So my verdict on the Sex Pistols (four days late) was that they were lousy. Not that I had any conceptual objections — I saw them in '96 and came away largely impressed — I think it was just a failure of execution. To be still more specific, I have no beef with Steve, Glenn, and Paul; they played competently and seemed to be enjoying themselves.
But Johnny, of course, has always been the face of this band (even as Sid was taking the beloved "troubled rocker" cliche to new depths), and it seems that with every passing day he lapses further into self-caricature. Last Wednesday he took the stage in a sleeveless T-shirt and Capri pants; I couldn't shake the impression that he was trying to look, act, sing, and dance like a surfer. The between-song banter seemed to have three components: (1) slagging off the Ramones, (2) saying the word
"fuck" a lot, and (3) insisting that "we are the originals — the real thing" (see entry (1)). These gestures elicited considerable applause from the starstruck audience, quite a few of whom were adolescent punks who had dreamed of this day since they first mounted a skateboard. I recycled in my mind all the critical literature that endows this band with an almost mythical confrontational aesthetic, wondered if the legend was purely the construct of similarly undiscriminating fans.
Even the political rhetoric was largely ham-handed; "Is this BIG BUSH COUNTRY?" Johnny sneered. I'm going to have to believe, John, that Malcolm MacLaren was the creative force behind your band, if that's the best you can muster these days.
As for the music, "Sub-Mission" and "New York," surprisingly, were the prime cuts. Either because he was old and winded (probably the case) or because he just doesn't care (as he would like you to think), Johnny didn't sing more than 70% of the lyrics in the band's 70-minute set. "Holidays in the Sun" suffered in particular from these elisions — I like to think his frenetic and repetitive rant on the studio recording about going over the Berlin Wall best captured the band's live intensity, but I didn't hear any of it on Wednesday night. "Belsen Was a Gas" was an interesting inclusion: might have been more interesting if Johnny had sung more than the first verse of it. "I Wanna Be Me" and "(I'm Not Your) Stepping Stone," while sorely missed, I can play at home on my stereo. All in all, it's an ironic condition to prefer your Sex Pistols recordings to "the real thing." But it is, after all, 2003.
Truer props go to the
Dropkick Murphys, who are worth the price of admission, if you can stomach the idea that most of the money is buying Rotten's beach house in Ibiza. Of course, they are likely at the top of their game here in their hometown. They probably won't open shows with the rousing "For Boston" in other cities, and you won't hear anthems to the Bruins or covers of "Dirty Water." That said, you don't often see a man with a ten-inch mohawk playing a tin whistle. The front man seems to think he's Henry Rollins — he's forever got one foot on his monitor and bulging his neck muscles — but if you can get past that, you're in for a great show. All sorts of revolution and union solidarity songs with working class sentiment and Irish Republican themes: because I'm an idiot, I keep wearing orange to Murphys shows, and I did again on Wednesday. "Forever," "The Gauntlet," and "The Rocky Road to Dublin" stand out in my mind as highlights. The dude with the pompadour on guitar moves like he's in the Clash. This band has a great grassroots fan base and deserves to blow up nationally, so check 'em out.
I suppose this concert came at an opportune time, as my nine- and seven-year old Pistols T-shirts have all but dissolved on my body, and I needed to buy myself a replacement. But next time I'll probably just mail-order one. Anyone remember
Burning Airlines?
