by Mick Rhodes | editor@claremont-courier.com

In 1980 I was swept up in the vibrant and exhilaratingly weird Los Angeles punk rock scene.

Some of the LA bands had it all: X were not only great musicians, songwriters, and performers, but they had a completely unique sound and looked cooler than everyone. They were the first of many punk bands I would fall for. New York had their Ramones and Talking Heads, and a grating superiority complex. San Francisco had the Dead Kennedys and Avengers. And so many other brilliant, influential bands were making great music all over the country in scenes small and slightly less small.

The Hollywood Palladium’s marquee pictured on Friday, June 19, 1982. The night prior, Courier Editor Mick Rhodes made some questionable choices in his quest to see headliners The Clash. Photo/by Steve Rapport, mostlyrocknroll.com

Over in London, The Clash were “the only band that matters,” and it was hard to argue with that bold proclamation. They stood up against racism, championed the English working class, and made ferocious, fearlessly wide-ranging music. I’d missed them when they came to LA in 1979, so when I heard they’d be playing four nights at the Hollywood Palladium in June 1982, I was elated.

By then the Clash were taking over the world. Their mainstream radio hits “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” and “Rock the Casbah” were everywhere. This punk rock thing that had seemed like a small, exclusive (but inclusive) club had suddenly become massive, and the Clash were standard bearers in America.

June rolled around and I was still dead set on seeing them, but tickets were $11. It may be difficult to imagine now, but most of the shows I was seeing back then were $3-$5, so $11 was a lot to this intermittently employed 18-year-old.

Still ticketless but confident we would find a way inside, on Thursday, June 18, my friend Giulio picked me up and we made our way from suburban Glendora to what seemed to me the most glamorous venue imaginable, the Hollywood Palladium.

Now, before I get into what happened next, I want to clarify that we were not by any stretch practicing criminals. Though young and dumb, we had stable and supportive family lives and generally operated inside the laws and social mores of 1982 Southern California. But as anyone who’s stumbled through adolescence knows, impressionable kids can make questionable choices.

Giulio parked and we walked up Sunset toward the Palladium. It looked like every punk in LA and Orange County was there. I heard broken blasts of “Mirror in the Bathroom” from opening band the English Beat as ticketholders made their way inside.

A poster for the Clash’s run of shows at the Hollywood Palladium in June 1982.

The 59,000 square-foot Hollywood Palladium was once a palace. Frank Sinatra was singing with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra on opening night, Halloween 1940. Though worse for wear, in 1982 the streamline moderne art deco masterpiece (now an historic landmark) remained in its original configuration, its chandeliers, sweeping curved balconies, and 11,200 square-foot hardwood dance floor still radiating an aging regality. It was shocking that 4,000 punk rockers had been allowed inside.

Back on the street, Giulio and I found some friends who were also without tickets. We were all grumbling about how we were dying to see The Clash when someone in the group came up with a plan. It wasn’t a great plan, but we were young, and again, not brilliant, so we all bought in.

The Palladium fronts on Sunset Boulevard. In 1982 a handful of single-story storefront businesses were attached to the east, ending at El Centro Avenue, which ran north and south from Sunset. The brain trust of our spontaneous crime syndicate determined that around the corner on El Centro we could easily scale an eight-foot high chain link fence, hop up on a dumpster, and pull ourselves up onto the roof of the easternmost store. From there, surely we would find a way to get onto the roof of the Palladium, then bust open an unguarded door and make a mad dash to see the only band that mattered.

I, a teenager just out of high school and still heavily fortified with intoxicating pure optimism, assumed everything would work out fine. Why wouldn’t it?

Still, even I was surprised when our low-rent criminal plot unfolded with relative ease. Inside of two minutes we were indeed on the roof of the Palladium and yes, had located a pair of doors we presumed led to the balcony.

Just then we heard a sharp roar, the throbbing opening chords of The Clash’s “London Calling” rang out, and 4,000 kids erupted joyously under our feet.

Our little band of resourceful idiots quickly decided we’d make run at the doors en masse, put our shoulders down, and then figure out how to deal with whatever was on the other side. “One, two, three!” then we hit the doors. A quick metallic crack, a panic bar mechanism gave way, and an unlikely gang of wide-eyed kids exploded into the packed, pungent Palladium balcony and immediately scattered.

Giulio, a star soccer player and a great athlete, made a quick lunge to his right and took off sprinting with a security guard in a bright yellow “Event” shirt giving chase. Another guard ran at me as I raced toward the stairway leading down to the first floor. I made it to the landing with the guard on my tail yelling for me to stop, then took a long leap down the final flight of stairs and, miraculously, landed on my feet. “London Calling” thundered in my head as I ran toward the floor and pushed my way into the crowd, anonymous among the other 4,000 sweaty, ecstatic Clash fans.

A ticket stub from the Clash’s June 14, 1982 show at the Hollywood Palladium.

It had been under 30 seconds since we’d busted open that door and here I was, a low-budget criminal finally in the room with the only band that mattered. A few songs later Giulio sidled up, having also outrun his pursuer. We had a laugh and a moment of triumph, two suburban kids feeling as if we’d really pulled something off.

The Clash were magnificent that night, and looking back on the setlist full of future classics, I am more proud with every passing year to have been there.

Four years later the band splintered and were no more. In 2002, their incalculably influential frontman Joe Strummer died of a heart attack at 50.

I’m enormously grateful to have seen The Clash at the apex of their power, even if it took risking a misdemeanor trespassing charge.

Our impromptu caper would definitely not fly today. I’m picturing the viral surveillance footage of a bunch of kids climbing atop an iconic venue and busting in, followed by a vigorous prosecution from the LA District Attorney’s Office.

It was a simpler time.

Kids, don’t try this at home.