by John Lydon
Another someone I knew whom I tried to pass on to Sid was Chrissie Hynde. She needed the English equivalent of an American green card in order to stay in England. I agreed to marry her, only I didn’t have the courage to turn up at the Town Hall. So I sent Sid. And he went. She wouldn’t have him. He was so filthy, Sidney did not believe in washing at the time. This was his antifashion period. He’d gone the other way from the prissy nail varnish to total hound-dog of the first degree. Really bad but with a punk hairdo. Chrissie took one look at that and wouldn’t have it!
CHRISSIE HYNDE: There was a time when I was supposed to marry John, so I could stay in the country. I was stuck and I had to leave. I never could tell if John was fond of me or if we were friends or what, but he hung around with me a bit. He was so painfully shy of women that when he would come and stay the night in my squat, you wouldn’t dare get too close to him because you would not want to freak him out. You would immediately recognize his space and keep a wide berth around him. John didn’t exude any sort of active sexuality. He was shy, and you would respect that. To tell the truth, I was pretty shy myself. At the time, I was squatting and shoplifting, I didn’t own anything except a little amp that Chris Spedding had lent me. I had nothing and didn’t want anything. I was an infinitely better shoplifter than John. I had a little tiny lock on the door to my squat that I gave to Sid, and he put it on his chain.
A few weeks later I couldn’t get hold of John, and my time was running out. I had only a few days to stay in the country, and I was really losing it.
One day, just after the Bill Grundy show, it became obvious that he was about to be famous. John and I took a long walk, and he was very depressed. He was afraid his friends would change and that things would change drastically for the worst. You see, he was very close to his mother. He was just a little Irish boy from Finsbury Park. He had really taken on a lot with all of this, and I think it freaked him out. He was still very close to his working-class Irish family.
I still needed to marry someone to stay in the country. Finally I found John drinking with Sid down at Roebuck’s pub. I walked up to him and said, “John, what’s happening about our arrangement, you know, remember?”
“Ohhhh, Gawd!” he said and he put his head down on the bar.
Sid asked, “What’s going on? What’s going on?”
Someone mumbled something about my visa running out. Sid stood up and said, “I know! You want to marry John because he’s going to be a famous rock star! And then you’ll get pregnant, and then you’ll…”
He went on and on, describing this absurd scenario—something like a seventies groupie girl might think. Everyone was horrified that Sid would have such a straitlaced idea. Suddenly he realized what he was saying and then volunteered, “Well, I’ll do it, but there has to be something in it for me.”
“Two pounds,” I offered.
“Okay, done,” he said.
Then I had to find Sid somewhere to stay. I dropped him off at my place in Clapham, went up to Hackney to get his birth certificate because he was underage, and then went back to Clapham to spend the night while he had a squelching session with this other girl in my bed. Sex wasn’t anything you got too sentimental about back then. I remember their knees and elbows in my back all night.
Next morning I had to hang on to Sid by the wrist all day so he wouldn’t get away. I took him down to the registrar’s office, but it was closed for an extended holiday. Then Sid had to go to court the next day for putting somebody’s eye out with a glass or something, so we never got married. I was never Mrs. Vicious, but I almost was. I was also almost Mrs. Rotten, but I suspect that John’s background and his relationship with his mother—his close family ties—would have prevented him from marrying me. It would have hurt his parents if they found out.
When I shared a flat with Sid on Sutherland Avenue—with Nancy, of course—there were a couple of bedrooms. I had all of my mates at one end of the house and Sid had Nancy at the other end. I hated their heroin thing so much that when they went out one night, Wobble, John Gray, and I found their needles. I cleaned my fingernails with their hypodermic needles, putting them back. Seems dangerous now, but the idea was to put dirty fingernail filth into the needle so that she’d kill herself or whatever. Maybe that’s premeditated murder. I think I did it more out of spite. I couldn’t stand her any longer. She was that bad. You cannot believe how bad this woman was. Nonstop. “Ooooh, Sid,” with the most annoying voice. She was so dumb, like those awful gangster molls you see in the movies. Where was she from? “Neeew Yooork.” Why was she here? “Drruuugs.”
