What a delicious 'fuck you' this is turning out to be. Two years ago, after being outvoted by his former bandmates in regards to giving Danny Boyle permission to use the Sex Pistols music in his Disney+ biopic series about the band, John Lydon dismissed Steve Jones, Glen Matlock and Paul Cook as "dead wood" and sneered, “None of these fucks would have a career but for me. They did nothing before, they’ve done nothing since.” Well, they have now, and with Frank Carter, Britain's best frontman, bar none, up front, Jones, Matlock and Cook are having an absolute ball.
What a punk rock move.
Predictably, Lydon has dismissed what the quartet are doing as "karaoke", but it surely must sting the bitter old bugger to see how warmly the Pistols faithful have taken to this new iteration of punk's most influential and infamous band. The man standing beside me in London's most beautiful live venue is one of Lydon's old mates from North London, and it takes all of two songs - opener Holidays In The Sun and Seventeen - for any misgivings about the re-tooled line-up to melt away, as he gushes about Carter's presence, personality and voice. Every single person I know who's caught the band live over the past seven months has been equally charmed and won over by the former Gallows/Rattlesnakes frontman, and if this is karaoke, it's the best sounding and most fun karaoke night you'll ever attend.
For their 85 minutes onstage, the Pistols are a blast. Obviously, it helps to have material as thrilling as Bodies, Pretty Vacant, Liar, etc,. to draw upon, but everything is given new bite and swagger by the suited-and-booted Carter, who exhibits genuine humility about his new role which simultaneously absolutely owning this grand old room. And there is something magnificent, almost moving, about the sight of grizzled sixty-year-old men whirling around in circle pits - "Open the dance floor, you’ll never get to do it again… they don’t allow it at the ballet” - at his bidding.
"Dim the lights and get your phones out," Carter instructs the crowd before alternately crooning and snarling through a cover of My Way. "Imagine this is a Coldplay gig, but much better."
The evening ends with Anarchy In The UK, Carter in the crowd, men and women old enough to know better crowd surfing past him, beer being flung into the air, every larynx straining to belt out every word. Ever get the feeling you've been cheated? Not with this lot, not for a single second. Catch them while you can.
