‘Proper Music for Proper People’
…with five words that effectively combine knowing flattery and assured arrogance, and which, at a stroke, serve to whisk us away from a landscape of joyless karaoke mannequins and corporate death-merchants, John Lydon takes the stage.
It’s been a long time.
A time spent in and out of the public gaze. A time when the legendary Rotten sneer has been co-opted by the mainstream to flog butter or to engineer pantomime dread for prime-time reality shows. A time when the most notorious band on the planet was repeatedly blu-tacked back together to provide vaudevillian nostalgia kicks in the name of filthy lucre, with Uncle Johnny content to ham it up as leery cheerleader.
It’s not as if the world has been crying out for PiL. If anything, the world has been getting along quite nicely thank you, what with Oasis and Kylie and Gareth Gates and Jay-Z and Lady Gaga and everything. There’s not been much call for darkly experimental, stark and uncompromising post-punk. Or if there has, demand has been sated by the slew of neo-Joy Division copyists, encompassing the good (Interpol), the bad (Editors) and the hideous (White Lies).
So, to choose this precise moment for the not-altogether-hotly anticipated relaunch of PiL, the venture closest to Lydon's heart and the one that captures his essence more precisely than any number of Pistols reunions could ever hope to, seems a typically perverse and defiantly risky act. And one that, right now, in the midst of a naturally sceptical Leeds crowd, makes perfect sense.
In short, Lydon is mesmerising. Patrolling the stage like an evil scout-leader, he's a whirlwind of activity - in turn cajoling, clowning, preaching, upbraiding, confessing, emoting, showing-off; he is surprisingly avuncular and, on occasion, touchingly tender. Unlike Head Bunnyman, Ian McCulloch, at the same venue 24 hours earlier (who seemed intent on cultivating an atmosphere of tension and confrontation), Lydon takes the audience with him, firmly coaxing them out of initial reticence into untethered delight and, eventually, something approaching full-on rapture.
What is perhaps most startling is the voice. Lydon's trademark yelp has been analysed, dissected, ridiculed and dismissed in the years since the Pistols first exploded into the national consciousness, to the point where it practically exists as a cultural artefact in its own right, carrying with it more baggage than Mariah Carey's wardrobe assistant. What is perhaps less often noted is that it is also a thrillingly potent weapon, an instrument in its own right which pointedly defies categorisation or lazy stereotyping. Nowhere is this more evident than in a hauntingly powerful 'Death Disco,' a masterclass in anguished howling, pleading desperation and the dredging of raw emotion from grief-riddled memories. It is a moving, uncomfortable, oddly uplifting experience.
Of course, PiL worked best when Lydon was surrounded by musicians who shared his vision, and who were able to translate it into the kind of conflict and creativity often required to produce something of lasting artistic worth. Admittedly, the 2009 vintage does not include a Levene, a Wobble or a McGeoch. But few bands do. Instead we have a sharp, solid, experienced outfit injecting a welcome freshness into well-loved songs that have lain dormant for too long, whilst never threatening to snatch the spotlight away from the main attraction (as if Uncle Johnny would ever allow that to happen).
Which is not to say that there isn't the occasional glitch, most noticeably when ex-Pop Group drummer Bruce Smith brings one song to a close a verse early. But whereas Lydon would once have responded with insults, psychotic glares and threats of violence, he now manages to rein in his obvious irritation with recourse only to the mildest of rebukes. It's like watching Pol Pot playfully ruffling the hair of a child who caught him with the old 'pull my finger' gag. Truly, this is a dictator reborn.
With Scott Firth valiantly attempting to approximate Wobble's elastic dubbiness, it is left to multi-instrumentalist Lu Edmonds to provide the sonic trickery and invention. Despite a somewhat worrying resemblance to Oliver's Fagin after a night on the class A's, Edmonds gives an impressive virtuoso performance, switching effortlessly between electric and acoustic guitars and a range of instruments that a more musically literate chap than myself would probably be able to identify without much bother. As it stands, I'll say that they seem vaguely Eastern European and a bit, well, 'funny'-looking. Technical minutiae aside, it is a rare treat to watch a man attack his guitar strings with what looks like an illuminated miniature face-fan.
After an exultant run-through of hard-dance Leftfield collaboration, 'Open Up,' an exhausted Lydon departs. He has pulled it off. He has reclaimed his throne and has a mass of disciples hanging loyally on his every utterance. Just the way he likes it. Who gives a shit about 1976, or, for that matter, next week? For now, for two hours, PiL is once again the only band that matters.
Mummy, why can't all music be proper music?
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