BOB GRUEN: Nancy Spungen was originally a friend of Johnny Thunder’s and Jerry’s. Not a girlfriend particularly, because she wasn’t attractive. In fact, she was quite unattractive, not to mention the fact that she whined all the time. Nancy could be a real pain in the ass, but she had a heart of gold. I have nothing against her. She was nice to me and to a lot of the other guys.
CHRISSIE HYNDE: The New York people came and brought their heroin, end of story. They also brought Nancy Spungen, who turned Sid into a sex slave. It was a simple equation; everyone disliked Nancy and told Sid to dump her. But remember—why was Sid called Sid? Because he hated the name. So if anyone said Nancy was horrible, get rid of her, there was no way Sid was going to. He was a very contrary boy. Just the fact that it got on everybody’s wick that he was with her made him want to keep Nancy around. Plus, we couldn’t use reverse psychology and show approval because no one liked her enough to even try to work that much out.
The so-called Anarchy Tour of December 1976 with Johnny Thunders was a hilarious affair. Malcolm did most of the details for it. An agency booked the whole tour, and it was great fun having all the bands on the same bus. We got along like a house afire—the Damned, the Heartbreakers, and the Clash. There was a falling-out with the Clash because they wanted better billing or some bullshit. They decided to travel separately. Then the Damned decided they were the greatest thing since sliced bread. Egos made it fall apart. The only reason the Heartbreakers stuck it out was because they were utterly without egos. Thunders was so out of it on drugs, nothing mattered. Sid was around all that time. It can be awful sleeping in buses, but not so bad if you’re with a bunch of people prepared to enjoy themselves. You’re less prone to hate each other instead of seeing just the same four faces. As a manager, Malcolm could have tried a little harder. What was the point in setting all this up, calling it a tour, and then sending us up north, drive from town to town, spend two nights in a hotel, do one gig, then drive around for a week with nothing to do? I think we have a concert at—no canceled, next town. There were no escape hatches or alternatives and again, no money. It’s difficult when two hundred journalists with cameras are following you around.
CAROLINE COON: When they [the Heartbreakers] were brought in, it was as if Malcolm had the big success of the Pistols and he wanted to prove that success to the bands in America. So he brought them over, but they were old men who had nothing to do with the optimism and creativity of the Clash, the Pistols, and the Damned.
We were huge, but we couldn’t play anywhere, so we couldn’t earn any money. Nobody wanted to release our records. We were quite literally paupers—well, some of us! You tried telling anyone that and they would not believe it. They thought we were all millionaires. To be a millionaire you have to work and earn something.
We had an idea to hire a circus tent with a carnival and tour Britain. It would have had rides and the whole circus, fanfare thing. I thought it was an amazing idea. We were having trouble booking normal gigs. It fell apart because insurances and councils didn’t want that kind of thing in their town. What a pity! It would have been marvelous. That’s the way to do it. If you hate the band, you could still have as much fun as you like on the bumper cars.
Paul, Steve, and I were always skeptical about all these so-called canceled gigs we had during the Anarchy Tour. Malcolm knew by that time it was spinning out of his control. But we trundled
on.
Not gigging turned the Sex Pistols internally against each other. We became frustrated and began looking at each other suspiciously. We were bored and at each other’s backs. Today the animosity has transformed into a sense of loss.
It proved quite outrageous for modern Britain in the mid-seventies, so much so that you could get the local church to organize a choir to sing hymns because of “the Anti-Christ” coming to their village. The Welsh village of Caerphilly held such a demonstration and tried desperately to stop all of the local kids from getting into one of our concerts. The campaign worked effectively because there was practically the entire parenthood of Caerphilly at the doorsteps of the concert hall. Sure, it was deeply silly, but I did think it was excellently silly. They set up the choir in front of the concert hall. There they all were with their hymn books. The local vicar held his conductor’s stick. The TV camera crews filmed us giggling as we went into the hall as the police cordoned the area off to keep the bystanders from rioting.
