Okay, everyone makes fun of the obvious irony in Cut the Crap‘s title, but really, the self-awareness here is killin’ me. Let’s take a look at the lyrics for “North and South”:

“We ain’t got life
Don’t want a cardboard cut-out
Don’t want a plastic knife

Now I know time can march
With its charging feet
Now I know words
Are only cheap

It’s gonna be a burn out
All around this town
The south is up
But the north is down”

Boy, ain’t it the truth? There’s no life or inspiration to be found in Cut the Crap. It sounds like The Clash pretending to be The Clash (fair, as there’s no Mick Jones) and coming across as a cheap cardboard imitation with matching cold, mechanical synthesizer bleeps. The bombastic, overly-pop production (and there’s rarely been a better use of the word “bombastic” in music) takes any grit from once was once a razor-sharp steel knife, and the clock of this album’s running time is ticking to the death of a band that once conquered and has now burnt their creativity out to the point they’re tired enough to trip over their own feet.

As much of a disaster as Cut the Crap is, it’s vaguely entertaining in how ridiculous it all is. The mix is an absolute chaotic, fuzzy high-voltage mess where everything fuses together at an equal level into some sort of toxic waste, and everything’s turned up and booming so loud on top of it that it sounds like The Clash are playing to themselves inside of a huge, indoor stadium—that’s empty. Very preemptive of them.