Rotten keened unintelligible lyrics, a sound I’d never have called singing. Steve Jones’s guitar ripped like a dull meat saw. The Pistols took a moment to plug in and toss some abuse back, then launched into their first song.
The crowd greeted them with spit and verbal abuse, idiot homage really, but Rotten leered back with a defiance that no rock ‘n’ roll crowd could penetrate. What was this lame shit supposed to be? The Pistols ambled onstage like a … well, like a bunch of punks, except for Sid Vicious, who staggered on shirtless, I NEED A FIX scrawled in black on his bony chest. Seen Zep and their lasers, the Stones and their inflatable penis. I’d seen the buffalo, rattlesnakes and ten-gallon hats of ZZ Top’s World Wide Texas Tour fill the Sugar Bowl, seen a police riot when Lynrd Skynrd didn’t show, seen Aerosmith tear up City Park Stadium twice in New Orleans. Onstage several battered amps and a tiny drum kit squatted beneath meager lights. The Kingfish dance pit swam with creatures like nothing I’d seen: heavy unisex mascara, safety-pinned faces, studded leather. We settled up and left to get a good spot for the show. “Nobody throws food in my restaurant.” Rotten laughed madly, then went to preen himself in a Jim Beam mirror. “I don’t care what kind of pistol you are,” she said. Rotten cackled and tossed a sandwich at one of his tablemates. “That’s Johnny Rotten,” my friend said, nodding toward a puny, red-haired dude in leopard-print pants. Before the show we stopped at the bar next to the club, where one such punk was cutting up. Punks, which I’d never seen, and English punks at that. A friend had dragged me out, despite my scoffing. I HAD A SAGEBRUSH ‘FRO and Led Zeppelin in my eight-track when the Sex Pistols came to town. (For Greg “Groundhog” Burns and Joe Strummer)
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