We only had about thirty people in the building when we played our concert that night and about two hundred outside. I don’t know what they thought we would be doing to their kids. Turning them into sex fiends? The promoter lost a fortune, but it was well worth doing because what on earth did these people think they were banning? I gave them a wonderful week’s buildup of entertainment and then a sweeping culmination when they got to sing those dreadful hymns outside the concert, that’s where the promoter should have been. They were so chuffed with themselves, it was brilliant! You can’t be upset or angry with people like that. They amused me greatly. To this day that incident still gives me pleasure, with their silly hymns. They even did “My Sweet Lord” at one point! It wasn’t even ten years before when they probably branded George Harrison as some drug fiend monster from hell!
I wrote “God Save the Queen” all in one piece. I remember being really precious about the words. I still am to this day. I keep the lyrics so close to me, the only chance the band gets to hear them is once I start singing them. If you show them the lyrics first, they won’t get it. It’s the way you deliver that counts. Then you don’t get that “Ooooo. They don’t rhyme,” because that’s the kind of comment you will invariably get. I say cut all that crap out and go straight into the deep end.
I did some writing with Glen. We worked very well together, and there was a period where we really did get on, but ultimately I just didn’t like him, so there was no point continuing. Malcolm told Glen to make an effort and stop thinking of me as this awkward person who always stood in the dark side of the rehearsal room, moaning, “It’s dismal. I hate it.” Which is, of course, what I did. But Glen didn’t see it as humor at work or veiled shyness—both the same thing, really. I was going for their response. It got rough for me, too. I was definitely reciprocated in a like manner by the other Pistols. We would wind each other up so bad, sometimes they wouldn’t talk to me for long periods. I used to have certain phrases that I would practically rehearse for maximum effect: “I hate you!” or “Dismal.” “I’m bored.”
CHRISSIE HYNDE: John hated Glen so much that he’d occasionally pick up the microphone stand and with his back to Glen, he’d chuck it over his shoulder and try to hit him.
Glen couldn’t handle the teasing. I used to love saying to him, “I hate you.” He wouldn’t know whether I meant it or not.
“I can’t believe he hates me! Oh, Paul! Steve!”
I just wanted to see his look. He was such a mummy’s boy. He wouldn’t perform “God Save the Queen” because his mum didn’t like it. That was the excuse given to us. I found it unbearable because he wouldn’t say it forthright, but it would come out after an hour or two of badgering him.
“What’s wrong with it, Glen?”
“I’ll show it to a few people.”
“Who, Glen?”
“Well, my mum. Well … well … but she liked the other songs!”
I instigated Glen’s leaving the band. I definitely maneuvered that. It was down to, quite frankly, either he goes or I go. I couldn’t put up with him any longer. This is the man who wouldn’t have anything to do with “God Save the Queen.” He wouldn’t play it live, so we used to do it without him. He’d stand in the corner, off stage. Same with “Anarchy in the U.K.” If he was to remain, I had to change some of the lyrics because he’d found them offensive. He’d say, “What do you mean? Do you want to hurt people?” Glen, you’re missing the point. But never mind, yes.
STEVE JONES: John wasn’t getting along with Glen, and McLaren didn’t want him in the band, so one day McLaren told Glen to walk. I was relieved. I didn’t mind Glen leaving at all. It was after the Grundy thing, so at this point it didn’t fucking matter; nobody gave a fuck about the music anyway. But then, I thought, Who were we going to get? Sid had been coming to our gigs.
I wanted Sid in the band because then I’d have an ally in all of this. It wouldn’t just be me out there. Sid couldn’t play? So what. Anyone can learn. I learned to sing, didn’t I? That was my argument. He took lessons and learned quick, actually. He wasn’t too bad at all for three chord songs. It’s a bass guitar, for God’s sake. Who listens to the bass guitar in a rock ’n’ roll band? It’s just some kind of boom noise in the background.
STEVE JONES: John said, “Let’s get this guy Sid.” Sid looked great, but he couldn’t play. I thought, Oh, no! This is going to be a headache. It became a circus. Sid was up John’s alley—he was the same type of guy—that cocky art student with a smart-ass attitude. When he first came around I thought, Oh, no! Here we go again. Not another one! I could deal with John, and now there were two of him.
