I wanted that memory.
I created it amidst the mosh and the mass.
Bespectacled and beered – well singing with cider that anger is an energy as I
pushed myself on the shoulders of older men to ‘rise’ in the air and be part of
it….maaaaan.
It was an odd concert to be honest. As I get older
I tend to obsess more about train times than set lists – about routes and
changes. I had met a friend early – soaking up the [unpretty] vacant Hirst
exhibition [and we ‘should’ care – there was nothing pretty about his empty
money grabbing greed and lack of style and grace – what a fucking rotter – next
question.] We had settled near London Bridge where the Shard stands like an intruder in the
city and talked about this and that – but my mind was half on the clock and
working my way up the Northern line to be on time for show.
Arriving only to be greeted by bouncers and barcode
scanners. Like a supermarket where the staff wear tuxedos. Check your ticket - that you printed – further saving costs – I used
to keep hold of my old tickets – they had been designed – thought about –
already providing the first steps of anticipation for an impending night, sometimes weeks in advance. Don’t get me
wrong – I do anticipate a night out – in fact I had done since I was given the
ticket in a card on the morning I turned 41. Slowly clutching at middle age and
tales to tell round the meeting table – not the public houses. But ticket
design is a thing of the past. Perhaps it will help the hoarder in me.
So I arrived early – I wasn’t the first - the place was filling up as men surveyed
t-shirt prices and looked at flyers or simple wandered around holding carrier
bags and looking lost. I had my bag over my shoulder – I knew where I was. Then
randomly snapping photographs of empty stages – to capture and collect our
moments – our nights out on iphones and apps to announce our attendance through
digital means to all our other ‘friends’ on pages and sites.
The rituals. The motions. All of us going through them.
There were no ‘special guests’ as promised. Just
the incessant chug and fug of bass of the dub variety welcoming our hot bodies
to relax and sway. I have always found the irony of the dub workout - the slow and [rock] steady rolls and
rimshot – as a means to generate anger and edge in confined spaces as bass
shakes walls and floors and minds become ever more frayed as the subsonic
shifts moods and moves. And on and on it played. I could feel that filling room
filling up with the feeling that they’d been cheated – if it says guests – then
give us some – because we knew that this PILzone wouldn’t be in effect until
9pm. But somehow through the fleeting appearances of ‘guitar techs’ we knew
that something would ‘appen. So we beared with. We waited.
And then – once his manager/ guard was in place –
stage right, PIL towel down – ready for the masses and the bass –there was John
– all Carharrt camouflage and caterwaul. Not pantomime villain – but well
rehearsed singer. The sounds were shrill and dense – echoing and reverberating
off walls. I had gone fearing that the chorus and shine of the guitar would
distract from the heavy bass bottom end. It didn’t. With Lydon’s scowl and
growl, his scream and shout sitting and swirling in the mix. This was not for
the faint hearted. This is not a long song. This was no easy trawl through the
greatest hits, so far – this was confined space and bass in your face. You
could see the whites of his eyes but we knew he would do us no harm – it’s the
politicians who do that – as he took us out to deeper water and we were happy
to bathe in it. Right until the final electronic sounds of Open Up he meant it.
For real – as it where. There wasn’t a shout for a Pistols tune – we were there for PIL. For this public image of John.
I guess I got lost in all of that – and found
myself bouncing up and down. Wild abandon in North London. No one got hurt. We
police ourselves.
On the tubetrain on the way home – Johnny Cash
arrived to serenade the midnight marauders with his Folsom Prison Blues as two
young punks drank bottled beers and shared their wonder with one another. And
as the train stopped and the Olympic hoards jumped on board - I was struck by the fact that John still
scares people. Clocked by a Team GB aficionado all indignant and self righteous
– he looked at me and cursed in his suburban sounds that ‘he hadn’t seen anyone
like those two fucking wastes of space on the Olympic field’ – trying to draw
me in with a nod and a wink. All Daily Mail headlines – and leader columns –
‘Punks not Patriotic’. It’s if he wanted them to swap anarchy for Team GB. So
he bristled and postured and muttered and he moaned all the while thinking I
agreed but was just less confident to say it. What did he want me to do – lynch
the fuckers?
I simply nodded. See as that other John said – the
one who was vicious (so vicious) 'I’ve met the man on the street – and the man
on the street is a cunt'.
I am an anarchist. Simple as that really. So is
Lydon. It was good to be in his company. It was good to be with like minded
people.
This is not a love song?
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