Pistols at the Palace 2002

United Kingdom | 27 July 2002

In 1976, they were revolting against the powers that be, taking a sonic sledgehammer to the pillars of the Establishment. In 2002, they were simply revolting. Still, as Johnny Rotten would never have said, sometimes it pays to listen to your elders!

"Pistols Pack No Punch" and "They're not so vacant any more.. just pretty old" were some of the headlines in the dailies. It staggers me that respectable journalists can stumble so blindly into a trap laid directly before them, illuminated by neon signs.

From day one, Johnny Rotten has carved a career out of media manipulation (albeit with a little early guidance from Malcolm McLaren). From the creation of something called 'punk' which rocked the very fabric of society and changed the world forever (and may not even have existed!) back in the day, to the masterstroke that was their 'Filthy Lucre' reunion in 1996 (a public trashing of their own myth that only served to make it stronger) and now this little episode, the man is an absolute genius, and I cannot give him enough respect.

On the face of it, this was a good old nostalgia show, much like the sort of thing the Rolling Stones persist in parading around the globe, albeit without the ridiculously over-the-top trimmings that make the Stones the Stones. Punk was meant to be minimalist, so here it is - Rotten, Cook, Jones and Matlock - dressed down, all in black, on a black stage with scant lighting and no frills beyond the British flags backdrop ("borrowed from the Queen Mum's Coffin") and a few balloons released at the end to no effect whatsoever. Yes, last time round they needed the cabaret hair-do's and stage costumes. It was necessary for the plot at the time. Please read on.

So, after a set of awful, but meticulously planned, drum 'n' bass, the Pistols swagger onstage. Rotten's eyes sparkle like those of a naughty but shockingly intelligent child with a trick up his sleeve to get one over on his parents. "This is Great Britain!", he proclaims with mock pride, the first hint of the true underlying theme of the night. "Let's just have a f**king laugh tonight!", he beams, smug in the knowledge that that's exactly what he, and those of us on his level, are about to do.

The show itself is flawless. All the tunes are played out shambolically enough to hit the spot (Rotten forgets words all over the place - and even messes up the timing in Pretty Vacant, Matlock forgets basslines and Steve Jones' guitar remains out of tune). Despite that, the musicianship shines through - they have never sounded so good technically, and Rotten's voice is on fine form. As is his tongue. "Let's hear it for the first arsehole of the night!", he shouts, holding a wayward shoe, "You stupid one-foot bastard!"

Pistols songs played live today are never going to match the recorded originals, so Rotten compensates with his signature between-song banter. Obvious targets are Tony Blair ("Never trust a toff. Never, ever, ever"), David Beckham ("Tonight Johnny is sporting Armani, yeah f**king right!") and the record industry ("We'd like to thank none of our record companies ever"). In war, they call this trick a 'diversion' and the media fell for it hook, line and sinker.

The true target of this exercise is, of course, the audience itself and the media that represent them. As Rotten has frequently claimed, our country is in the most stagnant, apathetic and bland state ever, in terms of music and almost every other facet of culture and attitudes. All these people here have allowed and perpetuated this. Twenty five years ago, they were at the forefront of the punk movement, by contrast one of the UK's most exciting and dynamic periods, and now look at them with their kids and mortgages, rushing home to pay the babysitters and catch up on 'Big Brother'.

"You're all gone very quiet," he barks during the encore, "Are you feeling your age?". Boom.

"I'm fat as f**k and I don't give a f**k!", he preaches, before dropping the final bombshell, with a gleeful rendition of Sid Vicious' "My Way". How we laughed when the media read it as a tribute to Sid. As the masses begin to leave, in order to avoid the car park queues, we remain transfixed, pinching ourselves to prove that it's really true. It's 2002 and we have just been part of one of the most skillfully directed punk statements ever. Respect.