Anger is an Energy: My Life Uncensored (53 page)

The set went on, and I could see other bouncers still trying to get onstage and at that point apparently the band just stopped. The gig was over, it was going to turn into chaos and they left,
but I was totally unaware and carried on singing . . . at least I thought it was singing, but in all honesty, I was croaking. Eventually Rambo came up and tapped me on the shoulder, and goes,
‘Er, John, the band have left the stage, they’ve all gone home’. Oh! Gig over. The band had literally gone back to the hotel in the tour van and left us with no way out. So he and
I stayed and watched Leftfield and had a good chat with Neneh Cherry and a few others backstage. When we finally got back to the hotel at about 5 a.m., the police were there, and wanted to
interview me over the incident. We informed them of what our contract stipulated, and that was it, no case to answer.

Some of the gigs were spectacular. Others were ridiculous and weird, with cold indifference from the audience. Any time we played behind the old iron curtain was sensational, but you
wouldn’t be getting anything like that kind of joy and celebration of a gig in, say, Switzerland. It would be back to, ‘What do you think you’re doing, then, go on, I dare you,
entertain me.’

Still, I got to wear some fantastic outfits. I went onstage as Pinnochio in Japan. I turned up in a bright yellow/green skintight see-through top, with my nipples showing, and red braces,
extremely short shorts, big curled-up-toe shoes like Aladdin, and
an undersized red trilby, looking insane. The band went, ‘Oh my God, that’s not punk!’
‘Yes, it is, if I say so!’ Again, the audience go, ‘Oh my God.’ The Japanese are all dressed up, ‘punky’ style’, in what they think we’d currently be
wearing. But clothes are to have fun with. Don’t judge me by my clothes, judge me by the clothes I choose and why I choose them and know that’s about something. It’s audacity. The
clothes ultimately shouldn’t matter at all, but they
a
re
great fun. It’s absolutely hilarious to me that clothes can distract people away from what’s really going
on. And that’s how you sort the wheat from the chaff.

In Japan, I’d be throwing bananas into the crowd that I’d autographed, and the band took that very personally, that I was ridiculing the name of the Sex Pistols. Bloody hell, I was
only having some fun. The crowd loved it. They literally went bananas. I was told some of them even tried to find a way of preserving their signed Johnny Rotten bananas!

Some of the best times I’ve ever had were on that Japanese tour with Rambo. We were there for four weeks – a long time in a small country. We played a load of gigs, including a
couple at the Budokan in Tokyo, but we had plenty of days off. I’m not a keen walker, but Rambo had me out wandering the streets. We met this mob of Japanese skinheads. It looked like,
‘Oh, is this going to go wrong’, but no, absolutely the friendliest chaps. Sometimes language isn’t a barrier. A smile speaks volumes.

We travelled everywhere by bullet train, which was a pleasure every single time. You have a nice view, and you get there quick. Occasionally there’d be two or three days off, and you can
get stifled out there. Our hotel in Tokyo had thousands of rooms in two enormous towers, and what felt like an underground city of shops and arcades down below.

Rambo came up with the idea of going to a traditional Japanese hotel, so we two gathered ourselves together and took the train to Kyoto, where we’d booked this little place run by
middle-aged geishas. It basically was a granny’s house, but with
tatami mats. It was very other-worldly, very other-century. Nothing like couches or chairs anywhere
– it was all kneeling on the floor at very low tables, and being plied with sake
relentlessly
.

Yet again I’m forced to go out by Johnny Rambo, probably a little the worse for wear, but sake is a very energetic kind of drinking. It gives you a creative buzz, shall we say. So out
‘walkies’ we went in Kyoto, and came across a nightclub which, it transpired, was holding a punk night. ‘Right, let’s go in ’ere,’ says Rambo. ‘I
don’t think that’s a good idea, John, I’m currently touring with the Sex Pistols, we don’t know where that could go.’ ‘That’s all the more
reason.’

It was fantastic, from start to finish. When we first went in, they were actually showing Pistols videos, but it was very quiet, and people were very polite. In Japan, they don’t just rush
at you straight away and poke autograph books under your nose. They give you time, they wait for you to give them the signal – the signal being, I just looked over, and here they came like a
herd of Japanese buffalo! Suddenly the DJ went bonkers and stuck a safety pin through his cheek, and everyone went crazy on the dance floor. I was signing people’s bodies, signing their
shirts, signing the bar.

