Anarchy in the Town Hall as audience members turn on Prince of Punk

Cavanman's Diary

The first indication I got that there was something amiss was less than 10 minutes into John Lydon’s gig at the Town Hall in Cavan last Thursday night.

When a friend was unable to attend the Sex Pistols frontman’s speaking tour ‘I Could Be Wrong, I Could Be Right’, I gratefully accepted his offer of a ticket. I had a passing knowledge of Johnny Rotten – I knew his most famous songs, that he was the face of the punk movement in the 1970s, that he was London-Irish, that he was one of the few to call out Jimmy Savile back when that serial predator was still hiding in plain sight, schmoozing with celebrities and royals.

I also had a vague awareness that he had been criticised for selling out and recording ads, that he had dedicated several years to caring for his sick wife and that he held political views, which are right of centre.

Other than that, I can’t say I had a great knowledge of the man so I came to the show with an open mind. Outside, a group of six or eight activists waving Palestinian flags picketed the entrance but there was no rancour there; it was a peaceful and dignified protest. There was no sense, as we entered, that this would turn into one of the most memorable and uncomfortable shows I have attended but so it went.

Lydon took to the stage wearing a mohawk and an over-sized, slightly garish plaid jacket. It was the costume of a showman, which is what he is – one cannot make a successful career in the entertainment business without that trait inhabiting a central place in their make-up.

“I’m here to tell you who I am, what I am, how I got here and how we’re all here,” he began.

“And that will begin with my birth, January 31st, 1956, a horrid f**king freezing cold hospital in Highgate. Mum and Dad were not particularly happy with my birth, it was really painful for my mother, even though she went on to bear three other brothers. That was it, it was us.

“Mum and Dad had emigrated over from Ireland to England, to be English. Here’s the kicker – they did it legally.

“It’s a tough word these days isn’t it, considering most of the things I did in my childhood were completely f**king illegal.”

The crowd were laughing at his one-liners and in good spirits at this stage but I had noticed that quite a few were carrying miniature Palestinian flags, which seemed a strange prop to bring into a theatre. In hindsight, it spelled trouble.

“Two rooms in a slum with no indoor toilet – and that weren’t so bad,” he went on.

“That’s how most people in England were living after the war. All the reparations went into rebuilding Germany, not Britain. A major shame. Churchill, God bless him, he saved us from the Nazis but we did need a Labour government to give the rest of us a f**king place to live afterwards. Even though it was grim.

“We were all piss poor but none of us stole from one another. And that was a very multi-cultural neighbourhood – not that Labour DEI (Diversity, Equity, Inclusion) f**king nonsense they’re talking now. We mixed and integrated a long time before socialism even understood what that meant.

“I grew up with ska, reggae, rock n roll, Irish, folk, Cypriot, Turkish, Greek folk music and Petula Clarke. A serious bunch of great influences when you’re young.”

So far, so expected. The audience were lively and in good cheer and Lydon was riffing with them. His mother, he said, loved to dance; his father was a Gene Vincent fanatic. At the age of four, the young Lydon was allowed control the music on the family’s record player.

“That was my introduction to music. This was the world of Johnny Rotten – I was born a sickly child but I could DJ at four or five. How brilliant.”

He recounted his parents’ friends coming over for parties.

“Watching them Paddies, every weekend, as their dentures fell out,” he dead-panned. At this point, there was no sense of a febrile atmosphere, no whiff of cordite in the air. But things were heating up.

“That’s working class for you. I’m proper working class, I make no excuses for it and I will never be lectured by left-wing f**king student lunatics who don’t know what real f**king common sense is,” Lydon warmed to his theme.

“We never stole from each other!” he repeated. “Until you started to introduce these principles. We never rape-ganged each other until you start to allow this crazy f**king… you can’t say illegal immigrants, you’ve got to say…”

“Tourists!” someone in the crowd shouted, and many laughed.

And then, the clouds parted. Things turned, as they often do, on one word – Palestine. All of a sudden, a storm raged.

“It’s important. If you want to be outside waving your ‘Free Palestine’, I agree with you…” Lydon began, but he was drowned out immediately on saying the word and the point he was making - that he agreed with peaceful protest, presumably - was lost.

People began to stand up and shout. The room became charged and here and there, some got up to leave. Some departed quietly; others went out screaming. Lydon gave it back to them, hot and heavy.

The shouting started literally within a second of the word “Palestine” being mentioned. One lady, in a sort of stage whisper, let it be known that she wouldn’t “sit through this”.

“Shut up because you’re not prepared to listen to anyone, if you want to free Palestine, free it of Hamas, you f**king idiot!” Lydon bellowed.

