with The Jacques
Reviewed by Thomas Needham
Photographed by Kevin Gaughan
Public Image Limited (PiL) are better than The Sex Pistols. Now the bandaid’s off let’s begin.
Supporting PiL ahead of the release of their second album Make Repetition, Bristol-based band The Jacques stormed onto stage with an uptempo rendition of their 2024 single, Ape Thing / Space Thing.
Vocalist Finn O’Brien’s lyrics are frantic and confessional, inundating the listener with a skittish energy that’s reflected on stage. The set closer Weekends (released a lifetime ago on their debut EP Pretty DJ back in 2014) highlights the gulf between what was once an out-and-out indie outfit into something heavier and more alternative.
The once emergent sound of post-punk revivalist harmonisations have been swept away by noodling on a warbly synth. The typical indie social commentary of ‘sky[ing] from bottles’ and ‘dancing to Stevie Wonder’ replaced instead by the slurred, swirling endlessly repeating refrain of ‘I’m alone’, drenched in a more hard-edged, neurotic introspection. The light and breezy jams snuffed out by riffs a half-step closer to bands like Big Black, especially on tracks like Pure Leisure, but The Jacques never go whole hog by maintaining some semblance of melody.
They still occasionally dabble in their old indie ways if the lead single from their upcoming album, Via Dolorosa, indicates anything. I’m pretty ambivalent to this stylistic flux; what they lack in consistency, they make up for in variety. Weekends might well be the more sure-fire ‘hit’ that allowed them to ride the Radio 6 circuit but it’s the musical equivalent of those Calpol fresh melts that dissolve in your mouth; tastes good but it’s gone in seconds.
The Jacques might not have figured out all the kinks and quirks behind this new musical direction but they’re trying so that’s more than enough to warrant your support. I say let them have their cake and eat it too, I’m certainly interested in seeing just where they run with the concept when their sophomore effort releases this September.
They gave a solid performance. With Elliot O’Brien on drums and Harry Thomas on rhythm guitar and synth, there’s clearly a wealth of potential with the material showcased. Personally, the solo of assorted beeps and boops on No Kamikaze was a particular highlight, I’d love to see them take more risks in this vein.
At certain points in the set, the stage lights got a bit excessive. It was funny but came off more as a technical error than an intentional decision because The Jacques’ sound really doesn’t exactly warrant a BMW’s high beams in your face. I’d give an anecdote about how members of the audience had to hide their faces if only I could have seen what was in front of me. The Donald was right about stage lights afterall, “turn off the lights”!
Now I’ve gone and mentioned Trump I’ve got free reign to cunningly transition to the main act of the evening.
Anticipation grew as 9pm approached. In a sea of PiL shirts detailing yesteryear’s tours, there was a real sense we were about to witness an event. With a rowdy applause as he burst onto the stage, John Lydon took hold of the microphone and with his usual knack for the old Oxbridge pleasantries said, “it’s too fu**ing hot for pants”.
Well, thank god he was wearing shorts.
“Would you like to hear some music?” beckoned Lydon with a cursive, baritone trill. “Woo,” replied the crowd. “Well you came to the WRONG fu**ing show!” he bellowed with a Cheshire cat smile. Love him or loath him, he’s still got the sauce.
Kicking off proceedings with Home it’s clear that Lydon remains in fine form vocally. With age, his delivery is far more stentorian, bordering on the theatrical even, with a range leaping from cunning snarls to righteous fury to tender lamentations. His control over his voice is laudable, with an uncanny ability to roll his Rs and a vibrato entirely unto itself. Transcending musical ability, it’s an attitude and acceptance of his strengths and limitations that allows him to excel as an ever-compelling frontman.
Album itself marked a wider shift for PiL from spacious, ramshackle anti-rock to a forthright, click-track based rock-dance fusion, which they reaped the rewards for commercially. It’s aged remarkably well; far more forward-thinking and hard-edged than the oversaturated synth-pop that particularly bogged down the late-80s.
Like most bands partaking in celebratory circuits of the country, opening numbers are largely dedicated to more recent material. Know Now and Deeper Water fit nicely alongside PiL wider back catalogue, the latter in particular benefiting greatly from the live atmosphere, really accentuating the rhythm section and synth. With the lights dimmed, you feel submerged in the harmonies… so yeah, the name checks out.
I wasn’t expecting PiL to pull any deep cuts but I was surprised that not a single song from their latest outing, 2023’s End of World, appeared. Granted it’s far less consistent than prior releases. The troughs are lower but the peaks are higher; highlighting Lydon at his worst and his best. Describing him as ‘old man yells at cloud’ has been done so I suppose I’ll have to settle for second best: Being Stupid Again is John at his most ‘up yours woke moralists’.
The kids these days are far too cool to fret about “ban[ning] the bomb” or “sav[ing] the whales”, we’re just a little nosy about that Epstein List, whatever happened to that? And of all the topical issues to choose from, the targeting of trans people isn’t even risible, its inclusion so lazily shoehorned in to meet an arbitrary ‘outrage quota’ that it’s just boring. On the rest of the song, all I have to ask is ‘how much money for that triple lock? Who’s paying for that?’
