| | nded in Milwaukee with Tim, my best friend from college. August 18th found my friend Tim and
I at the Rave, a rundown club near downtown Milwaukee to see the Sex
Pistols. We'd waited 20 years and, even without all the beer we drank
before the concert, were ready to rock. After uninspired and mercifully
short sets by warm-ups Goldfinger and Gravity Kills, the Pistols took the
stage. With little fanfare, the band kicked into "Bodies;" and the
unmistakable blitzkrieg sound of the greatest fucking band in the world was
back twenty years later after their aborted American tour with a vengeance.
Rrrrrrrright! Now!
Hundreds of slam-dancing pogoers elevated the temperature in the hall from
stiflingly hot to that of blast furnace intensity. Alcohol didn't cool us
off; it just helped stoke the frenzy on a dance floor awash in spilt beer
and sweat. Pulled into the fiery mosh pit by the vacuum of those leaving
to catch their breath, we not so much passed as slid stripped-to-the-waist
teenagers toward the stage, their sweat-covered bodies slipping overhead as
if on some well-oiled conveyor belt. The crowd was made up of all kinds:
12-year old grade schoolers with their folks; unemployable 20-somethings
with spiked hair and tattoos that crawled down the back of their necks
under NIN T-shirts; and middle-aged, overweight fans in Green Bay Packer
jerseys who, without asking, would tell you that they were there at the
beginning and still have all the import singles.
Let's rock, Rotten and pals said, and no one was disappointed. The world's most dangerous band was back with a vengeance to reclaim it's title and wasted little time doing it. With Cook
and Matlock anchoring the group, Jones was free to pose,
rock-star style, his hand running up and down the fret. And, then there
was, Johnny; what a freak show. Sporting
an impressive two-tone hairdo, he prowled the stage, spitting and growling
at the audience when we didn't respond. He lurched back and forth in
some weird dance step that said, hey, here is a guy who very ate
lead-based paint chips as a child.
As for the songs, hey played all the ones that count: "Anarchy..., Pretty
Vacant, Holidays..." and everything in between, following the track list of
the searing "Filthy Lucre Live." And don't let anyone tell you that these
geezers can't rock; they can and they did. Everyone was dancing. And
everyone knew all the words.
The concert came to a jarring halt during "Liar" when some fat, long-haired
geezer knocked Rotten down, causing him to hideously scrape his forearm.
"Sorry about that," he said, and the band immediately launched into "God
Save the Queen." Blood oozed from his wound for the rest of the show.
For a solid hour, drunk out of our minds, bent from the heat, our hearts
about to explode, we danced. What a fucking great time! |
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