by John Lydon
JOHN VARNOM
Originally Virgin Records, my company, turned down the opportunity of signing the Sex Pistols on the grounds that they had no talent and a general distaste of the group’s image. After the EMI and A&M contracts had been terminated, it was clear to Branson that prestige and cash would accrue to the company if they signed the Sex Pistols. In addition, [Branson] looked forward to the stimulation of working with the now famous figure of Malcolm McLaren, and he, Branson, being a great competitor, felt that if there was to be a contest between him and McLaren, he felt sure he would come out on top.
Everyone at Virgin initially worked very hard to promote and market the Sex Pistols’ first recordings on the label, the singles “God Save the Queen,” “Pretty Vacant,” and “Holidays in the Sun,” with great success.
This gave Virgin a new lease of life and was the shot in the arm required, as for the past years they had been relying on the success of only one artist, Mike Oldfield. By this time I could see that the relationship between Branson and McLaren was degenerating horribly. By the autumn of 1977 the view began to crystallize at Virgin that the only talent among the group was that of John Lydon. There was general competition for his favors. Lydon began to respond to flattery and to behave fairly obnoxiously. He told whoever would listen that he regarded Steve Jones and Paul Cook as oafs; on a record promotional trip to the north of England, he held court in the hotel bedrooms, requesting people to hand him food and drink even though the plate or glass concerned was only inches away from his hand.
After the American tour had ended I was telephoned by Jamie Reid, who told me that Lydon had ceased to be a Sex Pistol. There was a great scramble for Lydon. Branson courted Lydon and whisked him off secretly to Jamaica. If the body was dead, in Branson’s view, then in mine, it was being buried with indecent haste. I understand that Branson was allowing Lydon in Jamaica to indulge in all his tastes, including that of Reggae music and marijuana. Branson later told me that Lydon had recorded Sex Pistols’ songs with Jamaican artists, which hardly seemed to me to be conducive to reuniting John with Steve, Paul, and Sid. There were pictures of John in the papers, lolling on the sand.
By late January or February of 1978, I cannot remember exactly when, there was a meeting in Branson’s office. Branson explained that it was quite clear that Glitterbest Limited would be unable to record further product and that Virgin ought to consider its position. It could not be seen to sue Glitterbest, as this would make Virgin a laughingstock insofar as it had signed the group who had antagonized the established record companies, to which Virgin did not wish to be likened. However, the possibility of Lydon suing Glitterbest was raised, and Branson thought that this was a satisfactory substitute. He thought that McLaren had so far got the better of him in the competition between them, as he saw it, and that this would be a clever way of getting his own back. At the same time it appeared to be a good way of supporting Lydon, who looked as if he were going to be the sole product producer for Virgin.
The notion that the Sex Pistols were going to Brazil to record with Ronnie Biggs was greeted with derision. “Ronnie Rotten” did not appeal at all. At the weekly promotion meeting the project was greeted with disgust on the grounds that it was not music. It was assumed again quite without discussion that Lydon was the talent. In addition, without McLaren it was obvious that Lydon would be easier to handle.
I myself thought the Biggs project a splendid idea and in keeping with the Sex Pistols exciting image: seditious, good fun, and humorous. On the other hand, I was distressed by Lydon’s efforts; he needed the discipline of a McLaren.
I was criticized for spending the usual Sex Pistols single record promotion budget in promoting the Ronnie Biggs song “No One Is Innocent.” Branson particularly was furious about my having spent so much money. He thought that if this record were successful, this would be inconsistent with his prognosis for the future. The number one priority was not to upset Lydon. The Biggs record attained the top ten but could have done better if the campaign I initiated had been allowed to go to its conclusion.
In my view Branson will have to continue to court Lydon as much as he has done. To me it looks as if Lydon’s relationship with McLaren ended because of unrequited homosexual affection. I do not think, however, that Lydon has any such affection for Branson.
RICHARD BRANSON
I have read the affidavit of John Varnom. It is true that my company, Virgin Records, did not at first see the true potential of the Sex Pistols. It was not, however, after the termination of the EMI contract that I first made an approach. When I had heard certain tapes during the time the group was contracted to EMI, I telephoned Mr. Hills, the managing director of EMI, expressing an interest in acquiring the group. I have never viewed McLaren as a contestant or competition. There is no truth in the statement that I felt I was capable of taming the group.
After the San Francisco concert McLaren telephoned me from the United States. He said John Lydon had left the group and that Lydon had not wanted to go to Brazil. He also told me he had had enough of John Lydon, but he also suggested that the breakup was temporary.
My principal concern was to keep the group together, and all my actions were directed toward that end.
I was going to Jamaica in any case. I had lunch with John Lydon and Rudi Van Egmond. It was Rudi Van Egmond who suggested that John might like to go to Jamaica. There is no truth in the allegation that I whisked John off secretly to Jamaica. Indeed, my visit to Jamaica with Lydon was the subject of press comment. I never saw John Lydon smoking marijuana, but if he did or did not indulge in smoking marijuana, it was not my concern. While in Jamaica John spent the major part of his time with reggae musicians. He did not like going to the beach. He may have lolled on the sand, but I do not recall the event.