But then we get to Hawaii, while it was tipped for the tour’s set list, the emotional baggage it comes with makes its omission understandable. It’s a truly beautiful ode to Lydon’s late wife, Nora Forster, and her battle with Alzheimer’s. Capturing a tender yet fleeting moment of reassurance, it’s not only a testament to Lydon’s songwriting but his commitment to his marriage. Forgetting is truly the most terrifying condition that can befall someone and his role as her primary caregiver culminates in an absolutely devastating song. Few songs move me in the way Hawaii does. Even in less exalted material, PiL’s discography rhymes but it never repeats. One has to respect that not one album sounds the same or simply rehashes what came before.
After an unfortunately cowbell-less yet strong rendition of PiL’s collaboration with Time Zone, World Destruction, the band kicked into the classics. PiL’s currently headed by a spate of veteran musicians; Lu Edmonds is a delightfully eclectic talent on guitar, bassist Scott Firth provides a flawlessly constant groove and new blood Mark Roberts on drums gives you the impression that he’s been around since day-dot.
You can say PiL’s new material isn’t as strong as their heyday but undoubtedly every song performed at the gig was given justice. For thirty straight minutes we bore witness to what set PiL a step above The Sex Pistols with a flawless sprint of This is Not A Love Song, Poptones, Swan Lake and Flowers of Romance.
Their first three albums make for integral listening. From the raw art rock of First Edition, to the more explicitly avant-garde and atmospheric dub influences of Metal Box to the downright bizarre and abrasive Flowers of Romance – few bands wield such frenetic energy, even fewer can tout a devolving sound as a positive.
You are party to a subversive unravelling of not just Western musical canon but the idea that Britain was a governable state full stop (how topical). From Public Image Limited to Throbbing Gristle to This Heat, the tension is just as viscerally prevalent today. You can hear and feel the exhaustive threat of nuclear holocaust, the decay of industrial communities, The Troubles, the growth of the National Front, bodies piling high and unburied and the precipice of Thatcherism. (On balance, pints were a quid so who’s really worse off in all this?) PiL and their contemporaries were the equivalent to the band playing as the Titanic sank.
Lydon happily indulged in This is Not A Love Song, this extended rendition allowed the band to flourish. Even on cleaner, more polished hits the band doesn’t confine themselves, they use the stage to experiment and explore; far more important to live music than simply regurgitating the recording. John’s vocal embellishments coupled with him methodically breaking up the verses and a new glacial synth bulking out the instrumental gave even long-time fans something new.
As John performed a touching, improvised coda in tribute to his late wife (‘I think about you all the time, …Not a love song.’) the song deftly contorted into Poptones. It was magical to hear that iconic bassline eminent from the stage. It takes another level of consideration for your craft to include a transition like that, let alone make it feel entirely natural. Safe to say PiL aren’t phoning it in, the performance was a dynamic display of showmanship. Lydon’s lyrical digressions continued into the driving Death Disco / Swan Lake and the titular track from 1981’s The Flowers of Romance was just as assertively acerbic as it should be, with Edmonds taking up the bouzouki and Firth an electric double bass just for the occasion.
Lydon’s stage presence is just as imperial as ever. He may be physically constrained by a stand but so much of his magnetism is conveyed simply through a piercing glare. In terms of sheer charisma, he’s an undisputed master of his craft and the ‘crab dancing’ was the cherry on top.
As an aside, for the life of me I have never witnessed someone dispose of such copious amounts of snot and spit on-stage. By the end of the gig it was beyond farce, after the conclusion of each song you were on the edge of your seat waiting for the mucus fireworks. Graceful isn’t the word I’m looking for… All I know is whoever had to clean it deserves a raise.
After finishing The Body from their 1987 release Happy? with a dim synth line blaring, the first verbal confrontation of the concert took place.
“F**cking s**t, s**t, s**t, s**t – lick my arse!” As far as heckling goes it was unfortunately more glib than artful but still fair game to Lydon. Scornfully scratching his sphincter in the scoffer’s general direction he spelled out his thoughts plainly: “if you don’t like what you hear you fat, greedy, miserable, c**t, there’s clearly marked exits- or what should be called Brexit.”
There was a brief pause as he took a swig of a drink yet eager to get the final word in, with oodles of goading sonority, he proclaimed: “watch out- there’s a left-wing arsehole about!”
Despite a dollop of historical revisionism, punk’s foundations pillared upon the existential and often violent struggle between splintered groups who each perceive one another as the thuggish serfs of the establishment. Even from its very inception when the name ‘Tom Robinson’ was associated with the perennial gay anthem ‘Glad To Be Gay’, rather than the violent yobbery of the English Defence League.
From the the long chronicled conflicts between ‘Rock Against Communism’ and ‘Rock Against Racism’ to Johnny Ramone using his Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction to proclaim; “God Bless President Bush and God Bless America” – it’s always been a bit more of a gray area. The divide has since been exasperated by Brexit and COVID and shall continue on ad nauseam because ultimately these groups are interdependent on one another; what’s punk without something to fight against?
