John Lydon invented punk rock and is the king of the punks. I know this because he told me. Actually he told me, my wife and about a hundred other people, as he was interviewed for his second autobiography ‘Anger Is An Energy’, at Sheffield’s Octagon on Wednesday night. And if it sounds like he talks some right old cobblers, you’d be understating the situation by some distance.
That’s not to say the erstwhile Johnny Rotten isn’t an interesting man, because he is. It couldn’t really be any other way. After all, he was the singer and focal point of one of Britain’s most important bands. The difficulty lies in getting him to speak sensibly on that most pertinent of topics. Admittedly, the evening’s host was way out of her depth – genial, but completely incapable of keeping her guest in order and on track. That said, even a heavyweight like Andrew Neil couldn’t wring much coherence from John the following night on the telly, so perhaps it’s a hopeless task whoever you happen to be.
I have no doubt that Lydon is actually a rather shy, sensitive and uncertain man. So many of his mannerisms, characteristics and idiosyncrasies point to a person constantly masking his insecurities with unnecessary sneers and challenges, it’s always clear we never see the real personality. Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for his audience, he has the perfect mask: Johnny Rotten. When his brief was to be the embodiment of cynical, enraged youth, this guise couldn’t have been more appropriate; now it comes off as infantile and frustrating. Lydon isn’t a fool, and must have realised years ago that his career’s momentum depended on people’s enthusiasm for his snarling punk persona. Which presumably, is why he so readily delivers this performance on demand. If nothing else, it might draw attention to his book. However, the sound of a man approaching his 60th year belching loudly into his clip microphone cannot be regarded as anything other than pathetic, even by an old punk like me.
And oh, the contradictions. There’s nothing wrong with passionately held opinions issued with gusto, it’s the very stuff of inspiring oratory. It is also very different from making it up as one goes along, which is much more Lydon’s style. Eager to demonstrate that he alone brought anything to the Pistols’ party, he points to Vivienne Westwood, and the late Malcolm McLaren, demanding to know what either had achieved since leaving his orbit. This is rank foolishness (and you don’t need me to point out how successful both his adversaries became post-punk), not only because his argument falls over the second it leaves his lips, but also because a personal squabble over who first coined the phrase ‘Anarchy In The UK’ is as self-indulgent as it is pointless.
“I don’t worry about labels on my clothes” he tells us, moments before extolling the virtues of the Issey Miyake jerkin he’s wearing. Embellished anecdotes about his move to New York fail to withstand a basic check of the chronology, and the timeline of his boyhood illness seemed rather wobbly too.
Quite obviously, this is all about myth making; shoring-up the Lydon/Rotten legacy to perpetuate the legend, rather than lay down the facts. In a figure of less cultural significance, this wouldn’t rankle so badly – but we know the story of the Sex Pistols is a crucial chapter in British popular music, and if anyone can shed light on its murkier corners it must be the man who fronted the band. It is a genuine pity that John finds it so hard to lay aside the affected sarcasm and bolshiness for long enough to tell us that tale.
Aside from his detectable nervousness, I suspect it’s Lydon fear of being permanently defined by that brief period with his first band, that drives him to dismiss it with such casual disdain. Public Image Limited has been trading for a considerably longer period than the Pistols could muster, without making a fraction of the impact. That has to be hard to swallow. An observation later confirmed by Lydon’s insistence that both his bands changed rock music forever.
There’s a pronounced yearning about John Lydon. A desire to be recognised, not just nostalgically as a lynchpin of punk rock, but contemporaneously as a speaker of profound truth and wisdom. As he is an intelligent man, it’s regretful that he constantly undermines and self-sabotages his ambition.
Towards the end of the interview, John says “I only do things that I believe in. That’s the way I am.” Let’s hope his belief in the beneficial properties of Country Life butter, is sincerely held.
That’s not to say the erstwhile Johnny Rotten isn’t an interesting man, because he is. It couldn’t really be any other way. After all, he was the singer and focal point of one of Britain’s most important bands. The difficulty lies in getting him to speak sensibly on that most pertinent of topics. Admittedly, the evening’s host was way out of her depth – genial, but completely incapable of keeping her guest in order and on track. That said, even a heavyweight like Andrew Neil couldn’t wring much coherence from John the following night on the telly, so perhaps it’s a hopeless task whoever you happen to be.
I have no doubt that Lydon is actually a rather shy, sensitive and uncertain man. So many of his mannerisms, characteristics and idiosyncrasies point to a person constantly masking his insecurities with unnecessary sneers and challenges, it’s always clear we never see the real personality. Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for his audience, he has the perfect mask: Johnny Rotten. When his brief was to be the embodiment of cynical, enraged youth, this guise couldn’t have been more appropriate; now it comes off as infantile and frustrating. Lydon isn’t a fool, and must have realised years ago that his career’s momentum depended on people’s enthusiasm for his snarling punk persona. Which presumably, is why he so readily delivers this performance on demand. If nothing else, it might draw attention to his book. However, the sound of a man approaching his 60th year belching loudly into his clip microphone cannot be regarded as anything other than pathetic, even by an old punk like me.
And oh, the contradictions. There’s nothing wrong with passionately held opinions issued with gusto, it’s the very stuff of inspiring oratory. It is also very different from making it up as one goes along, which is much more Lydon’s style. Eager to demonstrate that he alone brought anything to the Pistols’ party, he points to Vivienne Westwood, and the late Malcolm McLaren, demanding to know what either had achieved since leaving his orbit. This is rank foolishness (and you don’t need me to point out how successful both his adversaries became post-punk), not only because his argument falls over the second it leaves his lips, but also because a personal squabble over who first coined the phrase ‘Anarchy In The UK’ is as self-indulgent as it is pointless.
“I don’t worry about labels on my clothes” he tells us, moments before extolling the virtues of the Issey Miyake jerkin he’s wearing. Embellished anecdotes about his move to New York fail to withstand a basic check of the chronology, and the timeline of his boyhood illness seemed rather wobbly too.
Quite obviously, this is all about myth making; shoring-up the Lydon/Rotten legacy to perpetuate the legend, rather than lay down the facts. In a figure of less cultural significance, this wouldn’t rankle so badly – but we know the story of the Sex Pistols is a crucial chapter in British popular music, and if anyone can shed light on its murkier corners it must be the man who fronted the band. It is a genuine pity that John finds it so hard to lay aside the affected sarcasm and bolshiness for long enough to tell us that tale.
Aside from his detectable nervousness, I suspect it’s Lydon fear of being permanently defined by that brief period with his first band, that drives him to dismiss it with such casual disdain. Public Image Limited has been trading for a considerably longer period than the Pistols could muster, without making a fraction of the impact. That has to be hard to swallow. An observation later confirmed by Lydon’s insistence that both his bands changed rock music forever.
There’s a pronounced yearning about John Lydon. A desire to be recognised, not just nostalgically as a lynchpin of punk rock, but contemporaneously as a speaker of profound truth and wisdom. As he is an intelligent man, it’s regretful that he constantly undermines and self-sabotages his ambition.
Towards the end of the interview, John says “I only do things that I believe in. That’s the way I am.” Let’s hope his belief in the beneficial properties of Country Life butter, is sincerely held.
