_{Carolyn Fenech photo.}

Sex Pistols with Frank Carter
Sunday, April 6, 2025
Hindley Street Music Hall, Adelaide

First and most important: skip whatever preconceptions you may have.

JUST GO.

People will be talking about this tour for decades and believe me, you really don't want to be telling folks how this band were loads better at the 100 Club as they change your colostomy bag in your fucking retirement village.

The squeakers of "sacrilege"  have had their say on the interwebs, and now it's time for Frank Carter's name (and back catalogue) to be on everyone's minds.

_{Frank on the desk, ready to surf back to the stage. Robert Brokenmouth photo.}

First, hats off in the Department  of Awe to Louis Matlock, Glen's son, who suggested that Carter might be an able replacement for Lydon. 

And, kudos in the Department of Hats-Doffing for Steve Jones, who took a punt with "young" Frank.

However, thumbs-down in the You're A Piece of Shit Department to the utter tool who (if my information is correct) put a finger up Frank's arse (while he was in the crowd - a moment of considerable trust on Frank's part, I might add). At that point, a lot of performers would have done the dummy spit, stopped the show and stomped off. 

And bugger any chance of ever returning to Adelaide (which most of us last night fervently hope they do). 

These days, stuff like that is illegal and so on. Back in the good old days, in 1975, such a cretin would be taken out the back and given a good kicking. After his kicking, said dickhead would be arrested by the police for assault, resisting arrest and foul language and beaten up by several volumes of the Sydney Yellow Pages down at the local cop shop. This is the last time in this review you will read me pining, however briefly, for the good old days of Winnie Reds, Blackberry Nip and kicking the shit out of deserving dickheads like the one who still probably hasn't washed his digit yet. 

But Frank Carter is a fucking professional. Realising that only a few folk saw the assault, he continued.

The mob crying "sacrilege" seems to have forgotten that Cook 'n' Jones were there long before John Lydon, and their idea, along with Glen Matlock who came a bit later, was essentially to be '70s rock stars, a pastime which involved copious fame, wads of cash, champers, birds and Lamborghinis (possibly not in that order). You know, like the Faces, Rod Stewart, the Stones and so on. Fun times.

When McLaren asked Lydon to audition as the singer in his shop, with predictable bizarrely comic results, he didn't realise he'd auditioned the wrong John - the one Vivienne Westwood had suggested was John Ritchie (later renamed after Lydon's hamster, Sid.)

Reading not too much between the lines, at the time Lydon was a dissociated, isolated and poisonous individual. He's described himself at this time as a "bumpkin", and others described him onstage as "malevolent" - okay, so at 19 he was a literate, malevolent bumpkin who, it turned out, could write stunning, devastating lyrics.

Lydon's walked back a lot of the meaning and ferocity in his lyrics. Hardly surprising, as they're extremely antisocial. 'Anarchy', for example (and it did the heart good to see the entire pack of 2000 punters bellowing: "And I/Wanna be/Anarcheeeee") is as much about the loathing of the miserable life in grey, pointlessly orderly UK and a longing for it to be wiped out, as it is about the writer acting out a fantasy.

Sure, we've all felt like this at times. But how many of us would be capable of snarling out such a lyric in the laissez faire '70s? How many of us would have had his aggressive and confrontive look? Would you wear an AC/DC shirt with "I Hate" written on it down the main drag in Blacktown?

Take lines like "You never realise I take the piss out of you/ You come up and see me/ And I'll beat you black and blue/ All day" and "I look around your house/You got nothing to steal/ I kick you in the brains/ When you get down to kneel - and pray". Honestly, has no-one ever tried dissecting these lyrics? Sure, you can say the songs are about any number of subjects, but at age 19, surely it's more likely he's writing more about, or for, himself?

_{"Who are ytou calling Ed Sheeran?" Carolyn Fenech photo.}

What I'm getting at here is that John changed an unknown band from a band intent on fun into a completely different "other", an "other" which would probably have died a natural death if Reg Grundy hadn't been pissed and Steve Jones hadn't necked two bottles of Blue Nun in the Beeb's green room... and the Sex Pistols suddenly represented all manner of things to all manner of people.

All of a sudden it wasn't a fantasy any more, and they became the legitimate target of everyone frightened of the media nonsense, whether it be gormless MPs, dorky aldermen, the Old Bill, ultra-conservatives (like the frozen-in-amber Teds), and of course the sleazy media sucked on their blood like the vampire is was and is.

