Some of you might have come across posts on the UK Subs’ website featuring photos and videos of an unfamiliar line-up performing with Charlie at a Los Angeles punk festival over the weekend. Understandably, you may be wondering, ‘How did that happen?’ Well, here’s the truth: Stefan, Marc, and I were all denied entry into the United States, while Charlie, somehow—perhaps through a Jedi mind trick or, more plausibly, encountering an immigration officer desperate to finish their shift—managed to get through.
After an 11-hour flight, my partner Roz and I arrived at the immigration booth. Roz was waved through without issue, but I was told that something had flagged up, necessitating further questioning. There were two reasons given: first, they claimed I did not have the correct visa for entry; second, there was another unspecified issue that they refused to disclose. I can’t help but wonder whether my frequent, and less than flattering, public comments regarding their president and his administration played a role—or perhaps I’m simply succumbing to paranoia.
What followed was far from pleasant. Two police officers escorted me to another section of LAX, where I found Stefan and Marc already detained in a cold holding pen, along with a group of Colombian, Chinese, and Mexican detainees. My luggage, phone, and passport were confiscated. Hours later, at 4am (having landed at 7pm), I was called for a second interview. The officer conducting it was surprisingly sympathetic—Officer Jones, who, to her credit, even ventured out into the airport to find Roz, updating her on my situation and the enforced return flight I was to take. I’m truly indebted to her for that small act of decency.
Roz, fortunately, managed to change her flight to the same one I was placed on—though not before enduring 25 hours in the airport, waiting for me to emerge from detention. By the time we were escorted onto the flight at 8pm the next day, I had gone without sleep for well over a day, surviving only on a pot noodle and a couple of cups of tea. If that wasn’t enough, United Airlines policy dictated that I was not allowed a single alcoholic drink on the flight, given the circumstances of my deportation. Meanwhile, Stefan and Marc, who had been put on a British Airways flight, were able to make the most of the complimentary booze to help them cope with the ordeal.
I’m deeply disappointed that the real UK Subs were unable to deliver the performance we had meticulously prepared—the audience deserved better. However, I must extend my gratitude and congratulations to the three musicians who stepped in at the last moment to support Charlie on stage.
The experience was an eye-opener, though not one I’d be keen to replicate. The photo I’ve shared captures Roz and me finally back home in southwest France, enjoying a well-earned glass of wine outside a bar. Despite the relief of being back, my scowling face speaks volumes about the toll of two days without sleep.
Ultimately, while I never expected to be thrown out of America at the age of 67, I find myself somewhat proud of the fact. It seems my relationship with the country is over for the foreseeable future. And perhaps that’s why a certain chorus from track three, side one, of the first Clash album keeps playing in my head.
Alvin Gibbs
