Σπάρτακος, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
A wet and windy autumn evening saw me driving across darkening fens to Hunstanton where the sea front Princess Theatre hosted John Lydon; not a gig, this is his talking tour.
The audience knew John of old through all his works, whereas all I knew was of his remarkable knack for being around where history is made, and sometimes making it himself. This furious court jester has the job, and the irritating habit, of seeing things clearly and saying so. That’s what jesters are for – which turns out to be no accident because Lydon is a Shakespeare wallah.
Unlike Lear’s licensed fool, Lydon has hardly ever bothered with licenses for anything, although he has a small and devoted team making sure this leg of his career is strictly legal. You can see it in their eyes; the stage workers setting up for him, the merch man, the manager; they love this rickety foul-mouthed grump; it’s not an act – he can’t be bothered with pretence although he is dedicated to putting on a show. It’s just that long, long ago he found that even worse things happen when you don’t communicate directly, so that’s what he promises now in every packet: John, authentic, unadulterated.
Too risky and feral for the BBC, he remains persona non grata there, and the regard is mutual. But he was right, if they had listened to him years ago, they would not have had the embarrassment of Savile. But then, Lydon thinks the entire BBC is running cover for child sexual abuse. Looking at the string of scandals, he’s right about that as well.
I’m in no position to judge the man as a musician but websites say that Anarchy in the UK is number 56 in Rolling Stone’s top 500, and when the clips are played back, you realise that you know a lot more John Lydon than you thought. As with David Bowie, cited as one of his inspirations, Lydon worked through personas and band names to keep the project fresh, not turning in to a tribute act to yourself. But Lydon just can’t help ripping holes in the veils he creates, popping in to life like the bright moon slicing through the firmament.
The Irish catholic in him finally gives an address from his own pulpit. There is an approximate order of service, but he can riff, deviate, and tests his congregation’s response. He walks back from some touchy points; it varies gig to gig; this time he’s not here to start a fight with the punters. He explains that the purpose is to raise money for the production of the next album they are always on about. But the real reason, and we all know it, is that he’s a special kind of alive in the performance space.
There would be no point in me doing a karaoke of his show; the thing is to give yourself a treat and sit back and watch how he ripples through time by speaking in registers, having been so many people. He does this within single sentences, one voice putting the gloss on what he has just said in another tongue.
Each of the John Lydons are real, they co-exist and they were never truly wicked; you can’t love the extravagant way he does and be genuinely evil. That is the one thing he is still bewildered by and is bloody angry about: people doing evil things. He memorializes those he has loved and lost. Another lesson he learned the hard way was what memory means, and he thanks the God he doesn’t believe in – and will be having strong words with – for even that experience because it taught him how to cope when darkness swept over his beloved Nora, not that long after she lost her own daughter, Ariane, to breast cancer.
It is worth driving through the rain to see this unexpected survivor, a man who can still bid an audience of arthritic codgers rise to their feet and sing hymn number: I Wanna Beee…… ANARCHY.
I Could Be Wrong, I Could Be Right
John Lydon’s speaking tour dates:
I Could Be Wrong, I Could Be Right 2025
Hawaii
In memory of Nora (d. 6 April 2023), and also producer John Rambo Stevens (d. 11 December 2023).
Also for the puffins whose hearts this expresses.
© Anonymous 2025
