Anger is an Energy: My Life Uncensored

by Lydon, John

  I’m always looking for deeper bonds and relationships and connections. I basically like to study the human beings around me and find out what makes them tick and love them for that, warts and all. That’s a far more enjoyable process for me, rather than just ping-ponging about for no particular good reason. You don’t learn anything, you get nothing out of it, and before you know it, you find yourself utterly alone, and stupid for it.

  You have to learn to give, and that’s the big thing, why relationships work – it’s a give situation. And the giving is better than the getting. Well, that’s my experience. Show me a happy multi-millionaire. All these situations are relative. Any human activity is an insight into all human activity. If you’re just busy collecting trophies, well, you’ve actually achieved nothing. Zero. It’s just stuff cluttering up your toilet.

  I don’t want to put down, or sound like I’m viewing negatively, the freedom to operate as you want; that’s fine for certain people and indeed that will always be their way. It’s not what I can put up with. It’s the talking, the chats, the warmth of being close to each other emotionally – that matters much more than random free sex.

  I just thought Nora was absolutely adorable, fantastic, unlike anybody around. There was none of that hippie florally nonsense or Biba rubbish going on with her. Nora was directly related to 1940s film noir, trying to find herself in this sense of restrained but sexually attractive gear, and outside of the world of flip-flops and long floral-print dresses.

  Nora liked to show a bit of knee in a pencil skirt. From my early childhood, that was the proper look of the skinhead bird. When Nora did wear floral prints, they’d be above the knee, and ‘happy-go-lucky skipping across summer lawns’. You know, that ‘free of fashion victim’ stuff, but then at the same time incredibly well thought-out. The perfect clothing. Clothes are so important, in an unimportant way. Once you understand what you’re doing with clothes, you don’t have to think about it any more, you do it naturally, and you wear for the occasion. If it’s hot, don’t be wearing a studded leather jacket and calling yourself a punk! You’re not a punk at that point, you’re a plonk. There are moments where you have to wear according to the weather and the location. Adaptability is really what I’m talking about. But I digress here. Sorry, it’s the way my brain works.

  With me in me bondage gear, and then my Kenny MacDonald suits, I suppose visually you’d have thought, ‘This is not going to work.’ But mentally, it did on every level, and all the suspect characters that call themselves my alleged band members and friends and affiliates, didn’t quite grasp that. The sparks flew. I don’t know how you explain sparks, where charisma leans into something just incredibly inviting. There’s nothing that can stop that, not on earth, and that’s my explanation of love.

  It’s amazing how people will try to chip away at a relationship so deeply founded in truth. We do not lie to each other, that’s the fun of it; we enjoy the truth. I’ve never been able to share that with anybody, really. In the workplace, maybe, but not in that deeply physical, personal way. It’s inexplicable and I suppose it’s really the reason that you feel ultimately that you were born. It feels right, it landed right.

  The ongoing separation was very difficult, but also at the same time, she knew damn well she could trust me. When Nora finally came out to visit me in New York, there were all kinds of animosities at the loft. Keith was unaccepting, and Jeannette was indifferently weird. It was ugly. I was just trying to keep the two things running. I realized that Nora meant more to me, and indeed Public Image meant more to me, than to be putting up with spoilt nonsense from Keith.

  Nora gave me the bolster to get out of the rut. I realized that the scene I was in was a little bit fucking down. Every now and again, those that really care for you, they’ll give you a bump. I realized how much it’d broken my heart to be apart. I’d thought I was too young for a permanent relationship at that time, but now I knew that’s exactly what I really needed.

  You have to go through that, you have to find yourself, and you have to get outside of the run of the mill. You know, if I hadn’t taken my chances elsewhere, or eyed up the competition, or window-shopped a little bit before I met Nora, it wouldn’t have felt quite so healthy to become 100 per cent totally committed to her, which is now what I am – and indeed am with everything. I just took a long time to realize that, and commit to it, and ‘me babby’ waited for me.

