Live Review

My grand finale. My good bye. Public Image. Goodbye. And with that John Lydon thanked us all for our forty quids, told us that was all we were getting and bid us a cheery farewell. In many respects, it was no more than we should have expected. The artist formerly known as Johnny Rotten had, after all, appeared on TV trash Im A Celebrity, gone ape on the Discovery Channel , advertised butter whilst dressed as a country squire and, once more, dragged the sorry, rotting carcass of the Sex Pistols onto various festival stages as recently as last year in search of the filthy lucre he once seemed to so despise. What was perhaps surprising, though, was the fact that he was telling us all this after only just one song.

He was, of course, merely joking and whilst he probably doesnt take his public persona that seriously, what he does do is the music of Public Image Ltd. This is clearly his musical first love and for the ensuing two hours we are truly privileged to be part of this intense, torrid affair. Music years ahead of its time and one which the era has still to catch up, it screams such fierce emotion with its taut, angular, fragmented guitar, thundering, claustrophobic dub rhythms and Lydons twisting and turning voice as they play just about everything you could possibly want to hear from the opening Public Image to the concluding Open Up. In between there is Careering and Poptones, the last two elements in an opening three burst salvo which you would have laid odds on closing the show, but such is the assurance of the man he chooses to open with them. Then there is Annelisa and Religion II from the bands debut album and also Albatross, Memories and Chant, reinvigorated and re-invented from The Metal Box. Purists may well argue that without Jah Wobble and Keith Levene this cannot possibly be the real PiL, but the presence of other former members Lu Edmonds and Bruce Smith, ably assisted by Scott Firth give lie to any such ridiculous assertion.

Appearing on stage for the first time in seventeen years (this is the second of a seven night tour), Lydons snarling, sneering presence, part Rotten, part Frankie Howard, but never less than totally committed throughout convinces that he is clearly not just in it only for the money. He may well play the pantomime villain, gargling Martell brandy from the bottle and spitting it straight back out and exchanging puerile banter with the audience. He also inhales a throat spray between songs and stalks the stage during them like a man possessed, in his ridiculously outsize checked rust shirt and spiky red hair looking every inch a caricature of his former self. Yet this music undoubtedly means everything to him. By the end of Rise (the second of three encores which he heralds by saying he is just off to have a fag, break the law and if we want him back just to let him know) he is practically out on his feet such is the energy he has expended. However, he rallies for one last hurrah, a rousing, triumphal finale of Open Up. Burn Hollywood burn, he exhorts. This was the best gig of the year by a country life mile. It may even have been the best gig of the decade. God bless John Lydon. Let us treasure this national treasure for he has not burnt out, sold out nor has he faded away.