The Sex Pistols
Brixton Academy, 12.11.07
“Let’s celebrate the demise of Malcolm,” snorts Johnny Rotten as he enters the stage arm in arm with Glenn Matlock, refering of course to his former manager and nemesis Malcolm Mclaren, who that morning it's reported, ducked out of I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here. Rotten endeared himself to many Little Englanders on the show a few years back; those who would have so reviled him 30 years ago.
“What a fucking wanker!” he barks. Ho ho.
It was inevitable really wasn’t it, in much the same way it’s inevitable once great bands will reform for an extra payday as soon as they realise it’s the only way they can accumulate major bucks and sit on their fat old Harris’ a bit more. Personally I try and steer clear of any reformation, whether that means religious denominations or sacrilegious abominations. The Sex Pistols are an exception to the rule however. And tonight (like every night yet apparently) they are powerful beyond words. As soon as Steve Jones batters out the opening riff to ‘Pretty Vacant’ its like being hit with a fucking hammer in the face. It’s truly embarrassing; embarrassing that these guys have more energy and gumption in their wrinkly old bollocks than most modern touring punk bands have in their whole bodies.
Not that this crowd deserve them. What a bunch of fucking rotters. No doubt in a bid to wind up their own faithful, the Pistols have booked Goldie to stand and play records before them. The ignorant, flabby, almost entirely white rabble present, swear and dribble and hold their ears confounded. They scream at Goldie to stop and threaten him in vain while he stands mocking, grinning and flicking Vs at them. It’s gloriously entertaining, and Goldie (you might be surprised to hear) plays some good shit too.
The Pistols, like another artist who will always be associated with Finsbury Park - Morrissey - bookend their show with old recordings about England (they finish with Vera Lynn’s ‘White Cliffs of Dover’). The place too is decorated with St George Crosses. And like Morrissey, two of the band are California dwelling ex-pats. But where Moz craves for the past and romanticises it, the Sex Pistols revel in our “no future”. They enjoy the fact we’re a bit crap. They’re celebrating our ineptitude, our grumpiness, our archaic and perversely arbitrary royal family, our crap transport system (though it won’t be as crap as in France tomorrow).
“How many people here are under 40?” asks Lydon, dressed in a turquoise sarong. About a third of the crowd responds. “That’s better than the other night,” he titters. He even mentions the fact he’s 52 in January with some pride, and the elephant in the room is immediately dispelled. So what if Steve Jones’ gut hangs over his guitar like a waterlogged tent, the old punk still plays the meanest rhythm guitar on earth. Whatever the motivation or your own thoughts about how punk this all is, having been at Brixton there’s a fact that’s inescapable: never mind it’s not the young Sex Pistols, this is the bollocks.
