When I first discovered the Sex Pistols they captured my imagination. A raw energetic sound that simultaneously is tight and unpretentious. On the drums, Paul Cook, puffing away on a cigarette barely batting an eyelash as he pounds through some of the most blistering tracks in rock history. Steve Jones, looking like a rockabilly goofball slamming chord after chord. Sid, sadly more myth than man, pale, bare chested, barely conscious. And Johnny Rotten nee John Lydon prowling around on stage like a violent aggressive deranged hunchback of Notre Punk.