Holy fucking hell. If you’d told me a year ago I’d be standing in Manchester’s O2 Academy, press pass around my neck, watching the Sex Pistols tear through Never Mind the Bollocks with Frank Carter on the mic, I’d have laughed in your face. But here we are, in a world gone mad, witnessing the impossible: punk rock history rewritten in real-time.
When news broke of the Pistols reuniting—minus the perpetually pissed-off John Lydon—for a one-off London gig, I nearly shit myself. Missed it, of course, because life’s a cruel mistress. But that show’s seismic impact spawned this UK tour, and suddenly, I had a shot at redemption. One train ride, one sweaty venue, and one night of pure, unadulterated punk fucking rock.
From the moment Steve Jones hit that first chord, it was clear this wasn’t just a nostalgia trip. That guitar tone—the sound that launched a thousand punk bands—ripped through the venue like a hurricane. Paul Cook’s drums thundered with the same fury they did in ’77, while Glen Matlock proved why he was always the unsung hero, his basslines the bedrock of the Pistols’ sound.
But the real revelation? Frank fucking Carter. Stepping into Lydon’s shoes is no easy feat, but Carter owned it. His voice captured that iconic snarl perfectly, yet he brought his own raw energy to every line. During “God Save the Queen,” you could feel the electricity in the air, the crowd hanging on every word as if it was a manifesto for a new revolution.
The setlist was a punk rock dream. “Holidays in the Sun” kicked things off with a bang, “Bodies” had the mosh pit in a frenzy, and “Pretty Vacant” nearly brought the house down. By the time they closed with “Anarchy in the UK,” it felt like we’d all been through a musical baptism by fire.
What struck me most was how vital it all felt. This wasn’t just a bunch of old punks reliving their glory days. With Carter at the helm, the Sex Pistols have found new life. His presence seemed to energize Jones, Cook, and Matlock, pushing them to play with an intensity that belied their years.
Sure, there will always be those who cry foul at Lydon’s absence. But this tour proves that the power of the Sex Pistols lies in the music itself. These songs—anthems of rebellion and dissatisfaction—feel as relevant today as they did 47 years ago. And in Frank Carter, they’ve found a frontman who can deliver them with all the venom and vigor they deserve.
As the final notes of “Anarchy” faded and the lights came up, I looked around at the sea of sweat-soaked, grinning faces. Young punks stood shoulder to shoulder with old guard, all united in the realization that we’d just witnessed something special.
While this short tour may be over, the ripples its created are far from subsiding. Rumors of a potential US leg are already swirling, fueled by the overwhelming response to these shows. If those whispers solidify into reality, American punk fans should be ready to move heaven and earth to attend. The chance to see Jones, Cook, and Matlock, with Frank Carter’s ferocious energy at the helm, isn’t just rare—it’s a once-in-a-generation opportunity.
In a world that often feels on the brink, we need the raw, unapologetic energy of the Sex Pistols more than ever. With Frank Carter at the mic and the original power trio behind him, they’re proving that punk’s fire still burns bright. God save the Sex Pistols—long may they reign.