Sid wasn’t very good at recording. On a record, it’s quite different. A live gig is one thing, bass on plastic is another. Sid was too fucking drunk, quite frankly. It was desperation time, so in came Glen. We literally hired Glen Matlock. What a nice touch! Shame on him, he actually did it. Isn’t that awful? That, more than anything tenfold, explains my contempt for him. I think I’d rather die than do something like that, wouldn’t you? It’s so cheesy and such a state of desperation. Malcolm hired him back as a session player. He did all of the dirty work—well, some of it, anyway. Steve played some bass parts as well. The rest of the dirt was ours.
There were a few songs Sidney worked on, one of them was “Submission.” I worked quite well with Sid on that. We had lots of good ideas. Only they never used our mix. Apparently there was a fight.
Up to that time, Sid was absolutely childlike. Everything was fun and giggly. Suddenly he was a big pop star. He could do whatever he wanted. Hence vodka, beer, anything. Pop star status meant press, a good chance to be spotted in all the right places, adoration. That’s what it all meant to Sid. I never dreamed that he would perceive it that way. I thought he was far smarter. Looking back on it, I must have had an inclination. He took it all too far, and boy, he couldn’t play guitar. Dave Bowie reference. In the end, particularly when Nancy started influencing him, heroin started to creep in.
The first rehearsals on Denmark Street in March of 1977 with Sid were hellish. Everyone agreed he had the look, and I was really pleased because Sid was my mate. Great! Another one out of the slums. Success here. It could have been Wobble, but Wobble frightened Steve and Paul too much because he looked dangeorus. Sid really tried hard and rehearsed a lot. It was Sid’s turn to be the outsider, because we would all go out afterward and he would have to stay at home and practice his bass lines. Sid would have much rather been out partying.
Poor old Sid. I even got him the girlfriend who ruined him. It’s terrible. Nancy was the only girl I had ever seen him with up to that point. He was so vain before they met. Girls could never get into his picture because they would probably cast a shadow. There are lots of people like Sid in this business, and I don’t mean they’re gay or asexual. They’re just so self-obsessed with their own looks. Nothing could get in the way of that for Sid. Suddenly when he joined the Pistols, he was transfigured. Now he could do anything. He didn’t
need to shave, not that he needed to shave anyway. But the idea was that he could wake up anytime in the afternoon. He read too many bad books and bought the New York attitude. Spotty old Beverly. When someone, even yourself, keeps telling you how handsome and good-looking you are, chances are you’re not. He was so self-obsessed, it was deeply humorous.
Sid and I moved to a place in Chelsea called the Cloisters. We were in the Pistols, but we had no money and nowhere to live. We were sick of trying to ponce off people, and people were sick of us. We sat in Malcolm’s office practically the whole day and insisted he get us somewhere to stay. Eventually he got us into the Chelsea Cloisters, which is exactly what the name implies—a cloying, old, jaded, perverted place. The hallways smelled of old women’s fannies. It was like a nunnery, small rooms ten feet square with a sink and a toilet. It was off the King’s Road, and there was nothing to do in that area at night. We had no money and could never go out.
One night I met a debutante. She spotted me on the street as I was going for some shoplifting. She said to me from her car, “Oh, yaww, aren’t you Johnny?”
“Yes, I am, dahling! How can I help you?”
“Oh, we have a splendiferous party. You simply must come. Bring all your friends, it will be a jolly good wheeze.”
She was a spoiled rich girl, and she was celebrating her coming-out party, where they all wear their ballroom gowns and are introduced to all the available young men in their class structure. She invited me, Sid, and Nancy to her debutante’s ball. It was fan-fucking-tastic! This was the only time I actually enjoyed Nancy’s company because she was so repulsive that night. They took us into a posh nightclub called Wedgies, where they only let in the ultrarich. There were a few royals there. Prince Andrew and David Frost were there, along with loads of fat ugly old women in tiaras who spoke in highfalutin voices.
There we were, like the street urchins we were. I was dressed in tatters, old secondhand torn-up clothing. Sid wore something aproaching a leather jacket, but there was a sleeve missing. Nancy had piss stains all down her tights. She could never be bothered to clean herself, and her legs were so dirty that you could see the white marks where the piss dribbled.