  Once I make that commitment, it’s forever. That’s how me and Nora are and were. It’s quite brilliant how it worked out. I can’t imagine living without her, not at all, and it doesn’t matter what people tell her about me either; here we are, and here we will be.

  9

  THERE’S NOWT AS GOOD AS CHANGE

  As a member of the Musicians’ Union, as a lead singer and a performer, you’re automatically an actor, apparently. You’re on a roster somewhere, like a pool of thespians waiting to be hired, blissfully unaware. Some of the agencies we were using to push tours had a film agenda too, and so ideas would come about through those kinds of channels. It certainly wasn’t anything we were actively chasing but, out of the blue, in came this offer to star in a low-budget Italian film opposite a young Harvey Keitel. It was based on a novel by Hugh Fleetwood called The Order of Death. It got very confusing as the film ended up with different names in different countries – Copkiller in Europe, Corrupt in the States, and Order of Death in Britain, which is what I’ve always called it.

  It was a wonderful opportunity to burst into something new, exciting, thrilling and completely dangerous. Unknown territory to the max! I was terrified, obviously, because it was acting and I hadn’t got a clue about how to do it, other than the try-out for Quadrophenia, which hadn’t landed me the part. So it was a case of ‘Oh my God, what a hole I’ve got myself into here.’ I really had no one to back me up or support me. I had no support system during this period, and the only reason I could do it, and did do it, was because there was nothing going on in the band. Nothing at all.

  The decision to do the film was not a difficult one to make. Getting the relevant visas, however, was. After accepting the deal, but before shooting started, I flew out to Rome to meet the producers. Trying to get back into America was a nightmare. They pulled me up at immigration and in my suitcase I had my contract, which had already been signed in New York. Therefore I didn’t have the correct work-permit paperwork to go with it. That was a very difficult situation to sort out, but some real good came out of it, because a couple of people that worked on getting me my immigration visas, Bob Tulipan and Maureen Baker, became really good friends.

  Maureen Baker is a superstar. She has done all sorts of interesting things over the years; she also used to photograph us when we were in New York, but for a long time there she helped get performers permits to work in other countries. She did all of the Kirov Ballet visas, for instance. That’s charming, isn’t it? It’s an interesting universe. There’s so many great people in the world that do so many different things, and if you don’t have an open mind, you won’t grasp how that can help you improve yourself and your own agendas. That doesn’t mean that I’m going to run off and become a ballet dancer. I’m just highly impressed by her motivations, and that in turn inspires me.

  So, between May and July 1982, I took time out from the band and buggered off to Italy. Filming was divided between Rome and New York. I had a great time doing it, and I got on very well with a good number of the people involved. I got to work with Harvey Keitel, and I like him a lot. But not only him: there was also the writer of the script and the book, Hugh Fleetwood, and the director, Roberto Faenza.

  Watching their approach to putting a thing together was thrilling. I particularly enjoyed Rome – the meetings and the planning of the next day’s scenes, and the director’s wife cooking pasta Italiano style. Proper Italy! And the rows the Italians get themselves into, and the writer of the book translating what these people were yelling for me – fantastic! Roberto’s wife – I thought it was his wif
e, she may as well have been, they lived together – she was one of the producers, and she was the one cooking, but the rows those two would have! And so actual studying of scripts was absolutely pushed to the back. And ‘Can you please outline what you expect my character to be?’ – that was of no consequence! Personal animosity was the order of the day. I love Italians – they’re ready to explode at any point.

  Out of all that I had to play this lunatic character, Leo Smith, this spoiled rich brat left to his own devices. He was meant to be from a lonely but wealthy background, and it was sort of about how that can ultimately corrupt you. I could connect to that on a certain level – but also not. Obviously his education taught him that he was superior to others, and that was the crux of my angle, how I tried to make it work. I wasn’t getting any help, really, but that’s all right. Harvey’s best advice to me was, ‘Just get on with it! And take it serious once that camera’s on!’ Fantastic, thanks. And there I was, struggling, trying to remember dialogue, which is the hardest thing for me. I can’t cope with learning dialogue because it’s not coming from a deeply personal place. Many actors have told me this: if you have a strong personality, you’re gonna find that almost impossible to do. You have to be a blank card.

