11:44 AM GMT 21/05/2013
Thirty-five years ago, Sex Pistols were in San Francisco for a show at Winterland (the now-defunct ballroom The Band had picked for The Last Waltz). The gig, on January 14, 1978, was the last night of Sex Pistols' first US tour. Two weeks later came the announcement the band had broken up.
Thinking about that gig - which I was at, along with couple of planesful of Southern California music and media types, since the Pistols' had decided against playing LA - my most vivid memory is a glimpse I caught of Johnny Rotten, Sid Vicious, Steve Jones and Paul Cook backstage. I think it was while the Avengers, one of the two opening bands, were playing. They were sitting slumped around a coffee table laden with glasses, ashtrays and discarded food, crumpled and pale, looking like cigarettes with half the tobacco poked out.
When I dug out the yellowed carbon-undercopy of the report I wrote of the event and started reading, I was surprised at how much I'd since forgotten. Like, for instance, that Britt Ekland was at the post-show party. Let me be the first to say that my piece wouldn't win the Pulitzer Prize for rock journalism, even if there were one. In 1978 I was new to the game. But I do seem to have stayed sober long enough to take a ton of notes. So for anyone interested in that fateful day here it is...
The Sex Pistols in San Francisco by Sylvie Simmons (January, 1978)
Most of the flights from Los Angeles to San Francisco are fully-booked. Undaunted by the Pistols choosing Northern California over the South for their first US tour, punks, poseurs and the press were making the 400-mile trip to check out the action and check out each other - the principle being, if the Sex Pistols won't come to LA, then LA must come to the Sex Pistols.
(Millions of LA TV owners had the Pistols beamed into their living rooms last week - on prime time, no less. A variety programme including other great names of our time, like Barry Manilow and Farrah Fawcett-Majors. Footage of Rotten and co singing Gold Save The Queen met with polite applause from the Moss Brossed audience, description of Her Majesty as "she ain't a human being" met with laughter even. No-one it seems was moved by moral outrage to put his foot through his television screen. These "revolutionaries of rock", said another broadcaster, were originally refused entry into the US for fear they might incite "moral turpitude". So far the Pistols have been protocol itself. When Sid Vicious was hit on the nose by a Texan punkette, he did little more than spit blood at the audience.)
The Miyako Hotel in Japantown is plush, expensive and respectable. It is also within spitting distance of Winterland, tonight's venue. The Pistols are staying here and so is everyone else. The lobby is full of record company executives with punk buttons, and publicists - not all of them from the band's US record label Warner Brothers either - and photographers, dozens of them, from the nationals, locals, mags and fanzines. No pictures, said the Pistols, making the press pay the $4 for their own tickets in a vain attempt to keep them out.
Tonight is the Sex Pistols' last gig in North America, and their biggest of the tour. Bill Graham's Winterland is a tatty white building, once a hippy haunt, now featuring anything from CS&N to The Rods. At the moment Sex Pistols graffiti dominates - the sentiment: fuck the Grateful Dead.
All 5000 tickets have been sold and because the chairs have been removed and entry's on a first-come basis, by afternoon there's a sizeable queue outside the hall. US punks with plastic macs over their Iggy Pop T-shirts and ad hoc punk regalia brave the storm to guarantee a position within gobbing distance of the stage - and to wave at the TV cameras conducting on-the-spot interviews with them for the elucidation of America's parents. (Interesting fact: a promoter estimated only 15-20 per cent of the crowd were real punks; the majority were "just checking it out.")
I joined the queue at 8pm. By the time I was searched and frisked and inside - heavy security tonight, plus police cars patrolling the lines and selecting random punks for individual attention) the first band had been and gone. The place was already full, and if the people in the front 12 rows hadn't been asphyxiated yet it was only through divine intervention. An emcee onstage was organising audience participation by getting all present to give the finger and to recite shock-the-TV-camera phrases such as 'Fuck You' and 'Suck Your Mother'.
Interval. On a screen above the stage is projected Sid Vicious's face, while Sid himself is onstage, plugging in his bass. There's interesting film footage of Pistols quotes and interviews that the blurred sound and vision render almost indecipherable, except for the Today theme tune. The band that everyone talks about knowingly and hardly anyone's seen or heard. Never mind the bollocks, here's the Sex Pistols - and they open with God Save The Queen.
Johnny Rotten is a contortionist. He can sing with his head upside-down, playing Quasimodo, crouched behind the mic like a victim of spinal disease - better than Steve Harley at the rockspastic game. Johnny is really the Sex Pistol that scares old ladies, outrages citizens and upsets Tony Blackburn. He also possesses the most positive/negative stage presence of any rock star ever (and that includes early Mick Jagger). He's as much as a showman as Gary Glitter - but there's something in his eyes, something dangerous - like he knows things.
