Pitchfork

Only an enterprise as fucked as the record business could, or would, consistently wring new material out of permanently defunct outfits-- labels of all sizes continue scrambling for new (and sometimes appalling) ways to re-package, remaster, reissue, re-release, and re-squeeze artist catalogs dry-- and then some. The heartbreaking part is that sometimes all that industry hustle yields devastating results: Last November, Sony released a 19xCD box set of the Clash's 19 U.S.- and UK-charted singles from 1977 to 1985, complete with B-sides, promotional bits, accompanying 12" mixes, and the Capital Radio EP (which was originally given away with copies of the NME, and previously unavailable commercially, although the Clash fan club did reissue the collection in 1977).

With more than 60 tracks (laid onto endearing faux-vinyl compact discs, each with paper liners), the box was a sentimental and aesthetic triumph. But in pragmatic terms, it was also vaguely infuriating: To listen to the entire collection, you'd have to change CDs 19 times, or more likely, waste half an evening loading all the discs onto your computer and constructing your own playlist. Plus, it cost $80. Now, ostensibly on occasion of the band's 30-year anniversary, The Singles box set has been squished onto one reasonably-priced long-playing disc, the 20-track The Singles: Included are all 18 A-sides from the box (no Capital Radio), plus "Train in Vain" (the "secret" song-- and U.S. hit single-- tucked at the end of 1979's seminal London Calling) and "Groovy Times", a U.S.-only promo single that was also included on The Cost of Living, a four-song UK EP released in 1979.

The Clash wrote loads of political songs, and Joe Strummer's extracurricular sermonizing only inflated the band's finger-wagging rep. But Clash records were never didactic, cold, or patronizing-- The Singles is high proof that the group (unlike other equally-adept, equally-great political songwriters) were actually a killer party band. Try broadcasting The Singles from top to bottom without sneering, pogo-ing, fist-pumping, spitting, high-kicking, shoulder-popping, disco-shimmying, or punching yourself in the thigh at least once. Try not adding in your own background howls; try not screaming "Thinks it's not kosher!" out an open window, collapsing onto the couch, then returning to holler, "This is a public service announcement… with guitars!"

Clearly, the triumph here is not so much the assembling of these tracks (these file-swapping times mean scoring rare cuts is less a victory than a banality), but the reminder that, after all the mythologizing and eulogizing, the Clash were a band who released a mess of mind-blowing singles. The songs seem to be organized in order of notoriety (starting with "London Calling" and ending with "White Riot"), and unsurprisingly, it's the oft-forgotten middle songs that sound the best right now.

1980's "Bankrobber" is slathered with tin-can echo, so much so that Mick Jones' backing vocals sound as if they're bring transmitted from space. Fold in a handful of weird bass effects, and it starts to sound like the whole thing was written and realized underwater, in zero gravity. The notion that the song is actually about a kid whose dad robs banks because he doesn't feel like getting a real job suddenly seems irrelevant.

1978's "(White Man) In Hammersmith Palais" is equally surreal-- arguably the Clash's first successful experiment with reggae, and written when Strummer was bummed about staying up all night for a crappy reggae showcase ("Midnight to six man/ For the first time from Jamaica/ Dillinger and Leroy Smart/ Delroy Wilson, you cool operator") at London's Hammersmith Palais, "(White Man) In Hammersmith Palais" manages to indict power-pop, shoddy reggae, and neo-Nazism in one four-minute span. Strummer was openly pissed about the show's Four Tops-style geniality ("but onstage they ain't got no roots-rock rebel"), but "Palais" is plenty friendly itself, featuring a classic, singalong pop melody. Likewise, "The Magnificent Seven", "Know Your Rights", and "Clash City Rockers" are all timeless, addictive romps. As intellectual as the Clash may have seemed to some, their songs were always more ecstatic than enraged. Ultimately, the Clash endure because they inspire.