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Nick Morgan and crew
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Concert
Review by Nick Morgan |
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Hammersmith
Apollo
London
September 2nd 2008 |
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| Did
I mention that we went to see the Sex
Pistols? Maybe not, and I’m still
a bit hard of hearing as a result. They were playing
at the Hammersmith Apollo and Pistols anoraks will
know legend has it that Steve Jones stole one of
his first guitars from here, allegedly Mick Ronson’s.
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| The
Pistols’ original line-up (Jones, Glen
Matlock on bass, Paul
Cook on drums and John
Lydon on vocals) have been on a whirlwind world
tour following their sell-out week at Brixton last
year and tonight is the penultimate gig. They may
have peaked too soon; according to Lydon they’re
performing through hangovers having “drunk
Dublin dry” the previous evening, but to judge
by recent white wine spritzer-hugging interviews
with various Pistols, I somehow doubt it. The Apollo
is packed with old leather jackets, tartan trousers,
ripped t-shirts, red-striped braces, Mohicans, the
lot – ‘though mostly sported by folks
who should know a little better. I guess it’s
what you would call tribal. The throwaway foul-mouthed
language would turn the fucking air fucking blue.
The drinking is prodigious. No, you don’t
understand, the drinking IS prodigious. The merchandise
store is overwhelmed. It’s pay day. |
| We’re
up in the circle – but as the Pistols take
the stage at two minutes past nine exactly (not
too much anarchy there then) we rise from our seats
like puppets on strings – and spend the whole
evening standing “Respect to the fuckers standing
up in the balcony” says Lydon halfway through.
It’s the Combine Harvester Tour, which may
explain the opening song, a sort of Adge Cutler-inspired
version of ‘Pretty vacant’. |
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| After
that it’s down to business as they crash through
all the songs you might expect, and with their final
encore of ‘Silver machine’ and Roadrunner’,
some you might not. The playing is pretty tight
– Matlock and Cook are a rhythm section of
note. When he’s not Pistolling, Cook, amongst
other things, is a regular drummer with Edwyn Collins,
and has been for a decade or more. Matlock has his
own band, The Philistines, and an impressive list
of collaborators. Together they fit easily into
their groove, and you get the impression could play
all night. Jones, latterly a DJ
for an LA radio station, is perhaps less certain,
a bit more of a journeyman. Certainly ‘subtle’
is not a word you would apply to his playing. But
if you heard your kids playing this stuff in the
garage, you’d be well impressed. Whether it’s
really appropriate fare for a theatre full of around
four thousand over-aged and over-weight (hang on
– we’re in balcony seats but we’re
all standing!) post-punk primordials is another
matter. |
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| Of
course, what makes the difference is John Lydon.
Like Jones, the comfortable life of West Coast USA
seems to have super-sized him somewhat, but he occupies
the front of the stage, leering with the sort of
faux menace reserved only for the most fearsome
of pantomime villains. He knows the deal, so he
indulges the audience as they subject him to a constant
shower of lager, showing irritation only once when
a bottle strikes him on the shoulder – I assume
it’s plastic. His fucking foul-mouthed stream
of comment and invective never really flows beyond
the tame, and though his jingoism is somewhat disconcerting,
the whole lot seems aimed at promoting the new Pistol’s
DVD, There’ll Always be an England, recorded
live last year at Brixton. His singing persona is
Mr Lydon of Public Image, which is mostly effective,
particularly on songs like 'Stepping stone', 'God
save the Queen' and song of the night 'EMI'. And
I can’t help noticing that after each song
(and during some too) he’s gargling and violently
expectorating into a large plastic box just in front
of the drums. Not pleasant, but a sign that there
are no half-measures on the stage. They may be taking
the money, but they’re not running. |
| So
it was sort of OK. And did I mention how loud it
was? However, I have to say that more than any old
bunch of rockers I’ve seen lately (with the
exception of Jefferson Starship, that is), it left
me absolutely cold. |
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I
didn’t know why I was there, and I couldn’t
wait to get home for a quick glass of Scotland’s
famous midnight wine before an early bed. And the
bizarreness of the whole evening was confirmed when
Lydon goaded the audience into singing ‘Happy
Birthday’ to Steve Jones, which the crowd
followed with a spontaneous and affectionate rendition
of ‘You fat bastard, you fat bastard, you
ate all the pies”. Jones was moved, the crowd
laughed and clapped, and I was left wondering was
this really was the band who seemed to be on the
verge of turning the world upside-down in 1976?
-
Nick Morgan (photographs by Kate) |
Check
the index of all reviews:
Nick's Concert Reviews
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There's nothing more down there... |
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