Frank Carter and Sex Pistols are two artists who don’t need any introduction in the slightest. Last month saw the punk legends join forces for three fundraising gigs for independent venue, London’s Bush Hall. And to the surprise of no-one, demand saw them announce some more dates to take the spectacle across the UK (well, England and Scotland). Featuring the OGs of Steve Jones, Paul Cook and Glen Matlock, the only original Pistol missing from these shows is John Lydon given he’s went a bit, well… weird (even by his standards). So, if you’re going to replace a ginger Cockney, you may as well replace him with another ginger Cockney who happens to be one of the best frontmen of his generation. Indeed, when news first broke of this collaboration, you immediately realise how much sense the pairing is.
Adding to the lack of surprise on this tour is it selling out inside an hour and upon arrival at Nottingham’s legendary Rock City, everyone is jammed in like sardines and there’s not a prayer of getting any closer than a couple of feet past the doors. Everyone wants to be here to witness what is virtually guaranteed to be a special night. Likely to be one of the hottest support slots this country has had for a long time, tonight sees The Molotovs have the honour of warming up the Friday night crowd. And you have to respect the decision to bring in some new blood rather than some old has-beens from the headliner’s era. The band pull from the snottiness of 70s punk and add saucerful of early 00s indie without the pretension.
They’re as energetic as a five-year-old who’s mainlined Sunny D from the late 90s. There’s not much talking and intend to make the most of the night, the crowd picking up on what they’re putting down and makes them play harder. Whilst their punchy original material is going down a storm, it’s their churlish interpretation of “Suffragette City” which is the highlight of the night. Unfazed by the pressure of tonight, they seize the initiative and know how to make their mark on the night, and it would be apt if they headlined bigger stages off the back of this.
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Three quarters of the Sex Pistols and a Rattlesnake take to the stage for an hour and change of punk rock fury. Three quarters of the men on stage made the blueprint for it and the album released in the original short-lived run is still held (rightly so) in high regard. As advertised, Frank Carter and Sex Pistols run through Never Mind the Bollocks in its entirety with a few extras for good measure. And what follows is a chance for those assembled to relive their youth or those too young a chance to see through time. Regardless of the various generations in the room, we’re all here to witness history take place tonight. And it’s a joyous piece.
The music may not disgust the masses in 2024 and have them clutching their pearls and nor likely would the lyrics. However, it does border on tragedy that these songs are just as relevant forty-seven years down the line, if not, more so now. There’s heavier punk and there’s better punk bands out there but it’s the magic of seeing Messrs Jones, Cook and Matlock which makes tonight so damn good. Because there’s that shared experience and bonds they have of almost fifty years which makes tonight transcendent. They’re playing as if they never stopped, and the chemistry is plain for all to see.
With “Holidays in the Sun”, “Seventeen” and “New York” kicking off the hour, the songs sound as potent as they did in 1977 with much of that credit going to Carter as he barks and spits venom in his own style, not trying to imitate Lydon but his own drawling vocal style is a perfect fit. He’s not quite as energetic or as intimidating as he is during his sets with The Rattlesnakes but he digs into something different, at least for the first part of the evening. Acting more as master of ceremonies, from start to finish, he knows his place. But once “Satellite” comes which he performs it in the middle of a circle pit, complete with standing on the crowd (a favourite move of Carter’s), and he’s back on the stage, he’s just that pit more primal. Whilst he’s got great camaraderie with the Pistols, it never gels together as a full band, it’s still the Sex Pistols with Frank Carter and it goes unspoken that’s what the situation is but that aside, they still manage to give people an incredible night which more than lives up to the expectation of the billing.
Steve Jones is workmanlike on his infamous Les Paul and whilst his work on the Neurotic Outsiders album may be more interesting, it’s this material which made him famous as chunky, powerful chords incite the crowd. By the time “Bodies” hits, the crowd is positively unglued, every song a relentless assault. “God Save the Queen” still sneers with its acerbic anti-monarchy sentiment and whilst it may be one of the most famous songs played tonight, there’s people all around singing every song word perfect. The early appearance of “Pretty Vacant” has Carter remarking “I still can’t believe I get to sing these songs.” And from the roars in the crowd, it would appear he’s won their approval because when all is said and done, he really is the best choice for this.
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Glen Matlock cuts a cool figure throughout the show and when the band re-appear for their encore, he noncalantly combs his hair – as you do. He’s got some meaty basslines which snarl and thrum, making it look as effortless as making a cup of tea. It adds an extra threatening layer to the music, more subtle than Jones’ contributions but it’s there – much like when only a look is enough to shut someone up. Matlock locks in perfectly with Paul Cook’s machine-gun like drumming. It’s almost hypnotic to watch someone who’s pushing seventy knock his kit around with the energy of a person half his age. But he does it with ease and the songs sound as forceful as they did in the 70s. While the concept of an encore is outdated in 2024, when you’re this band, you’ve got the opportunity to do it in style. There’s a cover of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” as way of dedication to Sid Vicious without mentioning him (tonight is all about positivity and a celebration) and Carter croons it with enough rasp to give it the menacing tone it deserves. And, of course, the night ends on the highest possible high – “Anarchy in the UK”. It’s as explosive as ever, beckoning those in the crowd to break off their shackles and with that, were this a seated show, is where the standing ovation would take place. It’s a victory lap for a night which more than lives up to the promise.
Tonight doesn’t feel like a cynical cash-grab to top up the retirement fund. It feels like four friends getting together to play for the sheer love of it. Indeed, it would be a shame for this to be the only time it happened but if it did, at least we can say we got it once. And if they were to decide to do this every year or eighteen months, you could guarantee the rooms would be just as packed with people of all ages. The music has endured as has the band, functioning better now than it did back in the seventies and is likely the closest we will ever get to a “proper” Sex Pistols show. Though, of course, if John Lydon does find himself short of cash, he could always get his act together. Or do another advert for butter.
