Clash City Rockers

If this city has an anthem it certainly isn't the sloppy gush of 'Streets of London', Gerry Rafferty whiffling on about Baker Street, or some inane Cockney ditty about London pride being handed down to us. For a blood-stirring, hair-raising, gutsy hymn to the capital, only one song does the job. From its menacing, staccato opening to its rabble-rousing chorus, it says more about the toughness and the intoxicating power of London than a hundred mockney Blur tunes. Written in W11 in 1979, the song is 'London Calling' by the Clash.

The Rolling Stones may claim to be the first band to send the rebel yell of London around the world, but weren't they from Richmond? More 'the squeal of Surrey', then. The Clash were about as London as you can get, a hybrid of two of the city's most flamboyant neighbourhoods - Brixton and Ladbroke Grove - and possessed of an on-stage dynamism that made Stones' shows look like loss adjusters' conventions. The Clash were the Rolls-Royce of punk bands. More than that, they were anti-establishment heroes to a generation.

Sitting in gentle September sunshine, tugging on a roll-up in his Somerset garden, Joe Strummer is recalling being spat on. It seems grotesque now, but at the height of punk there was no greater accolade than to be showered in adoring phlegm. 'I hated it,' says Strummer, whose impassioned vocals were a Clash trademark. 'Can you imagine 200 strangers spitting in your face? I got hepatitis, and I'm sure that's what brought it on.' After a ten-year lay-off, Strummer, now 48, has returned to music in the past two years with an excellent new band, the Mescaleros. But the subject of the Clash never seems far from his thoughts.

'We were all about London, ultimately,' he says. 'Paul Simonon [bassist] and Mick Jones [guitarist] were from Brixton, and me and Topper Headon [drummer] were from West London. And I've always thought that London is a very poetic city. It certainly inspired me.' Though he now lives just outside Taunton, Strummer continues to record in West London. These days he's to be found a bit further north-west than Ladbroke Grove, but there is, he claims, plenty of poetry to be found in Willesden.

'When you go back, you see much more than if you live there,' he says. 'You see London through an outsider's eyes. Every sign or lamppost is a feast of information.' It must be strange to see the transformation that has occurred in Notting Hill, where Strummer first played music with the other three. What was once a neighbourhood of squats and punk bands is now all million-pound flats and three different types of olive bread. 'I do think the film Notting Hill was the final nail in the coffin for the vibe of the place,' he says. 'I can't afford to live there, that's for sure. But in some ways it's not that different. I still see Lenny on the fruit stall and he still says, "Awight, mate?" The market somehow keeps it grounded.'

But if there is one other element of Ladbroke Grove/Notting Hill life that has remained unchanged since the Clash's heyday in the late Seventies and early Eighties, it is the love the locals have for dressing up and showing off. The looks that emerged from punk have been glorified and sanitised in the 20-plus years since they first emerged, and at the time most of the bands and their fans looked pretty terrible. What made the Clash special was that not only did they sound and act the part, they were also the best-looking rock band in the world. 'We had a lot of luck,' says Strummer, 'because we had Paul Simonon, who was a great stylist and performer, and who's been the template for the sexy bass player ever since. Everything he wore was carefully considered. Mick and I would just throw any old thing on. But Simo wouldn't have that. He sharpened us up.'

Soon to go on show, in an exhibition at the Proud Gallery in Camden Town, is a series of more than 300 photos of the Clash in all their pomp, taken by American photographer and long-standing friend Bob Gruen. Though there are backstage moments captured in London - with the band entertaining luminaries such as Chrissie Hynde, Ian Dury and Johnny Rotten - for the most part the images are a record of the Clash conquering America in the early Eighties. What leaps out from the stills is the band's visual impact - they are the epitome of cocksure, insouciant cool.

'That tour was really hard work,' says Strummer. 'But we were rocking. When we came into a new city we got this incredible reception. We were the hot new things in town and, in that American way, everybody wanted to meet us and hang out with us. People would just turn up. There was Debbie Harry and Blondie, Andy Warhol, Annie Liebowitz, all kinds. I met William Burroughs and through him a hero of mine, Allen Ginsberg. I was chuffed as trousers. Bob Gruen was there taking pictures at our first gig in New York, and he stayed with us on tour.'

In his introduction to the exhibition and the accompanying book, Gruen recalls that it wasn't just the stars who would end up hanging out with the four Londoners. 'Other bands would hire bodyguards to keep the fans away, but the Clash would hire people to sneak the fans in. At Shea Stadium their manager had a line of 150 fans, and he was screaming at the security guys, "OK! All these people are coming back to the dressing-room." They reached out to the fans to do the things that they wished bands had done for them before they made it. I don't think they ever forgot where they had come from.'

For Strummer, the question of where he comes from is a complex one. The son of a British diplomat, he was born in Turkey and lived in Egypt, Mexico, Germany and Iran before being sent to boarding school back in England. 'It made me very tough and independent,' he says, 'because my brother and I would not see our parents at the weekend or in the holidays like a lot of the kids, just once a year. I was OK about it, but my brother found it hard and became very introverted. In the end he committed suicide. He was 18.'