None of it seemed show-offy or pop-starry, it all had a great element of fun and naturalness about it. It was one of those evenings where Rambo doesn’t have to be on guard because there
were no nasties in the house. There was no one wanting to stick a knife in your back or screw things up out of jealousy. The most perfect evening, the kind of thing you live for.

Back at the hotel, we were promptly ushered to our separate rooms, and shared our stories in the morning of how we were put to bed. We both had similarly horrible experiences – for me, I
was practically stripped naked and pushed into the bath, which of course was too small for me, and then the same thing in the morning. They must stand outside with an earhorn, or have you on video,
because the second you get up to go to the toilet, in they rush, roll up your bed, that’s it, it’s morning, it’s breakfast time Japanese style!

When we played at the Budokan, there was an after-gig meal laid on by the promoter. The place he picked was a fugu restaurant. This we didn’t know instantly: we
were expecting a Japanese menu, but initially it seemed to be what I call ‘Catering by Motörhead’ – cold soggy French fries and burgers. I was looking for sushi on the menu,
but then I spotted fugu on there. Now I was well aware of the dangers of that – poisonous pufferfish! I’d never had it in my life, but was soon persuading Mr Rambo that’s what we
should be sampling instead of stale buns.

Now, it’s not only that it’s deadly and it can kill you, the taste of that stuff is horrid! It’s even worse when it goes down, as it leaves an – urgh – inexplicably
bad taste. Not harsh, just mildly muddy. Then it’s like, ‘Rambo, let’s have another!’ We didn’t realize they were murdering these things out of a big fish tank. So
Rambo goes out there, and the one he picked was called Lucky – the one that had been there for years, the longest survivor on death row. They had to have glass screens around where they cut
it up because the blood spurts from them so high, and it’s deadly poisonous if it touches you or gets in your eyes. You better be trusting that chef!

So we had the second one and the effects started to come on. At first you feel very alert, then on our way back to the hotel, there was a slight numb tingle on your lips and tongue and the back
of your throat. Then, at 7 a.m., you’re wide awake, full of energy, almost ‘bouncing off the walls’. Outside, in the street, we ran into a demonstration rally of anti-foreigner
sentiment. I’d never seen anything like that in Japan before. There was a surreal temple nearby, and some homeless people swept away under some bridges – very much like in Estonia where
they swept the people away from you before the Wall came down. Japan has its shielded side, too.

In the temple, there was the unreal vision of lines of Japanese schoolgirls in their matchy-matchy tartan dress outfits, all very small and polite, being led by teachers in this direction and
that direction. All of these visions put together was overwhelming, and
all under these wonderful ornamental trees. Then back to the hotel, try to have a nap before I do a
gig. If I’m to tell you anything at all about being on tour with the Pistols,
those
were the finest moments. Not necessarily the gigs themselves.

‘Go fuck the Queen!’ and ‘Argentina, Argentina,’ chanted the seething mass before us in Buenos Aires. Always a lively anti-English sentiment in
Argentina! I made sure I shouted down ‘el Presidente’ and ‘down with the monarchy’ in return. ‘Good to see you back, Argentina!’ In the name of diplomacy, Rambo
had put a sign outside his room saying, ‘Stay out of my room – Johnny Rambo, God Save The Falkland Islands’.

This South American leg of ‘Filthy Lucre’ was to be the final one, and it wasn’t long before all the Argentinians were screaming along to ‘God Save The Queen’
– a shared moment, from what could have been a whole pile of trouble. There was a huge football element in there, but we had a very good connection with each other, and kept it going with
friendly insults and anything else you’d care to mention. Language barriers aside, and political barriers aside, dating back to that stupid, useless, pointless Falklands War, we found common
ground there, the audience and us. It was a delicious experience, one I’ll never forget.

The final night in Santiago, Chile, however, really took the biscuit. You could feel the tension in the air there. Looking down on this massive square, you could see the armed police lining up,
and every hour they’d come out in their uniforms and guns and do a goose step, march around the square, blare trumpets and wave flags, and then go back in and firmly close the gate.