I’m sure the idea that “Ronald Reagan was the best President of my lifetime” is just as repulsive to the sensibilities of Lydon’s detractors as Lydon supporting Donald Trump because “he can shake up the shitstem… business as usual isn’t working.” The recency of this parasocial sense of betrayal felt by former fans means that unlike Ramone who’s been an outspoken Republican for all his life, Lydon won’t be able to escape the funk. Frankly, I don’t think the provocateur in him wants to.
The opposite of love isn’t hate – it’s indifference. If he’s the senile, old hasbin, he’s often derided as then why do people continue to engage? Whether you venerate the air he breathes or pray he’s ironically reverse-trolling, it’s common sense that every ticket brought to heckle and every snide interaction on social media only keeps Lydon relevant. It’s the modern equivalent to The Sex Pistols interview on Thames. Some people like being wind-up merchants and others just like being wound-up.
The fact people are still prattling on about an advert that aired before I was even in primary school (you know which one) only vindicates the marketing team. Personally I hope Lydon makes another one just so I can inform the punk community: ‘a second Country Life butter advert has hit the airwaves’.
Shoom from PiL’s 2012 comeback album This is PiL came with the promise of “some pleasant Anglo-Saxon words” to sing along to. It quickly became apparent which ones he was referring to when he bellowed: “F**K YOU!” The song’s a prime example of Lydon’s ever rollicking and lurid wordplay coupled with a juvenile delivery that’s deliberately repellent. To critique it as brazenly vulgar and childish is redundant. Overly repetitive? Sure, but I’d hate to hear what you thought of classics like Fodderstompf.
Shoom is rather underrated, the sheer sincerity behind the refrain: “what the world needs now, is another f**k off” marks its place in PiL’s discography. Lydon positively follicks through the song, gleefully indulging in a wide range of profanities and vocal experimentation. Bar Lydon, the one constant throughout PiL’s existence is that if you’re not in on the joke, you’re going to have a dreadful time. For example, when the intended call and response with the audience initially failed to materialise, a defiant Lydon was happy to inform spectators that “what you lot need is a karaoke Sex Pistols” accompanied by an ample amount of venom and a naughty hand gesture.
To end the set Lydon sparked a riot with just one word: “hello.” For PiL fans this simple introduction is some kind of CIA-induced sleeper cell activator that compels them to go absolutely gaga, for it can only mean one thing: Public Image is next. As the iconic bassline reverberated through the venue, those at the front of the stage became primed for a mosh.
Considering Lydon’s reputation, the audience was rather domestic I thought, (bar the obligatory bumbling tosspot waddling into anything with a pulse) the joys of a mid-week performance and ever rising pint prices I suppose. Despite that the song remains a certified classic, with the audience ecstatic to join Lydon in song.
With an audience riled up for more, the encore began with an impromptu smoke break. “I’m off for a Marlboro… I will be exactly three minutes.” A curse upon the house of Blair for enacting the indoor smoking ban. In that time we could have seen Low Life or Socialist or Solitaire or Seattle or literally anything from PiL’s criminally overlooked 1992 release That What is Not.
PiL is comparable to David Bowie; both continued well after the peak of their commercial and critical acclaim. Freed from the need to prove anything, each was able to dedicate their latter years to experimentation. Albums like Happy? and This is PiL have plenty of value residing in them. Say what you will about ‘selling out’ but he never stooped to making slop like ‘Summer of ‘69’.
In dead-on three minutes Lydon returned absolutely woofing down that poor cigarette. “It’s so f**kng good to see yous. Y’know I’ve had a s**t couple of years,” good God- one cigarette and we’re getting all sentimental, “but then again you lot live in Leicester.”
…
I wonder if he said the same thing when he played Milton Keynes.
The encore was scientifically nurtured to leave the audience on a high note. Starting with Lydon’s collaboration with Leftfield in the underground, electronica hit Open Up before moving onto Rise and finally Chant.
Rise especially remains a truly special track to hear live. The way the audience lit up in reply when asked “what is anger?” was a pleasure to partake in. It remains a great, soaring behemoth of a song despite the lyric ‘I could be wrong, I could be right’ being absolutely run into the ground by writers who think they’re putting a clever spin on Lydon’s legacy.
While bowing out for the final time, Lydon proclaimed “we are outside of the shit-stem. This is the voice of independence.” Whether you think Lydon’s sold out his principles or his former fans have lost their edge, I think the one thing that would unequivocally be a betrayal of his principles and persona would be for him to neuter himself.
With artistic expression increasingly sanitised and suppressed and as the barrier of entry for new acts only grows, there should be a consensus that the freedom to speak one’s mind, to live their own life, to control their own autonomy and destiny is essential. Sacred cows make for boring art – be challenging and be challenged – it just turns out PiL have better music than their Glastonbury equivalents.
Sorry to the man who half-heartedly heckled Lydon to “please be quiet” but I don’t think that’s going to happen. Expect to hear more from PiL over the coming year; they’re only just getting started.
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From all of us at Music in Leicester we give our condolences to John Lydon and his family after the passing of his cousin Peter, may he rest in peace.
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