This is just about the finest book there is on the almighty Clash, the only one that can really make you feel, if only for a white hot moment, that you're *there* while the band bashes out its masterpieces less than a dozen feet away, in some dank forgotten club a quarter century ago. You're so close for a second that you can read the phrases stenciled on Joe's military garb, count the zippers on Simmo's trousers, or feel the sweat from Jonesy's unshorn locks splashing on your face, not to mention the gob of a thousand punks flying over your head. And look who's in the crowd with you! Lester Bangs, Debbie Harry, Andy Warhol (altho' he's probably ligging about backstage), Martin Scorsese, that young ne'er-do-well of the NYC scene Harley Flanagan, even Johnny Thunders has stopped by on his way to cop.Man, could the Clash dress: from the Pollock-esque/Sex shop/Teddy/Rude boy of the early years, to the "collars-up mate"/perfect quiff & creepers days of 'London Calling,' to the quasi-military/cop fatigues of the final era. Check out the guys in an American supermarket, Joe counting out his "Yankee dollar"; or hanging out in Bob Gruen's NYC apartment watching NY Dolls' videos; or goofing off, in full rock leathers, at various airports round the globe. Really, please, and with all sincerity, can I go back and just *be* with those guys, come on, huh, please, just for a minute or two?But I can't, and you can't, and this book (along with Johnny Green's 'A Riot of Our Own' memoir) is the closest we're gonna get in these sore days. Bob Gruen's stunning, intimate, exhilirating photos over six years of the Clash's career are second to none, revealing them in all their raging glory. So open the book, grab a Guiness, blast the tunes, and relive the true punk era, and thank your lucky stars, bittersweet that they may be, that there was never any reunion. This is the best you're gonna get.