Post by Fuggle on Aug 4, 2007 16:37:45 GMT -5
Our Intrepid Reporter Emerges Without A Scratch From A Parley With The Sex Pistols Front Man And His Jeweller Bodyguard
Warren Kinsella
National Post
Monday, July 30, 2007
Johnny Rotten and his friend (and bodyguard) Rambo moved up the stairs, muttering to each other, while I followed, uneasy, wondering which hospital I was about to be shipped to.
Our last get-together on Canadian soil had not gone particularly well. Following a bizarre speech at the North by Northeast music conference in Toronto, Rotten and I had gotten into a very heated argument. We glared at each other. We swore at each other. Rambo looked like he was readying to beat me silly.
At the time, I had been appalled by the seeming hypocrisy of this hero of my adolescent years. In his shambolic "speech," the former and current Sex Pistols front man had railed against the United States, calling it "the new Russia" -- despite the fact that he has lived in sunny California for two decades. He proclaimed indifference to his lack of a record contract -- but then admitted that he wouldn't mind being offered one during his layover in the Great White North. He declared that there was "no point" in penning new material for the Pistols -- but then made certain to inform the adoring crowd that the reunited punk legends were appearing in Toronto in a few weeks time.
And so on and so on. It was quite depressing, particularly for an ageing punk whose life had been forever changed by the Pistols' 1977 masterwork, Never Mind the Bollocks. Thus my bad mood, and thus the nasty argument, all chronicled in my book about punk, Fury's Hour. Rotten, I was told by not a few, did not like me or my book. At all.
Thus my unease as I followed Rotten and Rambo up the dim stairs at a Toronto entertainment district eatery. If Rambo had revenge and mayhem planned, now was certainly the time. In true George Plimpton fashion, I told myself that a vicious beating would make for a splendid article, if nothing else. (The possibility had certainly occurred to my long-time editor, Access magazine's Keith Sharp, who giggled at the prospect.)
But the beating did not come. As Rambo hovered nearby, occasionally lighting the cigarettes Rotten puffed in cheerful defiance of Toronto's strict no-smoking bylaws, Rotten and I -- to our mutual surprise, I suspect -- had a good chat. We enjoyed each other's company, actually.
In planning the interview, I had elected to pursue a novel course. Instead of asking Rotten questions he has heard hundreds of times, I sought out questions from regular readers of my Web site, www.warrenkinsella.com.
Rotten was delighted by such an approach, as things turned out.
I started with a question from Craig T. Monroe about whether there is a punk scene anymore. Rotten, who mainly created punk, didn't blink.
"I've never been involved in a scene of any kind," he sniffed. "I'm the lead singer and writer with the Sex Pistols. There were all these other bands at the time we got started. There was no scene. It was an ob-scene. It's a lot of palaver, this notion that there was a scene."
Also from Munroe, then: Was he still the Antichrist, as he famously sang in Anarchy in the U.K.? He puffed, straight-faced. "I would never call myself the Antichrist."
I tried another tack, using a question from Paul A. Canniff and recalling a lyric from the Pistols' only No. 1 British hit, God Save the Queen. Is England "still dreaming," as he sang 30 years ago?
Said Rotten: "It's a country in a world that is still dreaming. This dreaming is what has gotten us all into Iraq. The politicians recognized our need to be deceived, to present an image. It's really time you made a decision, then, don't you think?"
He regarded me with a baleful gaze. I carried on, determined to avoid fisticuffs, by asking him what Mike Lowrie had suggested. Did he, er, like cheese? Rotten was unfazed by this utterly transparent attempt to knock him off his stride. "I am particularly fond of toe cheese," he said. "It makes for a good meal."
Um, OK. Larry Maxwell, too, had a food question. Could Rotten flatten a bottle of HP Sauce? Rotten gave the faintest grin; he was enjoying himself. "I don't believe in simply wasting food for show business," said he. Even Rambo guffawed at that one.
Winnipeg's Steve Teller had a good one to suggest: What would Johnny Rotten, circa 1977, think of John Lydon (Rotten's real name), circa 2007?
"I'm the same," Rotten/Lydon said. "Your essential character doesn't change. I'm 51 years old, and I don't feel the slightest bit ashamed about it. I'm proud to be in my fifties."
But is he, as Christopher Marlowe queried, a pop star in his fifties?
Rotten looked as if he was about to upchuck. "I hope not!" he exclaimed. "It's not my decision, anyway. I can't advise people as to whether I, or anyone else, is a star. Although I'd be very pissed off to be that."
He paused and regarded Rambo, then me. He was in a good mood. "You just need to do the best you can. Be honest. Always keep your mind open."
It seemed as good a place as any to conclude, so we did. I snapped a funny picture of Rotten on my cellphone camera, Rambo showed me some of his handmade jewellery (it's quite good), and the pair ambled off, proclaiming the interview a success. It had been enjoyable, they said.
To my considerable surprise, I agreed. Loping out into the Toronto night, I examined my limbs. All intact. No beating, no trip to the hospital. Maybe next time, maaaaan. - Warren Kinsella's book about the punk movement, Fury's Hour, was published by Random House.
