DETROIT—On a cloudy, cold March night tall skinny radical activist of amorphous persuasion M-50 stood outside the Motor City Roller Rink shivering and passing out leaflets that read: “THE CA$H SOLD OUT!”

M-50 feels he was let down, after the pain and fury of the first two Clash albums. His feelings are not likely to be soothed by the fact that the Clash’s music is finally palatable to the dons at Rolling Stone, or by their album marching resolutely up the charts to sit, fat and smug, at #27. There’s gotta be something wrong, and M-50 figures bucks must be involved. The Clash had to sell out to sell records, right? a