LIVE REVIEW: Frank Carter And The Sex Pistols, Bush Hall, London, 13/08/2024

Photo Credit: Kevin O’Sullivan

Descending on London’s Bush Hall for some decadent debauchery came (most of) the Sex Pistols, fronted by none other than Frank Carter, leading to three nights of frantic, furious fun — all in the name of keeping live music alive at a venue only recently rescued from the post-Covid, post-Conservative brink.

The Sex Pistols are a band synonymous with punk music. Undeniably, irrefutably, and indissolubly; they might not have started the punk movement, but they damn well popularised it. Their *singular* album, Never Mind The Bollocks, Here’s The Sex Pistols, with that iconic artwork written in Jamie Reid’s iconic font, is practically deified for both its, and its makers, impact on pop culture — and for good reason. Despite perhaps not standing the test of time with regards to pure musical aggression, no one can deny the influence that they had on the global stage over the past fifty years.

All this to say that, when Bush Hall announced that  Steve Jones, Paul Cook and Glen Matlock would be taking to the stage to perform Never Mind The Bollocks, Here’s The Sex Pistols in full, and joined by Frank Carter on vocals, news travelled fast. Tickets travelled even faster, helped along by Ticketmaster allegedly putting them on sale before they were meant to. An iconic album, performed by an iconic band, with arguably the best frontman to come out of the UK in the past twenty years, all in support of and hosted by the most majestic of independent venues? Yeah, no surprise — all three nights sold out in seconds.

So, for their first show in sixteen years, the queue was unsurprisingly stretching down the street. Mohawks and multicoloured heads of hair mingled with a plethora of both Sex Pistols and Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes band shirts, as punks of all ages waited for their first glimpse of the names that, for many, defined a lot of their lives. Things weren’t any better inside — DJ sets from the likes of Chris Sullivan, Rhoda Dakar and Don Letts were the only thing standing in the way of multi-generational music lovers stewing silently in anticipation.

Yet, as the clocks struck nine and the lights began to dim, the air brimming with an almost palpable sense of anticipation, the question remained. How would Frank Carter do in place of John Lydon? Would he live up to the infamous frontman? Could he?

Well, from the opening seconds of Holidays In The Sun, one thing was clear. He had the hair, he had the anger, he had the same sneering lilt to his half-sung, half-shouted words, but he wasn’t Johnny Rotten. He was himself, and arguably that made it even better. He wasn’t trying to emulate the punk legend; instead, he was just having fun singing an album that likely changed his life. Getting to watch Frank up on stage, his intense, manic eyes shooting daggers at the packed audience, showed a man that was getting to live out a fantasy that’s probably played in his head since he first discovered angry music, and alongside the legends that crafted it no less. And sure, there might have been more phones filming parts of the set than there were enjoying it, at least at the start, and you can be damn sure that that wasn’t the case in those infamous ‘70s gigs, but it wasn’t long before old instincts kicked in and the room was a maelstrom of moving bodies.

Three songs later, with those pesky photographers out of the way, and Frank was one of them; holding the mic stand aloft to catch the screams of the crowd during Pretty Vacant, crowd surfing during Satellite and singing while submerged in sweaty Sex Pistols’ fans, and, as any Frank Carter fan knew to expect, launching himself both into and onto the pit for Bodies… although an attempt to sing upside down was quickly abandoned.

Returning to the stage once more, it was time for God Save The Queen. The four seemed in their element, particularly the charisma-oozing Matlock, as they tore through the Sex Pistols’ classic. Until suddenly, what’s this? An errant crowdsurfer, a mop of black hair dangling around his face as he approached the stage, was prevented from being escorted out by Frank Carter leaning down to give him his microphone. And, as Dominic Harrison appeared suddenly on stage for an impromptu verse, it only got wilder. Fresh off of headlining the Milton Keynes Bowl at his festival two days prior, a wild Yungblud had appeared! And, although his might have been the only (other) famous face to grace the stage over the three nights, he wasn’t the only one present. Of course, there were some usual suspects popping up. There was Sam Matlock’s Wargasm, as well as both Dean Richardson and Elliot Russell from the Rattlesnakes. Andy Copping, too — hopefully signifying a Donnington appearance in the band’s near future. The Kooks, The Black Crowes and Duran Duran (all either fully or at least partially) were a little more unexpected, and fun surprises. Guns ‘N’ Roses allegedly turning up to the band’s rehearsal on the Monday, though, felt like the stuff of dreams. And although people flying in from mainland Europe, America, and even Australia, driving and flying hundreds or even thousands of miles to be there signified just how much the nights meant to so many, it seemed to mean just as much to the band. From Jones’ squealing guitar solo in Problems, or Frank’s vein-popping, throat-ripping shouts in EMI, to Cook’s rigid timekeeping throughout, the four on stage seemed to be having just as much fun now as they must have fifty years ago, playing the songs for the first time. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m having the time of my fucking life!” Us too Frank, us too.

Going off stage for the encore, for once, felt entirely deserved. For one, the venue was stupidly hot. But also, excluding Frank, the average age on stage was 68; if anyone deserves a moment of cool and a quick drink of water, it was them! So, when the four emerged back on stage, it was met with a wall of cheers that seemed to rock the very foundations of the venue — even if it also signifies that the night was drawing ever-closer to the end.

The dishonestly titled No Fun came up first, Frank’s white shirt plastered to his skin and showing off his impressive array of tattoos as he shouted his way through The Stooges’ classic — a great song, even if potentially the only point of the show that felt like it didn’t live up to Lydon’s gutturally growled cover. And then, finally, Anarchy In The UK. It served as a perfect end to each of the three nights, the crowd happily shouting along; it felt less like the anarchist anthem it started as, though, and more a wholesome bringing together for the hundreds in the room to shout along. A prolonged outro led to crowd-led choruses, each one a desperate attempt to keep the night going just that a little bit longer, which let the four just bask in a job tremendously well done — even as Glen dabbed Frank’s face with a towel to try to stem the rivers of sweat pouring down his jubilant face. Just like that, however, the fifteen song-set was complete, and there was nothing more to say but thank you for coming. Yet, as the crowd began their mass exodus back onto the comparatively cool London streets, looking like they’d just undergone that swimming lesson where you’re thrown in fully clothed, the buzz of adrenaline and excitement reflected a room that’ll never be able to return to normalcy. Each night was superb, and for anyone lucky enough to be present it’ll be an evening that they won’t soon forget.

There’ll be naysayers who claim that Frank Carter is a pale imitation of Johnny Rotten— of course there’ll be; for a subculture so devoted to freedom and anti-establishment views, the ‘original’ punks are strangely rigid in their ideas of what the Sex Pistols are or are allowed to be — but for everyone present in the crowd, some of whom likely won’t even have been around to see the Sex Pistols’ last show back in 2008, you really couldn’t have asked for more. The fact that all the proceeds went to a beloved London venue that all too recently ran a Crowdfunder campaign to prevent its live music campaign from going under was just icing on the proverbial cake. Long live Bush Hall! 10/10

You can find out more about the Save Bush Hall crowdfunder and donate HERE.

Written By: James O’Sullivan