Facing the Clash

It was like stumbling upon something so profoundly great, you’d never get anyone to believe it.

There in front of him was an original recording of The Faces. It was from 1979, a time when supposedly Rod Stewart was off on his own, Ronnie Wood was a Rolling Stone and Ronnie Lane was off living like a gypsy. However, it appears from the label on this particular recording – “Recorded 11071979 to 16071979” that indeed this was something the world needed to hear.

The trick was, it was owned by the recording studio’s family. The studio – the famous Vanilla Studio of The Clash’s “Vanilla Tapes” history – was located in Pimlico on Causton Street. Well, it used to exist there.

Somehow, Mick Jones and Ronnie Lane met one night, the owner’s daughter told the story. They were working on what would become “London Calling.” Ronnie, well, he was broke, as usual. “Rough Mix” with Pete  Townsend had flopped and not provided the financial windfall some, but not many, expected it to. Punk rock was in full flare up at that point, so it was lost in the shuffle of circumstances. Which made the chance encounter between Lane and Jones so perfect.

“They were at a market, The Clash, picking up some odds and ends, when Mick spotted Ronnie,” she said. “And he had to go talk to one of his heroes. I mean, Ronnie was in The Small Faces and The Faces!”

She reached into a drawer and pulled out an old photo. It was Mick and Ronnie, enjoying a pint. No other identifications of others in the photo. But it did appear that Ian McLagan was one of them. But it was blurry.

“They got to talking about music, mostly about The Small Faces and Faces, not much about The Clash,” she continued. “I don’t think Ronnie wanted to talk about punk rock. Soon, he lamented the break up of both bands. That’s when Mick pounced.”

“’I know where Rod Stewart is staying right now,” he said. “Apparently, Mr. Stewart had taken some time after his “Blondes Have More Fun” tour and was right up the street.”

After a few more pints, Jones and Lane were knocking on Rod Stewart’s door.

“’Well, ‘ello Ronnie!’ He said when the two showed up,” she said.

Within an hour, a song had been written. A Jones-Lane-Stewart composition. Soon after, rumors started to fly the old fashioned way. By phone call and by an actual telegram.

“Rod and Ronnie writing. Stop. Get your butt over here. Stop. Please Ron. Stop. At Rod’s. Stop.”

“That afternoon, Ronnie Wood showed up. Carrying a handful of pints. By 8 p.m. Joe Strummer, Paul Simonon and Topper Headon were there. So was McLagan and Tymon Dogg. And lastly, Kenney Jones showed up ‘round midnight,” she continued her story.

By the next morning, after a drunken all-night revival of sorts, they all jumped into a limo – “provided by Rod, of course,” she smirked – and went to Vanilla.

“Three days later, they emerged. Hugs were done. Many pats on the backs and promises never kept,” she said. “And my pops, he was left with those tapes. They told him to give it to Ronnie, let him do what he wanted with it.

“But, me dad was a bit of a hard ass. He smiled and agreed while all the superstars were there, but when they were all gone, it was all business.”

“Mr. Lane,” he said. “I’ll give ya the recordings as soon as you pay me for the three days of studio time.”

“Well, Ronnie didn’t have that kind of cash,” she said. “So, and I remember this because I was actually there for this, he just shrugged his shoulders and said ‘Ah, well. Such it is.’ And then he walked out the door.”

“Now, my daddy knew this was a tremendous thing. Here was eight songs put down by The Faces, with some of the songs co-written by members of The Clash. Who were recording what he thought was a “pretty neat record” in his rehearsal studios. So, he put it in a safe, figuring one day at least one of those rich rock-n-rollers would show up to pay for it.”

Obviously, it never happened. This is where I came in. I was in England for a vacation. Me and my girlfriend, we ambled into a non-descript pub one night simply because it was right down the street from the old market we were shopping at. I’d picked up a copy of “Oh, La, La” on vinyl. Pristine condition, too. As I sat on my barstool, that’s when she came up to me.

“You like The Faces, eh?” she said, baring her darken teeth.

“Sure do,” I replied.

“What about The Clash?”

“You’ve pegged me pretty well,” I smiled. “You want a pint.”

“Certainly,” she said, pulling up a stool. “Well, then, I got a story for ya.”

And now I sit here staring at a box of recordings. She played it for me. It sounds legit. Now, all it’s gonna take is some cash.

“How much?” I ask.

“You can have it,” she said pausing. My heart skipped a beat. Was she really going to just hand this over to me? She took a swig of her glass of beer and smiled her blacken-toothed grin. “For 10,000 pounds.”

A week later, after I’d had the recording checked by none other than Mick Jones himself – “My word, you actually found this!” he exclaimed, “I’d thought it was a dream, really.” – I plodded into a bank, used my credit card for the funds and was soon in possession of the coolest recording I think I’d ever come upon.

This morning, I woke up, and it was all a dream. So I put on Ronnie Lane’s “Slim Chance” and wished it was real.