“Shame on you! Shame on you! There’s no punk in you,” a woman shouted, adding unbecomingly that Lydon was “a f**king pussy!”

“Here is my point of view,” Lydon said. “Look after our own first, we have homeless, we have young people living in cardboard boxes, drug-addicted, on the streets. Take care of our own first. And don’t go looking for a cause that will be the first to kill you.”

Someone then yelled something about “when your Irish parents moved to England”.

“My Irish parents were legal. What’s your f**king excuse?”

“You better redeem yourself, John! You better f**king redeem yourself!” warned one man, can in hand.

“Now how would I do that according to your ignorant philosophy?” Lydon replied.

“It’s pretty shit what you’re saying, man,” came the riposte.

Lydon: “How many of you are here tonight, stand up and declare yourselves. You’re mindless f**king idiots. I will never celebrate war and enjoy the torture, humiliation, killing and extermination of other human beings.”

And so it went. After the early blood-letting – I would estimate 20 people left in the initial purge – things calmed down a little, with sporadic outbursts thereafter.

I found the remainder of the first half of the show interesting and engaging. Lydon expressed his opinions; I didn’t agree with them all but that’s surely the point of these things, is it not? I was there to hear his story, not to hector him or to hog the spotlight myself.

And, to return to a point I made in a recent column, it’s clear in hindsight that there were people who attended this gig just to be offended. Some people actively seek out strife; they browse through the hardship rail, like shoppers, find some they like and wear it as their own. Then, they take to social media and tell everyone about it. The lust for self-martyrdom is all-pervasive.

The protest outside was decorous; inside, it felt hysterical, performative and pre-planned. One man who was thrown out towards the end for calling Lydon “a spoofer” told me afterwards that he did it for the craic.

The most powerful moment was when Lydon dealt with the years he spent looking after his late wife Nora, who suffered from dementia. She was German; her own mother had been Jewish a and suffered at the hands of the Nazis in the 1930s. It seems he was truly dedicated to her care. He became emotional when viewing images of her on the large screen behind him. It struck me as genuine and heartfelt.

The first part concluded with his performing a section of Anarchy In The UK, to a backing track. At the front, maybe a dozen people danced as the Prince of Punk lip-synced to one of the iconic anthems of the last century; elsewhere, others squirmed. It was needless and to me, felt faintly embarrassing. Punk music doesn’t sound right being performed by a pensioner, less so when it’s half-mimed.

During the break, the audience were invited to fill out dockets with questions for Lydon, which were to be read out by his assistant on stage, a man with a Brummie accent whose role was not really explained; he seemed half roadie, half security.

On the resumption, there were a couple more outbreaks. Obviously there had been no additional commentary during the break which could have tipped someone over the edge - but there was no point leaving when it wouldn’t be noticed. How strange to plan to lose one’s temper...

One man tore up a book in front of the stage; I later heard people who had been sitting close to him claim he had paid €50 for one of Lydon’s books and that was what he was ripping up. Rotten wouldn’t mind that. There was the clear sense that he is stuck for cash. There were not one but two man-sized banners on the stage advertising his merchandise, which was for sale in the foyer, which felt tawdry.

While his command of the language is superb and his opinions fully-formed, the second half wilted, dragging on indulgently, and by the end, Lydon was not unlike a pub bore, bludgeoning listeners with the same opinions over and over.

He is clearly haunted; some of his stories were extremely dark. He suffered meningitis as a seven-year-old; when he awoke after three months, his memory was wiped. I’m no doctor but this traumatic event must have left a mark on his adolescence and his life, in the media glare, has not been easy. Many friends of his died young, he said.

“Comedy is the route to the truth,” he announced at one point – but as the gig wore on, the laugh-out loud moments became fewer in number before disappearing altogether.

The funniest line of the night fell not to Johnny Rotten but to a beleaguered staff member.

“Next time,” he was heard to say, “we’ll stick to Mick Flavin.”

The anti-Christ? Not any more. Lydon is merely a man who has lived an extraordinary life, and now in his 70th year, is telling his story, unsettling as it is at times.

And, if you can filter out some of the filler and are tolerant enough to hear some opinions which may run contrary to your own, it’s one worth hearing.

Concerns noted by Town Hall management

The Celt contacted Cavan Town Hall for a comment in relation to the protest at the show.

In a statement, a spokesperson replied: “John Lydon was booked to perform a show at Townhall Cavan discussing his musical career.

“As an inclusive organisation, Cavan County Council does not interfere in artists’ right to free speech.

“However the Council regrets if offence was taken by any party in this matter and respects the right of expression of those who engaged in peaceful protest on the night.”