This story started for me in the beginning of May. Some friends and I were checking out the well-known shop amongst young punks, rockers, and metal-heads: The guy working there greeted us and let me in on the best news I've had for such a long time: I discovered them approximately two years ago on myspace. The detail of the band was so well done; I thought that the whole website was merely a fansite to the Sex Pistols, and the Mp3 flash player was simply playing some live gig recordings.
I was impressed when I finally found out they were actually a tribute band, and those sneering pictures of the man I thought was Sid Vicious happened to be his replica, Kid Vicious, I immediately sent them some messages begging them to come to Ljubljana. A huge part of May, was trying to get the permission, and get some friends to go. I got the permission with loads of effort, and I got two of my best friends to go with me: Jure and Janko we also joined up with a few more friends at the actual concert place, Tony and Matej.
We planned it all out and on May 31, there we were, on our way to Mediapark, ready to give the Sex Pistols Experience a pleasant welcome to Slovenia There was an opening punk band with a female singer called Drek U Pest which apparently means Shit in Fist , and the entire crowd not much at the time were simply sitting there on the seats.
We, on the other hand, rushed to the front and rocked out with them. You'll never have any idea how moshing with approximately 5 people is until you actually give it a try. It felt weird having all that space in between ourselves, but other than that, I can say from my part I enjoyed it way more than an actual-sized pit.
I was simply out of it, like I usually am at a concert, only this time I felt more positive than that kick-some-ass state of mind I usually get myself into due to people punching, kicking, biting, and jumping on me at a concert. When the opening band ended, the drummer chucked a drumstick at me, and I ran fast enough to get a hug from the singer before she left. After that, I walked back to the stage, waiting eagerly for the long-awaited Experience.
Smoke appeared on the stage and my friends and I nearly pissed ourselves with excitement. We were immediately back in the 70's, jumping up and down and shouting out lyrics with the Sex Pistols.
Johnny Rotter simply scowled and said "No we're not! Get off your asses! Get off your fucking asses! Rotter simply said "If you want to! EMI is somehow becoming my favorite Pistol song now, because what Rotter did made this concert even more perfect: He held out the microphone for me and let me sing along with him. These kinds of little miracles happened throughout the whole concert.
Rotter tossing me a water bottle, Jure and I nicking their beer, and the absolute cherry on the cake: Kid came over and swung the bass onto the top of my head lightly. Only one per Experience concert gets that, and I felt honored As a matter of fact, he could have messed up and literally hit me with the bass. I don't think I would have cared. Jure's braid tore off and he threw it at Bones, who took it. When the concert had ended, we managed to talk a bit with Rotter, who was simply a great guy.
He burned a cigarette hole into my ticket, and tore off a bit of Janko's with his teeth as signatures. When the photo-taking had come to mind, however, we got chucked out by security. We playfully protested and yelled at them, just to get the last word, but when you come to think of it: Jure and I were sitting outside of a little pizza restaurant, when all of the sudden, he points at some guy not too far away from us, saying "Hey, is that Trmit?
I said "No, but it's Johnny Rotter! Bones, however, was nowhere to be seen. We talked for a little more this time, and Jure wanted to know if Bones still had his braid.
Rotter jokingly or not said "He probably smoked it. Either that or put it in his pants to make it look bigger". As we walked back to Metelkova like we usually did, we spotted Steve Bones sitting in the grass.
He waved and told us to sit down. We were simply honored to be able to talk with him face-to-face with no disturbances, and believe it or not: This time it was friendly-talk, which was even better.
Steve was getting ready to leave, so we bid him goodbye, and carried on with our path to Metelkova, and who did we meet not too far away from Steve? Kid, that's who, and, like with Bones, we were there with yet another perfect Sex Pistol replica and an amazing person.
He expressed a bit of shock due to the fact that I didn't flinch a bit when he swung the bass at me he said usually people back away and stuff. I actually felt proud for not using my human instinct that enables me to avoid getting hurt after all, if you don't get at least a little hurt, what kind of concert is it? Can never be a good one in our eyes. When we said goodbye to Kid, we finally reached Metelkova, and I must say: The Sex Pistols Experience are not a bunch of high-classed bastard s.
They're just like us. From Rotter denying their amazing attention to details, and Steve and Kid hanging out with us. They could have told us to fuck off more times than I can count, and yet they happily granted us the time of our lives. I'll never forget that band, or that concert, because it was the best damn gig I've ever been to. My friends and I will await the next Experience gig we can attend, and the one after that, and the one after that. This will become a ritual to us.
Nearly two years of waiting for them to come to our town. Was it worth it? You bet Bambi's corpse it was! Whoever has the chance to go see the Sex Pistols Experience, I encourage them to go by all means necessary!