In his book, "Lonely Boy" (Heinemann, 2016) ,Steve Jones writes;

Grundy didn't just catapult us into a new level of fame, it took the whole thing into another dimension in a way that was hard to grasp. Don't get me wrong, the notoriety was a good laugh, and it definitely brought us a lot of new fans very quickly. But the best way of describing how it felt is like in 'Star Trek' when they're just flying along normally in space, then Scotty presses the warp speed button and, whoosh, they're fucking gone.

And bang went any chance of the band becoming legit rock stars. It seems to me that Lydon can be rather good at being forgetful on occasion ... when Lydon addressed the High Court about the recent "Pistol" TV series, Lydon said: "I care very much about this band and its reputation and its quality control and I will always have a say if I think anything is being done to harm or damage [it]."

Fair enough. But I don't know if his 1983 versions of Pistols songs would hold up in the stern glare of "quality control", nor do I think some of his cossies or silly hairdos during the Pistols reunions do much to boost either quality or reputation. On the other hand, Frank Carter does much to boost both. And, of course, the musicians get to be '70s rock stars with ... well. You figure it out.

I might also add that the Facebook Official Pistols page keeps putting up clips from the upcoming limited edition live LPs. These were recorded in the dying days of the band's final tour in January 1978 (two of the three were also released on video yonks back). The sound is indifferent. The bass player, one Sid Vicious, is a total dick who can't play. They're painful to watch and painful to hear. If you didn't know who they were you'd have walked out. These LPs are "collectable", sure (although they were first bootlegged on vinyl back in 1979) and a visceral part of history. But you don't need them and, indeed, I'd argue that first, they should have stayed bootlegs, and second, that they're a bit of a punishment to endure).

What you do need is to forget the miserable, sour past and go see this new thing.

And alright, yes, Frank Carter is a ginger. And yes, the poor bloke does bear a passing resemblance to Ed Sheeran. And yes, perhaps he should've shaved. However, he  overcame all of that to have the audience eating out of his hand by sheer force of personality within about 90 seconds of the band coming onstage, and before they'd played a note. 

The sheer power of the songs and their delivery still takes your breath away. Carter's determined energy and utter guts is nothing short of phenomenal. 

I really don't want to spoil the surprise too much (don't look at the videos).

They're advertising the tour as "Never Mind the Bollocks'": Most of the songs were played. Glad "Submission" was dropped, as it's a dreadful song (they had several B-sides which were considerably better). They did do "New York", which I always thought was great music with stupidly poisonous lyrics. I'd heard the Dolls before the Pistols, and none of them struck me as "poor little faggots". In reality, there was nothing wrong with the Dolls except the smack; so why not write about that? Hell, Jonesy copped a lot of good stuff from the Dolls, so why slag them off?

So. It's 2025. Jonesy still has that magnificent tone. And it's a fucking joy to see him tinkering with a few songs (at last). Cookie still rocks steady with him; they are the unit. 

Glen is the patrician who happens to play effortless, precise bass. He's a pleasure to watch. 

_{Caroliyn Fenech photo.}

And Frank Carter has made some brilliant choices, from his dress sense to his phrasing and the way he presents the songs. His voice is slightly higher in register, and the few times when his delivery resembles Lydon's seem more coincidental than intended - Carter has reinterpreted the lyrics the way they need to be heard in today's world. 

He's also utterly fearless. Involves the crowd from moment one. Apologises for coming out eight minutes late. You get the feeling you could sit down and have a cuppa and a bun with the bloke and talk about the price of eggs or how Donald Trump and his thicky henchmen should be portrayed as a Keystone Kops-style comedy series.

In 45 years of going to gigs, Frank Carter is one of the most magnificent front men I've ever seen. I've not seen anyone quite this good since two nights at the Stagedoor, Shandon, way back in January 1982 when that scrawny bloke Nick from the Birthday Party screamed his lungs out while being carted round on top of the crowd's hands. 

In Woollies today I nearly melted down after enduring the relentless annoying drivel of Adele and a few other horrendous chest-beaters, and I realised: we need the likes of the Sex Pistols more than ever.

There are three items now on my wishlist (apart from snaffling the Frank Carter back catalogue); first, I'd like this band to come back to Adelaide. Or if not Adelaide thanks to the tool with the shitty finger, anywhere else in Australia. 

Hell, I'd raid my super fund to see them in Helsinki. Or even Orangeslime, Florida.

Second: live DVD, please!

And third, since the band have effectively had their ties with Lydon severed, it's time for them to park their butts and work on a new LP.

Lastly, I'll just point out that there are now two Sex Pistols websites. Sex Pistols Official, and Sex Pistols Featuring Frank Carter... 

Go to both!

If you can't get tickets, watch a live video on YouTube instead. 

You poor sad bastard. 

_{Carolyn Fenech photo.}