Sex Pistols Featuring Frank Carter
Hordern Pavilion, Sydney
Tuesday, April 8, 2025

Quick summation: They rocked. They were a massive ball of fun. The New Guy was his own man; Frank Carter doesn’t pretend to be anything he’s not. The band behind him is still three-quarters of the Sex Pistols - and monstrously good.

Statement of the obvious: The crowd was old. Sure, there was a sprinkling of curious young millennials who’d been browsing their parents’ record collections, but mostly it was codgers bordering on, or of, pensionable age.  I haven’t this many senior citizens in one place since Oatley RSL had a disability scooter rally on the concrete apron outside the entrance, where the old dears listen to piped music as the clock counts down to the poker machine room’s 10am opening.

Tonight was an occasion when you just knew the band volume would have to be ear-bleedingly loud to be heard over the scraping of knee joint upon knee joint. If you’d asked this crowd to shuffle past you and throw their medical prescriptions onto a pile, it would have hit the ceiling of the Hordern Pavilion and then some.

Did someone say drugs? Most people here would have had a “jones” –  not for the shit that took down Sideshow Sid but for Steve. Forget about the black market in tobacco. Any dealer could have used the Hordern as a supermarket to move a shitload of blood pressure or lipid lowering pills tonight. Mustn’t grumble but my own poison was something to ease gut-wrenching gastric reflux.

Once upon a time, the Sex Pistols were a vehicle for societal outrage. In today’s world of instant gratification, there’s more chance of people bypassing feeling scandalized and proceeding directly to cancellation. Just try releasing a song with a lyric “you poor little faggots” slagging marginalized people like the New York Dolls in 2025 and see how you go.

There’s no need to rake the coals of the issue that’s left the band’s singer, Johnny Lydon/Rotten on one side of a great divide and Steve Jones, Glen Matlock and Paul Cook on the other. It’s left one Pistol feeling very pissed. There have been more digital words expended on the topic than Jonesy has scoffed down pie floaters.

Proponents for and against the singer being subbed out for Frank Carter are as immovable as Mount Rushmore. John’s retaining a stake in the band’s image must soften the blow of all those 60 buck T-shirts flying off the merch table. Filthy lucre, eh?

In the Australian context, talk of a Pistols boycott is like the mild rumble heard in the country’s front bars when Mark Arm was announced as the singer for The Saints ’74-’78. Yes, Chris Bailey is no more so he wasn’t even a remote chance of stepping up. The people who didn’t like the idea stayed away and the rest of us judged the band on its merits. Similarly, Rotten isn’t coming back and your choice of what to do is the same.

First, to tonight’s support, and Civic were the lucky local openers. My first sighting of them in the wild and they’re not going too badly, given the hard task of winning over a big crowd that’s mostly unfamiliar with their material.

There’s a lot of US hardcore in them, maybe more than is apparent form the records, as singer Jim McCullough prowls the stage with a cap pulled down low. Guitarist Lewis Hodgson was struggling to be heard in the mix about a third of the way back from the stage, but a shift to the sound desk casts light on some quality chunky power chording. I’d like to see them again - on their own bill.

So to the headliners and if you did take the conscientious objector route, it was your loss. The Hordern has a capacity of 5,500 and although it was sold out online, there was space left towards the back of the room. Perhaps it was a concession to the girth of older Aussies? It’s comfortable without a crush. But it reminds me that I have no idea why I passed on seeing the Pistols on their 1997 “Filthy Lucre” sweep through Australia, but that just increased the anticipation this time around.   

The band strides on 10 minutes late and we’re off to the races. Almost. Nobody is going anywhere before Frank Carter hits pause to deliver a quick, heartfelt speech on behalf of his bandmates. Clem Burke passed away overnight and this gig is in his honour. Classy.

Seconds later, “Holidays in the Sun” immediately amplifies two things: The importance of Paul Cook behind the kit, and the sheer crunch of Steve Jones’ guitar.

Jonesy’s fearsome and singular tone was present in the cracking mix all night. He didn’t say much, save the occasional quip in response to his singer, and as cliched as it sounds, his guitar really did do the talking. As for Cookie, he was up on the balls of his feet for the duration of the set, driving the changes and spurring on his bandmates with swing and propulsive fills. 

Glen Matlock must have been to Oz enough times now to qualify for residence. His melodic tone and fluidity as he holds down the bottom end should be an object lesson for any student of rumble. Another pro.

But most eyes are on the New Guy. Yes, he doesn’t sound like Johnny. He doesn’t hunch and leer. He’s more a punk-blues shouter in a long line of them. His use of the stage is relentless. He also brings nuclear levels of enthusiasm, has an easy rapport with the punters and his youthful energy (compaded to the rest of the band) never flags.

Carter brandishes a “G’DAY CUNTS” sign at the front of the set, and spends a good part of the middle of it in the crowd, stirring up an enormous circle pit that absorbs a quarter of the dance floor crowd. It’s good spirited and the first aid station at stage right is untroubled. Back on stage, Carter directs the rescue of some hapless punter’s satchel (“who brings a fucking satchel to a moshpit?”) from someone else’s clutches.  

_{Paul Chamberlin photo.}

There’s no doubt the senior citizens in the band are feeding off his antics and having a fucking great time. During band introductions, Frank labels Matlock “the smartest man on the stage” and Cook “the sweetest”. Can’t recall what he dubbed Jonesy but I’m sure it was also complimentary. He is Carter The Unstoppable Punk Machine.  

Lydon calls his ex-bandmates “karaoke” but that label misses the mark by a long way. Yeah, like John has never cocked an ear and directed a microphone in the direction of a crowd to hear it sing back.

Admittedly, it was odd seeing each of the Sex Pistols take a solo in “No Fun”, (the Stooges cover they never quite nailed back in the day, despite its appearance on a B-side.)  

“Silly Thing” was a mid-set diversion after the killer one-two punch of “Pretty Vacant” and “Bodies”. The workmanlike “My Way” in the encore was swept away by an anthemic “Anarchy In The UK” that’s still ringing in the ears as we trudge away on a rain-soaked footpath.  

Was it dangerous? C'mon, how can a band of blokes, three of them rising 70, be “dangerous” in the literal sense? The Sex Pistols are what they always were wanted to be known as: A Rock and Roll Band. Carter keeps declaring them The GOAT of Punk Bands, but the term has been used and abused down the years that it’s near meaningless these days. That ground remains hotly contested.   

Was it better than 1976 at The 100 Club? Dunno. I wasn’t there and odds are that neither were you. All that most of us can do is judge the band on their merits on the night. No more and no less. If you ask me, it will be hard to top this gig this year. Someone must have made you a moron (a potential H-bomb) if you miss them.

Holidays in the Sun
Seventeen
New York
Pretty Vacant
Bodies
Silly Thing
Liar
God Save the Queen
No Fun
Satellite
No Feelings
Problems
E.M.I.

Encore:
My Way
Anarchy in the U.K.