Sex Pistols – with Gravity Kills at Great Woods – Review

Sex Pistols

at Great Woods
by Nik Rainey

Yeah, okay, I was cynical too. The Sex Pistols‘ reunion concert was a predictably prized quantity around here, and I fought vehemently and clawed my share of faces to be handed the plum. Not because I wanted to reminisce about ’77 (I was eight and the only impact they made was to cause me to giggle uncontrollably when I heard their name on the radio) or because I expected any kind of musical epiphany, but because I was utterly convinced that it would be hilariously pathetic. I was looking for a rancid slice of sociology to serve up on a plate of jaded screed.

I mean, they blew their blessed cred, right? Betrayed everything punk stands for and flushed away their integrity in a whirlpool of cash, didn’t they? It’s enough to make a True Punk blush in vicarious shame until his face matches the color of his mohawk. Even as Mrs. Rainey and I pulled in to Great Woods’ parking lot, we were still chuckling over what were surely the dribbles of incongruity presaging the riptide of absurdity that would be that evening. The lot was half-empty, for starters. I began thinking the headline of the piece should be “What If They Gave A White Riot But Nobody Came?” but decided to save it for Combat Schlock: The Clash Reunion Tour and Jowly Revolutionary Sideshow next year (mark my words, it’s coming). The missus and I looked at each other, unable to wipe the grins off our faces. “This is pretty sad,” we both said.

We scored our V.I.P. tix , took our seats (tenth row center – cheers, TVT), and waited. Gravity Kills were in mid-set as we arrived, doing their best to rouse the crowd with their quasi-industrial slap-and-tickle. Nine Inch Nails comparisons are, perhaps, inevitable, especially since they utilized the same kind of swivel keyboard that Reznor’s boys use, but GK was nice and gruff in ways that NIN is not. Good stuff if that’s yer meat. “Make some fucking noise, Boston!” the lead singer commanded. Few responded. Guess he didn’t realize that he was actually in Mansfield.

After a short break filled with bizarre Eurodisco on the sound system, the lights dimmed, a sheet of circa-’77 anti-Pistols headlines unravelled behind the stage, and suddenly I remembered what all the fuss was about in the first place. Johnny Rotten-Lydon, Esq. , looking for all the world like a mutated Troll doll in patchwork Gap for Yobs gear, heralded the throng: “Helllooo, boys and girls!!!” and his erstwhile colleagues and he kicked right in with “Bodies.” A great choice for an opener – there are few others in the early-punk canon that compare for sheer bloody-minded bile, and when we all joined in on the most nihilistic couplet ever penned by a major band (“Fuck this and fuck that/ Fuck it all and fuck the fucking brrrrat!”), the effect was bizarrely inspiring. Unreconstituted hatred as mass affirmation – let’s see Kiss pull that off.

And from that beginning, yes, it was bliss. They may be old has-beens, they may indeed have only done it for the money, and they may have played almost the exact same set as their Filthy Lucre Live (Virgin) album, but hey, it’s those guys playing those songs, every one a classic and not a speck of filler. Johnny may have had to turn away at least once every song to splash his face with ice water and his vocals were a trifle on the ragged side (though the harsh tenor actually made songs like “Liar” even more, ah, vicious), yet his gleefully abrasive personality serves him well the further into decrepitude he goes. (He spent the breaks between three consecutive songs tongue-lashing a gobber from the pit, finally emptying his water bottle over the misguided putz’s head. I’ll take that over the regular “pleeeassseee don’t mosh” alterna-whine any day.) The band was superb, tight without a hint of legend-coasting apathy – Steve Jones, particularly, can consider himself absolved for all the metal-fatigue music he’s spent the last fifteen years playing. (Love the Gothic-lettered “MONEY” tattoo on his back – you can’t say these guys lack the strength of their convictions.) So, in summation, I guess you can pretty much moot all those outraged Internet postings and ‘zine sneers – to paraphrase another recently-reanimated Jurassic punk: they invented it, they took it back over. Or, to put it another way: Ever had the feeling you’ve been… you know… whatever the opposite of cheated is?