kens, as it were, has been figurative too.

As we ventured on, more smiles, more signs, more music, more photos and more community. An old hippie had set up a mat to the edge of the crowd. He challenged anyone to a game of Twister. He claimed he was the 1 per cent, and anyone who dared challenge him was the 99 per cent. I took up the challenge with more bravado than Donald Trump at a hair loss convention. His record was 6 wins and 0 losses for the day, and after 20 plus minutes of performing strange and excruciating limb contortions my body hadn’t composed since elastic infancy, I won, and he shook my hand. If only all of this social change business were that easy—or better yet, could be decided once and for all by a game of Twister: crotchety establishment vs. newfangled generation.

With a line drawn in the sand, we’re making a dogged stand. But anti-capitalist leanings aren’t enough to give these grass roots movements the fuel it needs to burn. Without any clear rhetorical platform on which to stand thus far, the Occupy movements are merely anti-capitalist fodder, and will not invoke change in the masses. That may be okay for now, but a consensus between protestors and their cities needs to be established–a consensus that goes above and beyond nationalistic borders. The movement needs to transcend country and enter the human sphere–the world sphere–the “I am of this earth” sphere.

Unfortunately, the world movement is going to take longer than 20 plus minutes, and it’s surely going to be much more difficult than a simple game of Twister–no matter how vexing the positions are. The players–old against new–are the same; and this is our chance.

An emotional Strummer poignantly uttered a simple statement during “London Calling,” his radio show for the BBC World Service: he said, “so now I’d like to say–people can change anything they want to; and that means everything in the world. People are running about following their little tracks. I am one of them. But we’ve all got to stop just following our own little mouse trail . . . People are out there doing bad things to each other. That’s because they’ve been dehumanized. It’s time to take the humanity back into the centre of the ring and follow that for a time. Greed: it ain’t going anywhere. They should have that on a big billboard across Times Square. Without people, you’re nothing. That’s my spiel …”
It appears we’re finally listening, Joe. Let’s hope it’s not too late.

Play it loud. Play it proud.