NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS

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.

I spent age 13-16, thereabouts. Wishing I was Johnny Rotten. I hadn't even discovered the brilliance of PiL yet. I just slouched about snarling and attempting to get the gall to put a safety pin through my ear. His music spoke to me, resoun
ded with all the anger and articulately intelligent dissatisfaction I felt for everything/everyone. And now, years later. I'm not as angry, but my ears still prick up when I hear his roar. They treat him as a caricature and a prickly footnote in the annals of rock history, but for me he will always be more. A villain, perhaps? But always an inspiration.
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