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When the Sex Pistols washed up on American shores in Atlanta in January 1978, this newspaper sent a reporter to the scene. Out of professional courtesy, we figured the sporting thing to do was to be on hand when the Pistols washed up again, for their Boston debut, on the first date of their third-ever US tour. The closest the band had come previously was Mansfield in 1996. Who goes to see the Sex Pistols these days? Shortly after 8 p.m. last Wednesday, a woman of indeterminate age, in her 50s perhaps, with dyed-auburn hair and bondage pants, hobbled onto the FleetBoston Pavilion shuttle bus at South Station. Indicating her pants, she said, "These are from ’78." Then Kurt "Yukki Gipe" Davis, the punk-rock singer of Bullet LaVolta and the Konks, stepped on with his two sons, one of whom wore a Sex Pistols shirt that looked older than either of them. At the Pavilion, the Reverend Horton Heat had not quite finished his opening set when Dropkick Murphys fans began their traditional "Let’s go Murphys" hockey chant. The pairing of the Murphys and the Pistols was an odd one no matter how you spin it: the Murphys, after all, believe in punk rock, whereas the Pistols never did. There were more than a few graying heads in the audience, several sporting the yellow Nevermind the Bollocks T-shirts the Pistols were selling at their concession. Yet it was those aging sods who were about to come under fire. "If yer a cranky old bastard who bought a seat up front, Steely Dan’ll be here next week," barked Murphys bassist Ken Casey. "Until then, this is a punk-rock show. Everybody forward!" The youthful elements took him at his word; pandemonium ensued. By the time the Murphys finished their fight song "For Boston," chairs were being ripped out of the floor and passed hand over head. For a few moments, anarchy reigned. A man standing next to me said he hadn’t seen the Murphys before but was looking forward to the Pistols. "I look at this as a cultural event," he said, "like going to see the Mona Lisa." "Either that," I answered, "or a really bad cover band. Could go either way." "It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," he insisted. One can only hope so. "We cannot be stopped!", Rotten crowed as he took the stage; a moment later, the band took a soggy swipe at the opening chords to "Bodies" and then stopped themselves. Unfortunately, they resumed. "First rehearsal," Rotten apologized. "Shall we go again?" Rotten wore parachute pants and a biohazard-logo Pistols tank top; he had flabby granny arms and flashed his old wild-eyed jigsaw smirk. Steve Jones, the guitarist, is shaped like a very fat fireplug; in his designer "chaos" T-shirt, he looked like an innkeeper on holiday who’d had his luggage switched at the airport. Bassist Glen Matlock wore his designer T-shirt tucked into his jeans; jug-eared drummer Paul Cook looks older than Charlie Watts, though he can’t possibly be. What’s to say? That they played every song on Never Mind the Bollocks and it was mostly awful? That lyrics were forgotten, bridges were misplaced, Rotten occasionally lost his place and his breath, and a couple of songs, particularly "Holidays in the Sun" and "God Save the Queen," protested against the unfamiliar keys? Well, what did you expect? "Of course I suck," said Rotten just before getting beaned in the head by a brassiere at the opening of "Submission," "but the difference between me and you is what I suck and what you suck." (Uh, come again?) You could’ve said the Pistols’ version of the Stooges’ "No Fun" — wheezing, uncentered, stumbling — was not bad given their age, but only if you missed the unhinged version performed on the same stage a few months ago by Iggy Pop, who’s much older. "Pretty Vacant" and "No Feelings" were welcome respites of adequacy, and if they’re no longer workable as protest songs, they still make great party anthems in the vein of, say, Twisted Sister’s "We’re Not Gonna Take It." "Whether you like it or not, we’re coming back," said Rotten, appearing for the encore. "Sez here, ‘An Archie in the Ook.’ " Nobody was fooled, but Jones’s guitar gave out, so Rotten led an a cappella sing-along of "Anarchy in the UK"; when he sang, "I use the enemy/I use anarchy," you could’ve been forgiven for thinking he was shilling for a new detergent. In another life, that might’ve been the end, but Rotten, the cranky old bastard, is at long last an entertainer. "This is stupid," he said in Jones’s general direction. "Don’t be a wanker. Just play." And there was "Anarchy," if not anarchy, and it was almost enough.
BY CARLY CARIOLI
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