  There was clearly meant to be a Performance thing of role reversal going on in the film, like, ‘Who’s actually dominating and manipulating who? It’s an alpha-male scenario: who’s really calling the shots here?’ I thought Mick Jagger in Performance was astounding, made all the more so because of that solo song he does, that blues song on guitar, ‘Memo From Turner’. At least he had something to grip onto there, whereas I didn’t. The one thing in the back of my mind was: don’t end up like Dave Bowie! He’s so woodentop on film.

  As it turned out, I wasn’t rehearsed enough in acting to know how to portray the character. I wasn’t able to look the other players in the eye and deliver the lines, because the second I’d catch their eye, the dialogue instantly disappeared from my memory. It would be, ‘Ha-a-arv-ey, what do I do now?’

  Of course, I was absolutely intimidated by Harvey. Come on, how could you not be? What a fucking fine actor. But again, at the same time, I was kind of angry with him because he took his roleplaying too serious. If we’d go out for dinner together, he’d still be in role. Because his part was a policeman, he’d be looking for his gun in his holster. These things would matter more to him than having fun. I said to him at one dinner party, ‘Come on, let’s have fun!’ and he turned around and went, ‘What is fun?’ Seriously! ‘Bloody hell, wow!’ For once in my life, I was left speechless.

  He didn’t seem to know too much about me, or at least didn’t let on that he did. Then, after we’d shot the film in September, he came to the Roseland Ballroom in New York to see me play with PiL, and he was like, ‘Oh my God, I never knew that’s what you did! Wow!’ Whatever character he was seeing in me while we were doing the film, he wasn’t aware of what Mr Rotten does when he gets on stage, and how I can let rip, and how I can really get a crowd going . . . I’m wide open on stage, and maybe I wasn’t showing that in the making of the film. It’s a shame: he could’ve taught me how to use that energy in an acting kind of way. I’ve met him since and we’re all right with each other.

  I was shocked by what good reviews I got for Order of Death. The film critic on BBC TV at the time, Barry Norman, said something like, ‘So far so good, but we have to wait for his next film before we can determine if he’s a really good actor, or if he was just playing himself.’ I most certainly wasn’t being myself!

  I realized I was outside of my comfort zone, but not in a very interesting way. I didn’t like the tension. I can understand the tension of getting ready for a gig – when you actually go on and do it it’s an hour and a half of relief. In a film, it’s fifteen hours of waiting to do one minute’s work, and a couple of side takes at different angles. That is so confusing to the brain. What the hell am I supposed to be projecting here? By the time you do the third angle from the back of your head, you’re really getting to grips with the role at that point, so what you’ve achieved film-wise is all the tension and anger and angst and character development that’s ever possible – from the back of your head. It’s a different universe they live in, and it’s one I can’t get to grips with.

  I couldn’t accept that the film, as it would be seen in cinemas, was uncontrollable by me. What ends up on the cutting-room floor could be my best bits. That’s frightening. I know this about myself: I can’t work in any environment where I don’t have a say in the final creation. I have to be involved in all of it, all the way down the line, and anything that’s predetermined by other people’s interpretations, it’s not gonna work for me. I don’t view myself as one of the tools. I’m not a tool! Actors may self-aggrandize and get awards, Oscars, whatever, but really they’re no more important than models are to the clothes they’re trying to sell. That’s all you are: a coathanger of sorts.

  So I shut the door on acting, but then a whole bunch of offers came in. Oh my God, you know what, I turned down Critters, which was a cheap and nasty knock-off version of Gremlins. I was really pleased – crisis averted! How could I do a film like that – fighting these alien fur-balls!