It is quite untrue that I believed Glitterbest Limited would be unable to produce another record. I was impressed by McLaren’s talent and felt he had it in him to produce further work. There was no question of competition between McLaren and me.
There was no open checkbook at Virgin for John Lydon. It is correct that John Varnom was criticized for overspending on promotion, but this was because the budget was ten thousand pounds. He spent a sum far in excess of that. It is completely untrue that I wished the single in question to be anything but successful.
Until I read the affidavit of John Varnom I had never heard any suggestion of John Lydon having homosexual tendencies, and indeed I do not believe he has, nor do I see the relevance of this suggestion.
It was my primary wish that John Lydon should rejoin the group. If that was not possible, [then] my company would have the benefit of John’s services and the services of the other musicians, who made up the group. In no way did I want to alienate McLaren or take over McLaren’s management functions. It is not correct that I flattered John Lydon or sought in any way to encourage his independence from the Sex Pistols.
* * *
By January 16, 1986—after a full eight years of legal pie fighting, affidavits, and depositions—the band’s settlement gave it custody of the Sex Pistols legacy, to be split equally among the surviving members and Anne Jeanette Beverly, Sid’s mum and executor of his estate. Eventually Steve and Paul reversed their allegiance to my side when Malcolm’s case began to crumble. To this day, all Sex Pistols revenues belong solely to the band and continue to be split evenly four ways. That includes the proceeds from all singles and albums.
As for the Pistols’ film, I opened the library of The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle. There’s over 250 hours of footage. As far as I know, there was something like eight directors used, and none of them bothered to catalog or keep any records. I’m going to have to hire some serious film editors to organize it.
SEGMENT 21:
NO IRISH, NO BLACKS, NO DOGS
I’m claustrophobic. I can’t ride in subways, and I don’t like heights. I’m epileptic as well, but I’m not on any medication. Strobe lights really set me off, also afternoon sun betwe
en the trees as you drive along in the car. I can’t take that constant flash. I cannot sit in a club with red lights. Red light bulbs are the most nauseating thing in the world to me. It’s supposed to make people look very sexy, but it makes me feel horrible. I’m no lighting director’s dream when I tour—there’s this huge list of things that can’t be done. You might see subtle pink lighting on my stage, but never red. It makes me go all funny. It was all right during the Sex Pistols days. We literally only had a couple of torches on stage or one overhead one-hundred-watt bulb, and that would be it. Sometimes certain kinds of lighting can make me forget where I am and trigger a memory seizure. I always keep my lyric book on stage on the floor if the lighting does weird things in the middle of the song. I have a poor sense of balance, so if I do spins, I can fuck myself up. My eyes stay open when I spin, so all the different images on the stage flash by and my brain just stops. I never had seizures as a kid, so I must only have a mild case of epilepsy. It might have something to do with the meningitis when I was young.
Am I a walking contradiction? A singer who never sings along with records at home? A touring performer who can’t handle flashing lights? A shy kid who became one of the most notorious pop figures around? Oh, yes, I’m not!
Those are the learning years that you don’t realize at the time. It’s all this information bombarding you, making you feel more hopeless. The biggest nausea I felt when I was small was no prospects. You have no prospects, no way out of what you’re in. You have no future. I didn’t plan on a future.
I’m not a revolutionary, a socialist, or any of that. That’s not what I’m about at all. An absolute sense of individuality is my politics. All political groups that I’m aware of on this planet seem to strive to suppress individuality. They need block voting numbers. They need units. It doesn’t matter if it’s left or right, sometimes the tactics are the same. The things these people strive for is mass uniformity. The feminist movement became oppressive very quickly. Gay liberation is not after equal rights at all. It’s to be accepted as this one great lump. If a homosexual inside that movement dares stray away from what they term as the norm, then they victimize that person. It’s replacing the same old system with a different clothing. I hate all these groupings, any kind of gathering like that. It destroys personality and individuality. Maybe a roomful of people having very different ideas is chaotic, but it’s wonderfully chaotic, highly entertaining, and very educational. That’s how you learn things—not by everybody following the same doctrine. I don’t suppose my kind of world could really exist at all because there are so many sheep out there that need leaders. Let them bleat among the flock, that’s not for me. I’d rather be the lone sheep out there fending off the wolves. It’s much better. When you grow up in a working-class environment, you’re supposed to stay inside and follow the rules and regulations of that little system. I won’t have any of that. It’s all wrong, equally bad.
CHRISSIE HYNDE: John’s a bastard, but there’s still something sweet and tender about him. He’s not the kind of person who would, for instance, abuse animals. Even today, John tries to wind me up about the “meat is murder” issue, but I know he’s just being an asshole. And he knows I know, so I don’t know why he even bothers. It doesn’t push my buttons. He’s an asshole, and as I’ve told him many times, every intelligent person will eventually become vegetarian, so you might as well get on with it.
