SEX PISTOLS SECC 1996 Meantime magazine
I got into this gig via a photo pass lent to me by one of the Meantime photographers, Nick McKenzie, and with one of his (empty) cameras slung round my neck. Having wandered away from my appointed photo pit and ended up in a pogo-or-die scenario...
Since the glory days of '76, "yoof" culture has rapidly fragmented. still, the sight of a twentysomething in a Woodstock '94 t-shirt at a Pistols gig does seem slightly incongruous. But who cares? Roll over Malcolm McLaren: Showman Lydon is here to cream your cash.
The Pistols' equipment displays an endearingly archaic, rather than anarchic, touch: crosses of St.George and St.Andrew emblazon Steve Jones' and Glen Matlock's speakers, Paul Cook plays a Union Jack drumkit. John Lydon's sporting tartan, more or less de rigeur for him. As the first chord's struck, cobwebs are defiantly blown away. There's no time for theorising when you pogo for your life as Lydon wails "Bodies". The whole of "Never Mind the Bollocks" gets an airing, along with "Satellite", "Did You No wrong", "Stepping Stone" and “No Fun".
Those terrace anthems and Rotten lyrics are at once more direct and full of wit than the bulk of pretenders to the Pistols' gob-festooned crown. The improbably youthful Matlock still looks like he's in it for the tunes as he enthusiastically shares a vocal mike with a barechested Jones. The muscular guitarist belies his post-Pistols past
as a Christian, growling “Where’s the crumpet?” And, for an encore, flashing his forty-year old bare bottom.
The Pistols’ performance many lack the resonance of relevance but as "No Fun”’s central riff sounds like it could eat the SECC for breakfast I, for one, am not complaining.
I got into this gig via a photo pass lent to me by one of the Meantime photographers, Nick McKenzie, and with one of his (empty) cameras slung round my neck. Having wandered away from my appointed photo pit and ended up in a pogo-or-die scenario...
Since the glory days of '76, "yoof" culture has rapidly fragmented. still, the sight of a twentysomething in a Woodstock '94 t-shirt at a Pistols gig does seem slightly incongruous. But who cares? Roll over Malcolm McLaren: Showman Lydon is here to cream your cash.
The Pistols' equipment displays an endearingly archaic, rather than anarchic, touch: crosses of St.George and St.Andrew emblazon Steve Jones' and Glen Matlock's speakers, Paul Cook plays a Union Jack drumkit. John Lydon's sporting tartan, more or less de rigeur for him. As the first chord's struck, cobwebs are defiantly blown away. There's no time for theorising when you pogo for your life as Lydon wails "Bodies". The whole of "Never Mind the Bollocks" gets an airing, along with "Satellite", "Did You No wrong", "Stepping Stone" and “No Fun".
Those terrace anthems and Rotten lyrics are at once more direct and full of wit than the bulk of pretenders to the Pistols' gob-festooned crown. The improbably youthful Matlock still looks like he's in it for the tunes as he enthusiastically shares a vocal mike with a barechested Jones. The muscular guitarist belies his post-Pistols past
as a Christian, growling “Where’s the crumpet?” And, for an encore, flashing his forty-year old bare bottom.
The Pistols’ performance many lack the resonance of relevance but as "No Fun”’s central riff sounds like it could eat the SECC for breakfast I, for one, am not complaining.
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