Showing posts with label sex pistols. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex pistols. Show all posts
Friday, January 09, 2009
The News Story That Changed My Life
I cried the night the Sex Pistols played the Longhorn Ballroom in Dallas. At 15 years old, my Dad wasn't about to let me make the long drive to the show though I pleaded my case with all manner of teenage exaggeration. The old man wasn't moved by my tears and he wouldn't have been moved by the Pistols. But as note to parents: not seeing the show may have turned out to be an even more powerful influence as I shoved my first safety pin through my ear the next day.
Years later I would see the Cro Mags with Motorhead at the Longhorn but was more most interested in asking people about the night the Sex Pistols were in town than sparing with skinheads. Over the years, I've met quite of few people and heard some funny tales from those who were in attendance but this unearthed bit of historic rock-n-roll gold makes me shiver with glee anew.
To revisit the tale of when I finally did met up with the band go to the Running Mule archive.
Johnny Rotten, You Fat Old Irish Fuck
Friday, October 10, 2008
"Johnny Rotten, You Fat Old Irish Fuck"
Way back in the Year of Our Lord 1996, the Sex Pistols announced they were reuniting to tour. I'd seen PiL in '86, but this was different. I didn't care if the band lip-synched the whole damn record. I was going to be there. So my buddy Stephen Schubert "borrowed" a car from his job at the Porsche dealership, which we loaded down with a variety of drugs and booze for the three-hour drive from Houston to Austin. After innumerable pit stops and dust-ups, we finally made it to the venue, jacked, as they say, to the gills. The Sex Pistols were slated to play a former K-Mart in an abandoned strip center. As we drove up, nothing hinted at a punk show. It was just a huge, deserted parking lot with a few cars, no loitering punks, and, even weirder, no cops.
The venue was sparsely populated with an unexpected mix of Mexican rancheros and leather fags. Now, in the old days, gay bars were the only places punk bands could play, so that was reasonable and it gave the dull, cavernous space some hope. The Mexicans I had no idea about. But Mexicans are fun. I only mention this curious blend of concertgoers because there was no one who looked to have ever been affiliated with underground hardcore or even popular punk stuff.
So it's a weird crowd, we're blitzed, and it's hot as shit. Had to be 95 degrees inside at 10 p.m. No AC. But with the "Punk & Disorderly" spirit possessing us, we gave the place and crowd our full attention. We rolled around like Sid Vicious had dropped us off himself, bullshitting with anyone who would talk to us and trampling roughshod over the rest. "Support or Die" was the tongue-in-cheek motto of the moment. As we continued ramping up in anticipation of the show, I decided we should go backstage. This thinking didn't portend any journalistic interest; rather the opposite. I wanted to drink the Sex Pistols' beer, and I was certain they'd share a pint with a couple of kindred spirits flying on mushrooms. There was no security, so getting backstage took about 10 seconds of effort.
Okay now is the start of the story I've come to tell.
We slipped past the barricades through a curtain and there they were, the four of them: John, Steve, Paul, and Glen. All alone. Staring at us. They walked right up to us, probably half assuming we were supposed to be there. It was just the Sex Pistols and us, frozen for a second, eyeing one another. Sensing the moment, I reached out to catch Glen's hand, saying with great emphasis, "Glen Matlock, you are my favorite Sex Pistol!" As the moment played out in silence, I looked to Schubert. He was just staring drunkenly at Johnny Rotten. And Johnny Rotten was staring back at him. Then slowly, Schubert deadpanned, "Johnny Rotten, you fat old Irish fuck." I gulped, having lived through a similar situation between Schubert and Dennis Rodman while out on the latter's boat. Anyway, Rotten was better prepared for the moment, merely grunting "piss off" and flinging a can of Guinness that knocked Schubert's glasses off and cartoonishly bruised his forehead. Then the Sex Pistols were gone. They marched past us, jumped onstage, and launched into Bodies. My body went numb. We were left to our own devices.
That's the story. It's one of the proudest rock 'n' roll moments of my life, primarily because Glen Matlock was never anyone's favorite Sex Pistol. That riff had caught the whole band off guard. The spontaneous 1-2 of willfully misplaced adulation, combined with Schubert's "fat old Irish fuck" quip, has to be one of the most absurd, i.e., punk moments in Sex Pistols lore. The rest of the night was a blur of backstage beers being thrown in both of our faces.
Bravo Mr Lydon. Bravo Absurdity.
UPDATE: This viral protest ad is hilarious however.
The venue was sparsely populated with an unexpected mix of Mexican rancheros and leather fags. Now, in the old days, gay bars were the only places punk bands could play, so that was reasonable and it gave the dull, cavernous space some hope. The Mexicans I had no idea about. But Mexicans are fun. I only mention this curious blend of concertgoers because there was no one who looked to have ever been affiliated with underground hardcore or even popular punk stuff.
So it's a weird crowd, we're blitzed, and it's hot as shit. Had to be 95 degrees inside at 10 p.m. No AC. But with the "Punk & Disorderly" spirit possessing us, we gave the place and crowd our full attention. We rolled around like Sid Vicious had dropped us off himself, bullshitting with anyone who would talk to us and trampling roughshod over the rest. "Support or Die" was the tongue-in-cheek motto of the moment. As we continued ramping up in anticipation of the show, I decided we should go backstage. This thinking didn't portend any journalistic interest; rather the opposite. I wanted to drink the Sex Pistols' beer, and I was certain they'd share a pint with a couple of kindred spirits flying on mushrooms. There was no security, so getting backstage took about 10 seconds of effort.
Okay now is the start of the story I've come to tell.
We slipped past the barricades through a curtain and there they were, the four of them: John, Steve, Paul, and Glen. All alone. Staring at us. They walked right up to us, probably half assuming we were supposed to be there. It was just the Sex Pistols and us, frozen for a second, eyeing one another. Sensing the moment, I reached out to catch Glen's hand, saying with great emphasis, "Glen Matlock, you are my favorite Sex Pistol!" As the moment played out in silence, I looked to Schubert. He was just staring drunkenly at Johnny Rotten. And Johnny Rotten was staring back at him. Then slowly, Schubert deadpanned, "Johnny Rotten, you fat old Irish fuck." I gulped, having lived through a similar situation between Schubert and Dennis Rodman while out on the latter's boat. Anyway, Rotten was better prepared for the moment, merely grunting "piss off" and flinging a can of Guinness that knocked Schubert's glasses off and cartoonishly bruised his forehead. Then the Sex Pistols were gone. They marched past us, jumped onstage, and launched into Bodies. My body went numb. We were left to our own devices.
That's the story. It's one of the proudest rock 'n' roll moments of my life, primarily because Glen Matlock was never anyone's favorite Sex Pistol. That riff had caught the whole band off guard. The spontaneous 1-2 of willfully misplaced adulation, combined with Schubert's "fat old Irish fuck" quip, has to be one of the most absurd, i.e., punk moments in Sex Pistols lore. The rest of the night was a blur of backstage beers being thrown in both of our faces.
And it's because of that night I'm giving John Lydon a pass on the Country Life TV advert. We shared a riotous time. The lump never really went away. And for a moment we were all friends.
And God Bless the Dazzler
RIP
Stephen Schubert
May 21, 1966-March 19, 2007
UPDATE: This viral protest ad is hilarious however.
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