Frank Carter’s lust for life brings the Sex Pistols together for the first time in almost half a century…
How would he do it? How could anyone do it? How would Frank Carter, a third generation punk from a London satellite town, step into the shoes of John Lydon, né Johnny Rotten, the most iconic frontman in the movement’s history, and – perhaps, even – in all of rock’n’roll? Well, how about this: at the second of the Sex Pistols’ three-night fundraiser for the imperilled Bush Hall, the new boy steps out into the sweating throng at the front of the stage to sing the song Satellite while a circle-pit whirls like a spin-dryer around him. Talk about owning your spot.
Adapting to the contours of this remarkable band without sacrificing a single twitch of his own untameable charisma means it’s possible to imagine that it was Frank who in 1976 had flattened the country with the words ’I am an antichrist’, on the Pistols’ debut single, and tonight’s closing song, Anarchy In The UK. Even members of the audience who may not have been previously aware of his existence are unable, and unwilling, to avert their eyes from his electric presence. Friends, there’s a new sheriff in town.
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Despite what many critics would have you believe, the Pistols at Bush Hall are not good despite the absence John Lydon – rather, they are great because of it. In the group’s later iterations, first in the ’90s and then in the ’00s, it was John, playing the role of Johnny Rotten, who cut the cynical pantomime figure screeching his way over songs through which his vocals once cut like razor wire. It was him that made it all feel like an exercise in give-us-your-cash nostalgia. Naturally, the group’s musical core – Paul Cook on drums, Glen Matlock on bass and the forensic Steve Jones on guitar – grew to hate him. In 2024, meanwhile, the injection of fresh blood, and fresh energy, centre-stage means that the Pistols cohere as a unit, as a complete band, in a way they didn’t always manage back in the ’70s, let alone in subsequent years. Up front, by the barrier, the purity of it all is a joy to behold.
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And what a band they are. Holidays In The Sun, Seventeen, New York (in which Frank’s excision of the word f****t, as heard on the original lyric, proves that, in the 21st century, some things are beyond the pale even for the Sex Pistols) and Pretty Vacant comprise the opening throw, in that order. God Save The Queen – or King as it’s sung tonight – emerges at the midway point of the 65-minute set. No Feelings and EMI – ’we are ruled by none, never, ever, ever’ – lay in wait.
Purposeful and poised, the older musicians play with the kind of freedom that lay at their fingertips until the very moment Steve Jones upended the world by swearing up a storm live on teatime television in autumn 1976. After this, the Pistols in their original form were toast. The cost of becoming the group who terrorised a nation, and who changed music forever, was that they were no longer able to roll as a rock band, punk or otherwise, must. They were wanted men, persecuted men. Not any more, though. With the help of a singer untethered from self-consciousness and a burdensome reputation, almost half a century later, the most glorious sight in a beautiful music hall in west London, is of a band, at last, regaining its liberty.
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