It’s wild, really – the Sex Pistols only ever released one official studio album. Just one. But what a detonation it was. Nearly fifty years later, the blast radius is still visible – even across the globe at Hordern Pavilion this week.
They came out swinging – ‘Holidays in the Sun’, ‘Seventeen’, ‘New York’ – no warm-up, no easing in. Cook walked up to his kit, giving the crowd a casual wave like he was walking into the pub. Matlock moved so stoically but cracked the occasional grin. And Jones – slouched, cool, unbothered – made the whole thing still look effortless. The three of them kept catching each other’s eyes, sharing knowing looks.
Enter Frank Carter. Wild-eyed and grinning like he’d just keyed your car or set something on fire. He didn’t try to mimic Rotten – smart move – but brought his own feral charm. Carter didn’t pay tribute to the Pistols’ brand of anarchy. He added to it, screaming like he meant it, moving like the giant stage was too small for him.
Half a century on, the Sex Pistols are still loud, still barking, and still making a mess. As it should be.
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