Review by Jeremy Elwood
In less than three years, from 1975 until their acrimonious onstage breakup in January 1978, the Sex Pistols upended the worlds of music, fashion, marketing and, arguably, British society as a whole. Buried in the filth and the fury, the mayhem and the (alleged) murder that ensued, their mythical reputation has far outstripped their musical output – although fellow punks and critics of the time describe them as a ferocious live band.
This is the original lineup, minus their most recognisable and fractious living member. John Lydon AKA Johnny Rotten is replaced by Frank Carter, 30 years younger than his bandmates and, let’s just say it up front, a better vocalist than Rotten ever was. He’s brimming with charisma – “I’m 5 foot seven but I have 7-5 energy” – and looks like he’s having a blast, rather than trying to mimic the sneering hostility of his forebear. Carter makes no claim to being anything other than the new guy. He has obvious, deep respect for the band, referring to “them” during introductions, and even when he crowd-surfs, or heads up into the balcony seats, it feels as if his goal is to draw attention away from himself, and back onto the big three onstage.
The early punk bands were not primarily known for their musicality, fairly or not. The Sex Pistols inspired more than one entire generation to plug in an instrument, turn it up loud and worry about the notes later. These days, though, they’re a tight, loud unit. Steve Jones has always been an underrated guitarist, and his trademark descending riffs hold up magnificently. Glen Matlock was the Pistol’s main songwriter, famously fired from the band in favour of Sid Vicious, who couldn’t play bass worth a damn but fit the aesthetic better. 48 years on Matlock is holding down a groove (yes, groove – we’ll get to that later) in Auckland and Vicious is…well, if you don’t know the story, suffice to say Matlock got the better end of the bargain. Paul Cook is the only original member in any danger of upstaging Carter, thrashing around behind his drumkit like a man possessed.
It’s a short set, clocking it at a hair over 60 minutes, including the two-song encore. Which is understandable, for despite their enduring influence, the Sex Pistols only ever released one studio album, the seminal Never Mind the Bollocks…Here’s the Sex Pistols. They play it all tonight, and from the opening riff of Holidays in the Sun to the crowning glory of Anarchy in The UK, the crowd, most of whom wouldn’t have been born when it was released, gleefully shout every lyric. The band are locked in – they do, shockingly, even slip into that aforementioned groove on two covers; The Stooges No Fun, infamously the final song from that final set in 1978, and My Way, the single Sid Vicious “sang” on after Lydon’s departure. Carter bounces around the stage, and frequently off it, with a boyish grin somewhat at odds with the lyrical matter, and his own hardcore punk pedigree.
This is a tight, fun, thoroughly enjoyable show. And therein lies the issue with how to sum it up. There was no way this could, or should, have tried to recreate the unhinged chaos of a 1970’s Sex Pistols gig. The band are all pushing 70, and their fans have work (or in a few cases, school) in the morning. The closest thing to anarchy was trying to find a parking space before the show. This gig doesn’t have that sense of urgency and raw bile, and if they’d come out and played as if it did, it could have been a shambles. On the other hand, this isn’t entirely a nostalgia trip. At times it threatens to feel like a tribute show, albeit a really good one, until you remember that these are the guys who started it all, and hear just how good the songs are. They once proclaimed that there was “No Future”, but half a century on The Sex Pistols are living in one, and they seem ok with that.
Sex Pistols | Photos by Rachel Matthews
Bleeders | Photos by Rachel Matthews