Do not choose them over any band! You will not regret it. There is not a single good reason not to go. Find one good reason not to go, and I'll buy your ticket for you!
Review from a roving reporter in Milton Keynes Wrexham, Tamworth, Norwich and Bridlington would have so much in common, to the extent they meet up on a regular basis.
If suffering each other's company wasn't painful enough, they have exacerbated the situation by giving themselves pseudonyms in the shape of Johnny Rotter, Kid Vicious, Steve Bones and Paul Crook. The aforementioned aren't a travelling circus act, religious sect or kindred spirit.
They are, to all intents and purposes, the world's number one Sex Pistols tribute act, hell-bent on bringing chaos, pain and delight to the lives of many, just like the original awesome foursome did all those years ago.
Originally formulated in , they started out by playing the tough northern pub circuit, performing Pistols numbers to petit but enthusiastic gatherings.
Four years on and a line-up change later, they had decided to model themselves on the Pistols by vigilantly leaving no stone unturned in their quest for perfection. Not only were auditions held to recruit the sound coupled with the look, but stringent vetting procedures to determine professional standards were being met as alcohol, drugs and criminal records were strictly a no goer, which is a tad ironic as the original line-up fully immersed themselves in that particular lifestyle.
But there was a method behind the madness as the bigger picture was always in their innermost thoughts. Success story followed by another success story has been achieved by touring around some 15 countries worldwide including the USA and playing to an audience of 20, people in at the Trutnov festival in the Czech Republic.
It's not difficult to see why the slavery of the day job has been substituted for a professional contract, employing a number of booking agents in the process. Their legacy has also burgeoned to the extent that they've been headhunted by the BBC, Channel Four, Sky News and Sky One to feature on various Sex Pistols documentaries; received rave reviews from local and national publications, encompassing the Daily Express and the Sunday Times, the latter citing them as one of the 50 hottest things to see in , right behind Led Zepplin.!
Needless to say, I was expectant as I stepped onto the beer-stained flooring of the Corby Labour club. Initial impressions of this old-fashioned Working Man's establishment could have easily lulled the punter into a false sense of security in the sense they were appearing on the film set of Peter Kay's Phoenix Nights.
Fortunately Brian Potter and his wheel chair were nowhere to be seen, as male and female, young and old brought colour, glamour, safety pins, hair dye and Mohicans as we stepped back into a bygone era. Their build-up got underway with audio recordings of interview footage with the original band, just to give the punter a sample of the upcoming offerings.
Then, like a resurrection of all things great, they took to the stage like Emperors to the throne, revelling in the adulation that was being bestowed upon them from their disciples. Without further ado, they delved straight into their repertoire of goodies, kicking off the proceedings with sharp deliveries of 'Pretty Vacant' followed by '17'.
Johnny Rotter, hunched, delivered that now iconic stare of Rotten that all Pistols followers have come to love, dressed in moth-bitten looking jacket and jumper, loose school tie and orange hair, delivered a multitude of cynical one-liners with venom and exasperation.
The likes of Phil Collins, Cliff Richard and not forgetting the paying punter were at the heart of his disparaging. Steve Bones donned a west London boutique look of black hair, black trousers and matching black top, delivered an exhibition of guitar potency so deadly that it's not difficult to see why Steve Jones has eulogised over him. Paul Crook, with his Premier Union Jack drum kit, the organiser of the band, never missed a trick or a beat; the ultra professional at work.
Kid Vicious, his rancid pout, colourful repertoire of Queen's English, Vive Le Rock tee-shirt and the legendary dog collar and wrist band, gave a display that was to blot the band's copybook. Because the Kid could play bass, unlike his now deceased predecessor, Sid. For 90 minutes the audience were whipped into an orgasmic frenzy as pogoing and camera clicking dominated the proceedings. Twenty-one numbers from the Pistols catalogue were delivered in a manner so uncanny you could have been mistaken if you envisaged witnessing the real deal.
The final furlong began with Kid Vicious hijacking the mic from Johnny Rotter and treating us to a solo effort including My Way. But the evening belonged to the Rotter himself, who not to be denied, once again grabbed centre stage by finishing off with a 'Public Image Ltd' number. As the curtain came down I was left in no doubt the Sex Pistols Experience are the greatest band Milton Keynes has never seen!
And inside the sweltering human cattle-truck that passed for the bit in front of the stage it was like going back in time 32 years. You could almost smell the Denim aftershave as you pogoed to brilliant opener Pretty Vacant. The Pistols Experience, for those who missed them. What would Sid have made of that, eh?