Added to that, he is really very funny. "You're a queer lot" are his first words to the crowd, encompassing the punks, clean-cut kids and the sexual inclinations of some of the men in the room in one little phrase. The audience seems to have read the reports and studied well how they're supposed to behave, spitting and throwing things. A mini smoke bomb is tossed onstage and Rotten is half hidden in smoke. Someone else jumps onstage and pats Sid on the back before being hauled away. The show has begun.
Seventeen is harsh, defiant, no-frills - musically much more what rock'n'roll is about than the safe middle-of-the-rock that's taken hold of America. It's as subtle as a kick in the balls but this and their - yes - charisma is precisely what makes them such a stunning live band.
The crowd is appreciative though not quite as frenzied as you might expect. They continue to toss hard objects at the stage like kids throwing peanuts at caged monkeys, trying to make them mad enough to rattle the bars. A calm-looking Rotten refuses to be baited, merely commenting, "That's not enough presents. You'll have to throw up something better than that." (A master of double-meaning, this man; in event of another interpretation the staff have already sawdusted much of the floor.) "Can we have a couple of cameras?" asks Vicious with a leer. Back to the music with an animated, venomous version of EMI. The stage now resembles a jumble sale. "I could get rich this way," says Rotten.
The rest of the album follows in no particular order: energetic, outrageous, entertaining, all the things you knew it would be, with JR controlling the crowd and maintaining momentum, with a little help from Sid, who has started a saliva battle in the front row with the help of a can of beer. All arrogance and aggression, he kicks the outstretched fans and - pièce de resistance - blows snot at the front row. The cameras are having a field-day. Someone jumps the stage and Vicious heads towards him with his instrument raised.
"I think it's funny," chortles Johnny. "Do you want your ears blown out some more?" The audience cheers and applauds. "That's a blow to my pride," says Johnny and introduces the next song, "a song about you; it's called Problems." Sid and Steve Jones are leaping around onstage like madmen (at one point Sid falls flat on his face), while Rotten stands still in the middle of then with his arms crossed, looking like Peggy Mount. Can't take your eyes off him. The song ends with a hypnotic, echoed chant.
Next up is Pretty Vacant, a gem. The old spotlight-on-the-crowd bit results in much frenzied pogoing, with a couple at the front getting dangerously close to Rotten, who is smashing the microphone stand into the stage, rhythmically, of course. "Tell us, what's it like to have bad taste?" is his response to the rapturous applause. Final song: Anarchy In The USA. The crowd predictably goes wild. The ultimate live number. What a singer! What a showman! What a show!
They do return - ultimately - for an encore, No Fun. But the sound's going, Rotten's fighting a losing battle with the microphone, managing to spit/growl/scream the song and crouch, crooning at the front-rowers from the edge of the stage. Steve meanwhile is competing with Sid in the gobbing stakes. (Paul Cook, apart from laying down a solid beat, has maintained his reputation as the Quiet One.) It's a long number that seems to stop in mid-air, leaving some perplexed-looking punters. Exit band, Johnny with the parting comment, "Ever had the feeling you've been cheated?" (Whether it was aimed at themselves or the crowd, who knows.)
Word has gone around that there's a party after the show, and there's almost a riot at the backstage door. The Pistols' road manager, scarlet and fuming, is trying to push his way through the crowd. No-one seems to believe he's who he says he is. "This is no way to treat the press" says one unhappy woman in what might be the quote of the evening. Meanwhile Sid is back onstage selecting tonight's groupies from among the punkettes who remained behind when the lights went on and pulling them onto the stage and round the back.
The party is in full swing - popcorn, beer and hot dogs used more as missiles than for their food value. Apart from a brief walk-through appearance with assorted young ladies in tow, the Sex Pistols declined to attend, leaving the spitting, screaming, rioting and general obnoxiousness normally attributed to them to the support act, who seemed to be making the most of the amount of press people looking on and pouring food and drink over whoever got in the way. Someone spotted The Tubes at the party. But without Cook or Jones or Vicious or Rotten, the party fizzled out. Time to go home.
Meanwhile, back at the hotel the cops are everywhere, checking up on the unlikely people pouring through the automatic doors. Downstairs in the bar Britt Ekland - one of the many "in" people who flew up to see the band - is dancing to the Japanese disco band. Steve Jones is propping up the bar. Otherwise not another Pistol in sight - no spewing in the corridors,no spitting in the exotic fish tank, nothing. The next stop on the tour, apparently, is down south in Rio, doing some gigs for the notorious Ronald Biggs. Jones stayed at the bar till 2am, the police stayed all night, and that was that.
Back in LA, the Sex Pistols get the top spot on the evening news: "A motley crew that defies description and are renowned for their grossness hit San Francisco. Some say they're no more than musical morons." There follows some film from the concert - Johnny Rotten leering manically at the camera, the crowd evidently having a good time. The woman newscaster looks bemused and disgusted. Her male colleague finds the episode even more amusing. "Just goes to show," he says, "that beauty isn't everything."
By Sylvie Simmons
Posted by Ross_Bennett at 12:26 PM GMT 28/01/2013