How punk were they exactly? So punk that Johnny Rotten forgot some of the words to “Holidays in the Sun,” the first song. So punk that he gratuitously put down the Ramones. So punk that he left the stage mid-set to have a “wee-wee” and upon returning announced that he’d also taken a shit. (To misquote a song he snarled later: “T.M.I.!”) So punk that for just over an hour, four geezers with a combined age of 205 put aside differences real or imagined and filled the 500-capacity Sunset Strip club the Roxy with a—gulp—polished, comic simulation of anarchy in the USA. They’ve surely sounded more dangerous, but they’ve probably never sounded better.
The Sex Pistols’ first show in four years, a private October 25 gig to promote their inclusion on Guitar Hero III, was also a warm-up for a U.K. tour commemorating
the 30th anniversary of their only studio album, Never Mind the Bollocks Here’s the Sex Pistols (now available on i Tunes). A sellout move? Hardly. They’ve never shied away from the money that, as Rotten has claimed, they’ve never really seen.
Appearing onstage in a tunic-like shirt, blue vest, cartoon trousers, and sensible sneakers, Rotten was everyone’s favorite eager-to-please uncle, the one who embarrasses himself at a family function by wearing not just a lamp shade on his head but the entire fixture. Thrusting out his neck and cocking his head like a turkey just noticing the ax, he swigged from a bottle of what appeared to be champagne, dropped snot bombs, and addressed the crowd (which included members of Motörhead, Velvet Revolver, and, um, Sugar Ray) as “you fucking cunts.” Charmed, we’re sure.
As they tore through nearly every
Rotten was so punk that
he left the stage mid-set
to have a “wee-wee.”
Bollocks track, the Pistols proved their Filthy Lucre reunion tour in ’ 96 was no fluke. Rotten and his comrades have become a roaring, ultraproficient hard-rock machine, giving the Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, and Faces foundation of their songs a blustery arena thrust (driven by Steve Jones, one of rock’s most underrated guitarists). Bassist Glen Matlock and drummer Paul Cook, tanned and fit, probably could tour with the Who at this point and fit right in.
There were a couple of miscalculations: Rotten ad-libbing, apropos of nothing, that Paris Hilton could kiss his ass, and indulging in dippy dance moves left over from PiL’s final days. But after the band closed with a rousing, not-in-the-least-bit-angry “Anarchy in the U.K.,” it became clear that we’d just witnessed a jukebox musical nearly as authentic as Jersey Boys. And one that’s about as tuneful, too.
“Okay, guys, the check cleared—hit it!”
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