Warren Kinsella
National Post
Monday, July 30, 2007
Johnny Rotten and his friend (and bodyguard) Rambo moved up the stairs, muttering to each other, while I followed, uneasy, wondering which hospital I was about to be shipped to.
Our last get-together on Canadian soil had not gone particularly well. Following a bizarre speech at the North by Northeast music conference in Toronto, Rotten and I had gotten into a very heated argument. We glared at each other. We swore at each other. Rambo looked like he was readying to beat me silly.
At the time, I had been appalled by the seeming hypocrisy of this hero of my adolescent years. In his shambolic "speech," the former and current Sex Pistols front man had railed against the United States, calling it "the new Russia" -- despite the fact that he has lived in sunny California for two decades. He proclaimed indifference to his lack of a record contract -- but then admitted that he wouldn't mind being offered one during his layover in the Great White North. He declared that there was "no point" in penning new material for the Pistols -- but then made certain to inform the adoring crowd that the reunited punk legends were appearing in Toronto in a few weeks time.
And so on and so on. It was quite depressing, particularly for an ageing punk whose life had been forever changed by the Pistols' 1977 masterwork, Never Mind the Bollocks. Thus my bad mood, and thus the nasty argument, all chronicled in my book about punk, Fury's Hour. Rotten, I was told by not a few, did not like me or my book. At all.
Thus my unease as I followed Rotten and Rambo up the dim stairs at a Toronto entertainment district eatery. If Rambo had revenge and mayhem planned, now was certainly the time. In true George Plimpton fashion, I told myself that a vicious beating would make for a splendid article, if nothing else. (The possibility had certainly occurred to my long-time editor, Access magazine's Keith Sharp, who giggled at the prospect.)
But the beating did not come. As Rambo hovered nearby, occasionally lighting the cigarettes Rotten puffed in cheerful defiance of Toronto's strict no-smoking bylaws, Rotten and I -- to our mutual surprise, I suspect -- had a good chat. We enjoyed each other's company, actually.
In planning the interview, I had elected to pursue a novel course. Instead of asking Rotten questions he has heard hundreds of times, I sought out questions from regular readers of my Web site, www.warrenkinsella.com.
Rotten was delighted by such an approach, as things turned out.
I started with a question from Craig T. Monroe about whether there is a punk scene anymore. Rotten, who mainly created punk, didn't blink.
"I've never been involved in a scene of any kind," he sniffed. "I'm the lead singer and writer with the Sex Pistols. There were all these other bands at the time we got started. There was no scene. It was an ob-scene. It's a lot of palaver, this notion that there was a scene."
Also from Munroe, then: Was he still the Antichrist, as he famously sang in Anarchy in the U.K.? He puffed, straight-faced. "I would never call myself the Antichrist."
I tried another tack, using a question from Paul A. Canniff and recalling a lyric from the Pistols' only No. 1 British hit, God Save the Queen. Is England "still dreaming," as he sang 30 years ago?
Said Rotten: "It's a country in a world that is still dreaming. This dreaming is what has gotten us all into Iraq. The politicians recognized our need to be deceived, to present an image. It's really time you made a decision, then, don't you think?"
He regarded me with a baleful gaze. I carried on, determined to avoid fisticuffs, by asking him what Mike Lowrie had suggested. Did he, er, like cheese? Rotten was unfazed by this utterly transparent attempt to knock him off his stride. "I am particularly fond of toe cheese," he said. "It makes for a good meal."
Um, OK. Larry Maxwell, too, had a food question. Could Rotten flatten a bottle of HP Sauce? Rotten gave the faintest grin; he was enjoying himself. "I don't believe in simply wasting food for show business," said he. Even Rambo guffawed at that one.
Winnipeg's Steve Teller had a good one to suggest: What would Johnny Rotten, circa 1977, think of John Lydon (Rotten's real name), circa 2007?
"I'm the same," Rotten/Lydon said. "Your essential character doesn't change. I'm 51 years old, and I don't feel the slightest bit ashamed about it. I'm proud to be in my fifties."
But is he, as Christopher Marlowe queried, a pop star in his fifties?
Rotten looked as if he was about to upchuck. "I hope not!" he exclaimed. "It's not my decision, anyway. I can't advise people as to whether I, or anyone else, is a star. Although I'd be very pissed off to be that."
He paused and regarded Rambo, then me. He was in a good mood. "You just need to do the best you can. Be honest. Always keep your mind open."
It seemed as good a place as any to conclude, so we did. I snapped a funny picture of Rotten on my cellphone camera, Rambo showed me some of his handmade jewellery (it's quite good), and the pair ambled off, proclaiming the interview a success. It had been enjoyable, they said.
To my considerable surprise, I agreed. Loping out into the Toronto night, I examined my limbs. All intact. No beating, no trip to the hospital. Maybe next time, maaaaan. - Warren Kinsella's book about the punk movement, Fury's Hour, was published by Random House.
....little Pugnacious Servant Boy 
I love the interviewers that write with a more personal flavor/sense of humor, and especially the ones that mention Rammy and what he is doing/his interaction with John during the interview