Live at The Town Hall
2 April 2025
Live Review by Music Journalist: Paul Marshall
Never Mind The Sex Pistols Heres The Bollocks.
Full disclosure I watched the Pistols online when they tore up The Forum, London, on September 26, 2024, with their new frontman, Frank Carter. My initial reaction? How the hell can anyone replace Johnny Rotten? So, in silent protest, I threw on my P.I.L. T-shirt and headed to The Town Hall, ready to be a stubborn bastard about the whole thing. Spoiler alert: I might’ve had a change of heart.
Opening duties tonight belonged to The Bleeders, New Zealand’s hardcore stalwarts who’ve been raising hell since 2002. They didn’t just warm up the crowd they torched the place. Frontman Angelo Munro was light on chatter between songs, possibly saving his voice for the sheer throat-shredding intensity of his performance. Still, he got in a well-placed rally cry: “Thank you for showing up early, we’re The Bleeders from Tāmaki Makaurau! Are you guys f**ing pumped for The Sex Pistols?!”*
Guitarists Gareth Stack and Hadleigh Donald came out swinging with chainsaw riffs and razor-wire distortion, while the rhythm section bassist Ian King and drummer Matt Johnson held the fort with bone-rattling precision. The Bleeders proved that punk, at its core, is alive and snarling in the Southern Hemisphere.
Since the announcement on June 3, 2024, that Frank Carter would be fronting the Sex Pistols for a pair of fundraising gigs, the move has been divisive at best. Could the Pistols exist without Johnny Rotten? Was it blasphemy or a long-overdue evolution? These were the debates that raged in pubs, forums, and online comment sections. And here we were, finally witnessing the full-force rebirth of punk’s most notorious band.
The stage lights dimmed, and instead of the usual feedback-soaked intro, we got the orchestral swell of God Save The Queen (Symphony) from The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle. Steve Jones, Glen Matlock, and Paul Cook emerged stage right, looking every bit the seasoned battle-hardened veterans. Then, out strutted Carter tattooed, snarling, and not doing a Rotten impression. Good.
No introductions. No hesitation. Just a detonating chord and the relentless march of Holidays in the Sun. Carter didn’t mimic Rotten’s snot-nosed sneer; he brought his own brand of venomous energy. The pit turned into a violent sea of bodies as the band tore through Seventeen and Pretty Vacant with the kind of urgency that made you forget the lineup drama.
Paul Cook, still hammering away in his trademark awkward-yet-effective style, had ‘NMTB’ scrawled across his kick drum presumably a nod to Never Mind The Bollocks. His timing was solid, though his endings occasionally fell apart in that beautifully chaotic way that only works in punk rock.
Steve Jones was a brick wall of sound, his Gibson Les Paul slashing through the air with that unmistakable buzzsaw tone. And Glen Matlock? As locked-in as ever, proving once again why his basslines were the Pistols’ secret weapon.
Carter, formerly of Gallows, wasn’t trying to be Rotten. Instead, he made the role entirely his own, balancing menace with charm in a way that was utterly electrifying. Early on, he leapt off the stage, vaulted the security barrier, and pushed straight into the front row. "Move, move, move! I’m five-foot-seven, but I’ve got seven-foot-five energy!" he barked before striding through the crowd like a punk messiah parting a sea of motley admirers.
When it came time for Bodies, Carter demanded a circle pit. The problem? Most of the crowd were, well, veterans of the first punk wave, and the concept of a circle pit wasn’t exactly in their muscle memory. Blank stares met Carter’s command until one diehard fan took the initiative, whipping the room into a swirling, sweat-drenched frenzy. Suddenly, it was like being inside a washing machine set to anarchy. Moshing, pogoing, chaos the kind of beautiful mayhem that only a proper punk show can deliver.
The place was heaving. Bodies colliding, beer flying, and one guy in a Joy Division shirt making a personal mission of crowd-surfing at least six times each attempt ending with him being hoisted over the front crowd barrier, only to be tossed right back into the fray. Pure punk-rock theatre.
Midway through the set, Carter vanished only to reappear on the balcony level, weaving his way through the crowd while still belting out lyrics. It was a masterstroke in audience connection, something I could never imagine Johnny Rotten doing. By the time the band tore into Anarchy in the U.K., any doubts had been obliterated. This wasn’t just a nostalgia act it was a rebirth.
After the dust settled and the amps went silent, I had the privilege of meeting Frank Carter and Glen Matlock. Carter, sweaty and grinning like a madman, knew he’d just pulled off the impossible—he’d fronted the Pistols without trying to be Rotten, and it worked. Matlock, ever the understated punk statesman, seemed quietly pleased with the night’s chaos.
Walking out of the venue, my P.I.L. t-shirt suddenly felt like less of a protest and more of a conversation starter. Maybe the Pistols without Johnny shouldn’t work but somehow, against all odds, it does. And in true punk spirit, that’s exactly what makes it so damn exciting. One thing was clear The Sex Pistols aren’t just some museum piece rolled out for nostalgia’s sake. They’re still dangerous, still unpredictable, and thanks to Frank Carter, still worth every f***ing penny.
Sex Pistols Set List
- Holidays
- Seventeen
- New York
- Pretty Vacant
- Bodies
- Silly Thing
- Liar
- God Save The Queen
- No Fun
- Satellite
- No Feelings
- Problems
- EMI
Encore:
- My Way
- Anarchy In The UK
Reviewer: Paul Marshall
Photography by Paul Marshall
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