Our worry was, ‘Will anybody turn up? Is there any interest in us in Chile?’ Well, there was a serious interest. It took a really long time even to get near the block the venue was
on, and then even longer to get into the place, there was such a mass of people and so many of the maddest punks I’ve seen anywhere in my life. These were ‘full-ons’, Chileans
with mohawks, really into it, challenging
the police, water cannons going off up and down the block. It felt like civil war was about to break out but, oddly enough, in a
funster way. Like, I’m an observer in a scene of chaos that I’m partially responsible for creating!

There was a cold hour or two in the dressing room, but then – onstage, wow! The roar, the roar! These were committed fellas, and girls, and such a menagerie of all kinds. In one corner to
my right, the ferocity, the heat of the yelling and screaming, was SUPERB! It was literally like being in a wind tunnel, but very hot and humid. Thank God, nobody had halitosis. To the right was a
whole bunch of people who had decided to strip naked. So there were nudists and, up top, disco-dancing dolly birds, all in the big hair and the over-done mascara, and tank-tops and very short
skirties and high heels, and these full-on punks and mad football-y kinds, very young kids just screaming in tears of happiness – I LOVED IT!

And there I was dressed in this Dolce & Gabbana set of hotpants and a black tight little plasticated waistcoat, the Aladdin slippers . . . and my hair looking like an orange and blue
cockatoo. Rambo called me Johnny Cuckoo.

People want Johnny Rotten in punk regalia, but what they’ve got to know is:
it’s all punk regalia
,
if I’M wearing it
. So I bowled out in this outfit that Miley
Cyrus would be ashamed of wearing. I felt
really fucking hard
in that outfit, I was delivering the songs in a venomous, detailed way, wearing that. Love me, not what I’m wearing.
Geddit?

There were police on the left side with riot shields and truncheons, but the main problem was the local police-type security – I’m not exactly sure who or what they were – they
were attacking the crowd with their mini-truncheons. Rambo had to clear the stage of this hooligan security before we came on. But this crowd weren’t having none of it. They would not show
any back down, they were really admirable. Many times over I went to tell the police to stop it and finally they backed off. Rambo certainly had
his work cut out with the
crowd; they were constantly trying to get on stage all night.

We’d heard some of the fans who couldn’t get in had tried making a hole in the ceiling and attempted to abseil down into the crowd, absolutely brilliant! Some of them may even have
made it. I really wouldn’t have put it past them. During the gig, I’m sure I saw little pieces of plaster tinkling down.

It was from start to finish an insane, mental, MENTAL gig – one of the best gigs I’ve ever done in my life. The songs just felt right. I was at my toughest best with this crowd
– proper bloody Johnny Rotten stuff going on there! The band played bloody great, too, it was good ol’ rootsy stuff coming out of us.

Near the end of the set, Steve had a problem with his guitar and just walked off. Never said a word to any of us. Just stopped playing and walked off. Oooooo, what’s that all about? He
just left us out there with thousands of screaming fans but, you know what, it didn’t matter anyway. The crowd just kept singing, so I got all
a capella
on it with them. We had a great
sing-along. It was looking like Steve wasn’t going to come back on, but then I think he realized he wasn’t being missed and re-appeared.

Then we go off, as you do, and you wait for the encore, because you need your breath and your cigarette. So we asked Steve why he went off. ‘Uuunnh, I cut me finger.’ Unbelievable!
Then up stepped Rambo, and showed him his own leg. The monitors were metal-framed and he had run into one while getting fans off the stage and torn the skin to the bone between his knee and his
ankle – he lifted this huge flap of skin to expose the leg bone.

Fair play to Steve, he went, ‘Oh, my God, okay!’ Rambo got a roll of gaffer tape off Frankie the tour manager, and gaffer-taped his skin flap back down, and back on we went. And the
encore was much more insane than anything we’d done prior. It was truly, truly an amazing experience.

The camaraderie I was feeling with the band and the audience was terrific – the whole point of doing this thing in the first place.
It happened a few times on that
tour. Let me tell you, there were many times when it
didn’t
, and you’d feel like the shutters had been put down on you. Just making you feel like an outsider in your own thing.
But Chile was fantastic, and it’s just a shame that it was the last gig for some while.