  There were heaps of other offers, but let’s just say, the acting side of me dwindled. I’d be blatantly rejectful, and I didn’t see the potential of a great many offers that came in. I shouldn’t have done that. It was a mistake. I’ve made many mistakes like that over the years. I fancied myself as playing a lead romantic role, in the style of Cary Grant, maybe. This is what I’d be saying to the agents, and – errrrrr, door closed!

  Now here’s a thing – yippee-aye-oh, my absence for the film inspired Keith to get out of the doldrums. He actually came up with some really good ideas for tunes and songs for the movie. One of them, ‘The Order Of Death’, which had a lot of Keith’s work in it, was so good that it became a potential theme song for the film.

  Finally we were proving that we were now working in different areas, yet it was still PiL, and it all came back to the same centre force. We provided the producers with plenty more music, but they were very wary that Johnny Rotten and his band would take control of the film if it went too far, so none of our material was used in the end. It was a film with the seriously famous Harvey Keitel, and they didn’t want an upstart like me who can’t act dominating the scenario. Instead, they got Ennio Morricone in to do the soundtrack, who at the time wasn’t really respected. People thought he just made trash noise for Italian cowboy movies – laughable, sneered at! – but here we are a few decades later and he’s seen as somehow rather genius.

  So, anyway: wow, the beast had awoken. Keith was back in action, and there was a short burst of really good and interesting energy. Jealousies had been lurking in there: he thought I was getting too big for the ‘PiL umbrella’ situation, swanning off to star in an Italian movie, and therefore he felt he might be losing some kind of control. Maybe he thought I had just abandoned them, which wouldn’t have been my way at all. But I understand that insecurity, because I’d been in that position, where my band abandoned me. I get it, but I don’t get it. I thought we were closer friends than that, and he should’ve been more open. And, in fairness, there was nothing else going on.

  Oh, and here’s the laugh of all laughs: when I was filming in Rome, Jeannette came over with her friend just to hang out for a couple of days – they just turned up. That was good, because she was grasping the PiL thing with it. It would’ve been a perfect opportunity to film what it’s like on set, but she forgot to bring her camera. Or maybe she did bring it, and we just forgot to look at what she did. I think that’s closer to the truth.

  I want people to understand, always with Jeannette, it was a working relationship. I’m not one for loose-arse affairs, that’s not my way. In that respect, I think me and her worked really well together, but looking back on it she was put in the middle there to try and save my friendship with Keith, but it was hopeless, it just didn’t wo
rk. I can’t actually remember where it all ended with her. It was something about her falling out with Keith. There was certainly no big problem between her and me; she even used to come to the gigs for a while thereafter. It just wasn’t gonna happen any longer.

  Keith’s resentments run so ludicrously deep, and they’re so pointless, and back then everything just always seemed to end up revolving around his drug problem. As I said at the time, maybe he had too much blood in his drug-stream. If he was having a bad time because he couldn’t get a fix, we all had to suffer. And how much of that can you take? I’ll put up with anything from anyone if they’re creative, but when the creativity lulls it’s really hard to endure. To me dependency is a great form of foolishness. The lack of self-discipline and control in it. You should never get into that condition.

  I don’t want anyone to think I’m being hypocritical here. I’m far from innocent myself but I’ve never been dependent. The bottom line is, you’ve got to be in charge, or else what’s the point? You gots to be in charge.

  In November 1982 Keith actually got married in New York – a marriage that lasted about all of two weeks, and then he came crawling back to the loft apartment, alone. It was insane, weird, ludicrous – a situation I never understood at all, even though I was their best man. Her name was Lori Montana, and she was the bass player in a band called Pulsallama. He met her out there. She was a lovely little girl, and she was absolutely innocent and openminded. Kind of hippie-chick-y. Very odd, for him. It was all, ‘Oh, she’s got me clean, everything’s gonna be great!’ Well, that soon stopped. Game over.

  All the time, through this nonsense, I had this thought in the back of my head: that guy’s got something incredible to work with. But he refused to deliver those goods after a certain point. I don’t know why. I think he doubted himself, and yet I never doubted him. But that information never seemed to get into his psyche, he never understood my backing.