By Thurston Moore
The fact that the Sex Pistols blew off New York City on their ’78 tour to focus on the Deep South and beyond was a remarkable move by Malcolm McLaren, but it really bummed us starving, 20-year-old, New Wave, no-wave punkoids. When the Pistols died a crummy death at San Francisco’s Winterland, it was seemingly all over. Almost within a day of hearing about it, there was an ad in the Voice for Sid Vicious and His Crew at Max’s Kansas City. There was no question, we were going. The place was jammed, drunk, and smoked out. Sid, with the New York Dolls’ Walter Lure and Jerry Nolan (holding Nancy Spungen’s hand, yow!), a drummer named Steve Dior, and on guitar, the amazing Mick Jones from the Clash! And the Clash hadn’t even played that first mind-blowing Palladium gig yet. They assembled behind the curtain, and Sid stuck his head through it and gave us the almighty Sid wink, and we knew it was gonna be fun! The curtain opened and Mick Jones led the band through primal Dolls and Pistols originals, as well as fifties juvenile-delinquent punk-rock classics (“C’mon Everybody,” “Somethin’ Else”). Nancy was playing (kinda) tambourine. The audience went ballistic. Every chair and table got crushed, with people spitting and throwing drinks. Just pure mania. French guys were pointing their fingers to the stage: “Seed Veeshus! Seed!” After the first song, some girl yelled “I love you,” to which Sid retorted, “Shut your fucking mouth, you stupid fucking cunt!” I’d seen bands get spit on, and the bands would usually scowl or, worse, complain. Sid spit back! You could see his goobers spelunking in French punks’ eyeballs! This had to be waaay better than any ol’ Sex Pistols gig, this was the flower and the poison in one glorious crash and burn. We left on fire, knowing we had witnessed punk-rock history. We were singed by it.
από εδώ. [Photo: Ebet Roberts/Getty Images]