John Lydon led a raucous and revivalist night of punk, as the Sex Pistols enjoy thier fianal harrah.
The architects of anit-everything bring a strange sence of belonging to thier fans.
There is a glorious moment while rather grizzeled surviors of the Sex Pistols are thrashing though ever timely "hoildays in the sun" ("cheap hoilidays in other peoples misery"). Concord, that classic seventies symbol of modernity and the great future we were all going to enjoy, once the price had come down a bit, makes a presumably un-scheduled flypast. John Lydon, to this day the nations most sardonic man, would surely have enjoyed the irony.
On a wonerful summer`s day the Sex Pistols, no longer teenagers who offended the powers that be (and thier own manager) by expressing opinions of thier own, gave presumably thier last ever public appearance.
Its a celebration of a certain kind of Britishness. Not so much non-comformaty - thier far to many crop haired middle aged dads for that - but a chance to revel in nostalgia for the days when a lack of deferance actually ment something.
As thier concession to our patience ( and surviving a truely lousy suporting bill saved partly by Fiesty Texans and You shall know us by the trail of the dead, who baited the crowd into hurling objects, many with suprising accuracy and distance. Who could of know that punk and cricket were so intimatly connected?) the Pistols play every song they`ve ever been associated with.
Nobody could of imagined the opener, a crude version of Hawkwind`s 1972 biker classic "Silver Machine", delightfully mutated into "I`ve got a silver jubilee". As well as the obious classics (a coruscating version of "Liar", where Lydon for once doesnt sing his usual "dont take this seriously" tone, a fantastic "Did You No Wrong", surely the best b-side released between the Beatles and Pistols-worshiping Oasis), there are plenty of covers too ("we`re gonna have a right larf" warns Lydon). A fearsome take on of the Monkee`s "Stepping Stone" and a chaotic thrash through the Who`s "Substitute" (dedicated to-"Entwistle-his in a better place than us") have appeared on record, but the Creation`s pop-psych classic "Through My Eyes", though beautifuly played by Jones, Matlock and Cook, is a melody too far for Lydon.
He is quite fantastic by the way. Wearing a shirt with the word "Sorry" printed on its front, he cajoles, needles and whines at the crowd though out, fully aware of his continuing role as a cultural irratant. The old punk maxim "Never trust a hippy" has now mutated into "never trust a toff" referring to Tony Blair. This man is wasted on host revival nights for the middle-aged - someone should stick him on Newsnight. The Doors choice of the Cult`s Ian Astbury over this Anglo-Callifornian as a surrogate Jim Morrison is a missed opportunity.
He can`t take the essential gravity out of "Anarchy In The UK" (complete with ill-judged singalong section) and the inevitable, and furious, closer "God Save The Queen". Its hardly relevant how good the band were, the worlds changed in 25 years, but they played thier part in that.
Steve Jelbert. (The Independent)
