I love (almost) everything about The Clash, and this is one of my favourites:
I was listening to it, and being the English lit student I have been, I took a closer look at the lyrics.
Which happen to be:
And I was gripped by that deadly phantom
I followed him through hard jungles
As he stalked through the back lots
Strangling through the night shades
The thief of life
Moved onwards and outwards to love
In a one stop only motel
A storm bangs on the cheapest room
The phantom slips in to spill blood
Even on the sweetest honeymoon
The killer of love
Caught the last late Niagara bus
By chance or escaping from misery
By suddeness or in answer to pain
Smoking in the dark cinema
You could see the bad go down again
And the clouds are high in Spanish mountains
A ford roars through the night full of rain.
The killer’s blood flows
But he loads his gun again
Make a grown man cry like a girl
To see the guns dying at sunset
In vain lovers claim
that they never have met.
The hauntingly beautiful poetry, coupled with fantastic atmosphere of the music make me think of this:
Which really is its own kind of cinematic poetry.
I don’t really know where I’m going with all of this, but there’s something exquisite and abstract connecting this all in my brain. Perhaps later I will attempt to explain it and extrapolate out my thoughts into some kind of essay connecting Cinema, the American West, and (Post-)Punk Rock. There seems some kind of a loose potential; underneath each of those points is a strange undercurrent of the ideologies of masculine identity, violence, and Frontierism, and both The Clash and the Coens seems to be making some kind of deconstructive/self-reflexive statement on that.
Hmm…. indeed. Do I smell a potential thesis regarding punk rock and auteur cinema? Perhaps somehow related to the auteurs / punks having reached maturity? Oh well… so much abstract that now I need to read a bunch of web comics to bring my brain back to some semblance of normalcy.