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Rotten is as rotten does. John Lydon — a.k.a. Sex Pistol Johnny
Rotten — proves just how punk (or not) he really is.
WORDS BY WARREN KINSELLA
PHOTO BY KAREN PACE
Johnny Rotten, né John Joseph Lydon, is slouching at
the podium at the Holiday Inn on King Street West in Toronto, and holding
forth on his humble beginnings. He sips on a bottle of mineral water,
his bleached-blonde head tucked to the side.
“I come from the lowest kind of s**t you can
imagine,” says Johnny, who is wearing a black designer T-shirt,
baggy black pants and shiny new pair of black Adidas that retail for
about $200. He is nearly fifty and takes his step-grandchildren to Disneyland.
But he sounds genuinely outraged.
“Working class British. And it’s worse when
you are Irish,” adds Johnny, who is the eldest son of a crane driver
from County Galway, but is present today with a bodyguard, a group of
hangers-on, and a small army of publicists. He gets plenty of questions
about his first musical dalliance, the Sex Pistols, and a few queries
about his long-time project, Public Image Limited. But, mostly, Johnny
prefers to talk about himself.
His audience of 200, assembled at the “keynote
address” of the 2003 North By Northeast Music and Film Festival,
applauds his every utterance. Encountering no dissent, Johnny warms
to his poverty-and-suffering theme. Declares he: “In this world,
there are no handouts. None. Read your fine print. It’s all right
there. Don’t just leave it up to your manager. That’s a major
mistake. And I know that one, alright. You have to do it yourself. You
really have to.” More applause, more mineral water.
Looking on impassively from the sidelines is someone
Lydon does not identify: his big-shot Los Angeles manager, Larry Einbund,
whose office is just a little bit West of Beverly Hills. They travelled
to Toronto together – the pair of them and the bodyguard, who is
referred to as “Rambo.” Johnny may say that the aspiring musicians
present shouldn’t “just leave it up to [their] manager,”
but – to put a fine point on it – he does. All interview requests
must be vetted by Larry; on this trip, only major daily newspapers generally
get the nod.
An older cameraman from CBC television, who is well-known
in Toronto as one of the kindest and friendliest media people around,
attempts to ask Johnny a question that has not been approved in advance
by his manager. Johnny sneers at the man, who is overweight, and calls
him “fatty.” The crowd erupts in derisive laughter; the man
looks ashamed. Says Johnny: “You don’t deserve an answer.”
He looks proud of himself.
Twenty-five years after an emaciated, feral Johnny
Rotten snarled that he was the anti-Christ on the Sex Pistols’
astonishing song ‘Anarchy in the UK’, John Lydon – as
he now refers to himself – also looks rather well-to-do. He has
had his own television and radio shows (all failures, all cancelled);
he appears on talk shows to expound on his world view (he was virtually
a regular on the popular ‘Politically Incorrect’); and his
web site, www.john-lydon.com,
sells his CDs, obscure Hollywood movies in which he has had bit parts,
and his autobiography, ‘Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs’.
The book was remaindered long ago, but Johnny has made certain that
copies are available for sale at his “speech,” for $20, including
GST.
To say that Johnny Rotten, former anti-Christ, has
become John Lydon, utter hypocrite, would not go over well with this
adoring audience. But a hypocrite he is, without much doubt. He sneers
at the United States of America, calling it “the new Russia.”
But he lives there, and has for many years. He declares that he doesn’t
have a record deal – “and I don’t care,” he sniffs
– but then he later allows that he would like to be offered one
whilst in Canada. He says there is “no point” in offering
new Sex Pistols material – then takes care to remind everyone that
the band is appearing in Toronto at the end of August.
He repeatedly pronounces that he is above politics,
and insists that we need to “break down these barriers that we
keep f**king putting between us” – and then, a few minutes
later, he mocks black people, suggesting that both they and their music
come from “the jungle.” On that single occasion does the audience
grow noticeably silent. And so on.
He goes on like that for 45 minutes or so, then adjourns
the proceedings to sign copies of his autobiography. The line-up stretches
around the room.
The author, having been unsuccessful in persuading
Einbund to permit a 20-minute interview, steps up. He tells the former
Sex Pistol that he had sent a bottle of champagne to his room on the
slender hope that such transparent flattery would result in an interview.
John Lydon sneers. “Oh, you’re the one who sent that cheap
s**t,” he says, apparently unimpressed by the $150 of champagne
sent his way.
This writer can contain himself no longer. “Too
bad. You’re the one staying at the cheap, shitty hotel.”
The former Johnny Rotten signs another autograph,
pauses, then says: “Well, you can’t have your cheap, shitty
interview, then.”
It could be said that, after a couple hours in a room
with the hypocrite named John Lydon, no interview is now needed at all,
but that would be redundant. The anti-Christ permits his bodyguard to
light his cigarette, then turns his attention to the next autograph-seeker.
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