No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs. It’s exactly the truth. People invent new prejudices, and these days the prejudices we face are substantially different. Our modern-day prejudices are, like, “You’re in Greenpeace or you don’t exist.” “You’re a Democrat or you’re dead.” It’s a whole new bunch of authoritarianisms, but the same rules apply. They must be rebelled against because they’re not sensible. They’re based on sloganeering.
“The youth!”
The youth always love a good battle but will forever fight the wrong one. And why not? Who created this nonsense of rebelling against your elders? This is what I said in the Pistols. I’ve learned everything from people older than me … because I learned how not to do it. I learned by their mistakes, and that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. It’s all back to the old farm—the Animal Farm! Is the tragedy of history that we’re all supposed to perpetuate the same mistakes and fuck-ups with no progression? The shame of modern times is that we want it all now. We’ve lost patience. When you read old literature it’s steeped in the present; they rarely had a forward thought or looked back, either—they lived in one particular current stream.
I don’t feel like I belong to a certain chunk of any time anymore. But disenfranchisement is not a bad thing, it’s more a sign of progress and hope. I complain and moan because it makes me work harder. It’s a special gift to be disenfranchised at an early age.
The Irish came to the New World and became the police forces in America to escape discrimination. How clever for these so-called dumb potato farmers. By God, what a skillful maneuver. Who needs the Mafia when you can run the police?
We have to make some moves first toward affirmative action, then the rest will follow. It’s a very slow process, and yes, it does work over several generations. There is progress, but unfortunately not in black culture in America. They still seem segregated from the American Dream. The closest they get to it is joining the military. It’s impossible for them to own their own businesses because that requires capital and better schooling for a start, which they haven’t been entitled to. When you’re born in the ghetto, that’s where you fucking stay. It’s very difficult to break out of it. Then you go back and try to pull others out with you, and they hate you for it. They resent you for it because they think you’re patronizing them.
Believe me, I know. Generally speaking, the more you try to help the people you leave behind, the more they hate you for it. They want you completely distanced from them. Then they like you. If you try to mingle back in or keep those old roots, they despise you because you embarrass them. You make them feel bad about themselves that they never had those opportunities. They automatically perceive those opportunities as “just your good luck,” and it’s a way of justifying their own mediocrity, which is fully understandable. It’s a defense mechanism that you cannot deny anyone. That’s how people reserve self-respect. Spike Lee deals with that same subject when he compares poor folks to crabs in a barrel. Whenever one tries to get out, all the other ones pull him back in. If you put a claw back in, they’ll try to snap it off. You don’t have to be black to experience that.
The Irish sing the saddest songs in the universe and just get on with it. But they had a choice to immigrate to America and elsewhere when they were kicked out of Ireland centuries ago via potato famine, starvation, and cruelty from the British government. The Irish don’t give a fuck. These are concepts that never occur to them, yet you can hardly call the Irish nonsuffering. They know they are completely downtrodden and have been since time began—humiliated, conquered, slaughtered, abused, and used. But they don’t seem to let that be a problem, and it’s not right to say that it’s because their skin is white.
Nothing is ever done to guarantee equal rights—whatever those may be. I certainly don’t benefit from equal rights. Nobody ever treated me equally in this business, not since I began and onward. It made me work harder.
It takes a repressed financial and political situation like the one we experienced in Britain seventeen years ago for a band like the Pistols to work. It’s not something that can go on and on and on and perpetuate itself. Times might get better, so what the hell are you moaning about?
Around the time of the punks, socialism wasn’t working in England. The Labour party were unimpressive and tedious. The Conservatives, the same. It fluctuated from one party to another, four years of this, four years of that, and you wouldn’t notice any change. Young people—in fact, most people—just walked clean away from politics as if it were a waste of time. A cloud of apathy had truly set in. Of course, that’s exactly the environment t
he Conservatives want. That’s when they can strut their stuff using prejudice, hate, family values, all the nonissues of political life. Grim. In our own way, I suppose, the punks absolutely guaranteed that Margaret Thatcher would take over. When things swing so far to the left, it always seems to bounce back just as hard to the right. A lot of us were screaming at the wrong enemies. We were blaming the wrong people. We should have been warning the world of the horrors to come rather than the horrors that were there already. But that’s a hindsight thing. Still, there’s nothing more destructive in this world than a politician touting family values. It’s such nonspecific nonsense. It’s a form of entrapment. Have kids. It’s normal. Is it? Fuck. So they grow up disgruntled, fucked-off, fed up, and illiterate as the rest of us? Wicked.
I think the Sex Pistols did drive the first chinks into the British royal armor. Everything we said then is now common language. I can’t even have a weird hairdo anymore—it’s bog standard. We were the first rock ’n’ roll band to throw stones at the queen, but we threw stones at everything. Yes, the royal family is collapsing and becoming dysfunctional, and all their marriages are breaking up. The women are so unhappy. The Pistols exposed the whole royal family as a farce.