THE title of Glen Matlock’s new show says it all really.
I Was A Teenage Sex Pistol, which runs at the Assembly George Square Gardens, until Wednesday, tells how Matlock, a founding member of the Sex Pistols, co-wrote most of their iconic songs. It’s his personal tale of how the band formed, exploded onto the music scene worldwide and then disintegrated.
Here he reflects on one particular “good” time:
FOR what it’s worth, most people think that the Sex Pistols never made it to Scotland first time around but they are wrong, we did.
One night in early 1976, guitarist Steve Jones got himself settled in our roadie’s Ford Transit van with the equipment and set off up the A1 whilst Johnny Rotten, Paul Cook and myself headed towards Kings Cross Station to catch the sleeper train to the English border and beyond.
My memory of the journey is hazy, probably because there was beer involved, but I do remember waking the following morning as the train trundled over the Tay bridge and into Dundee.
Finding our hotel to be of a superior standard than we were then accustomed to, we threw our bags into our rooms and the three of us reconvened in the River View Restaurant for a slap-up kipper breakfast.
We were most surprised to find that our table adjoined that of crooner Frankie Vaughn escorted by a Bevvy of Beauties, which is what I think the term was then, and who seemed to have certainly given Frankie the moonlight.
What he did with it – well he certainly beamed all the way through the meal.
Malcolm McLaren, back in London, didn’t though and that was pretty much our one and only experience in those days of charging stuff to our room.
We played that evening in a student union gaff and, while lightly attended, after a few numbers, pretty soon a barrage of glasses and bottles started hitting the stage belying the numbers in the sparse crowd.
In fear of losing our sight, we retired to the dressing room through the door directly behind the drum riser and cowered as bottle after bottled shattered against the door for what seemed like ages.
As the lobbees ran out of ammunition, the onslaught abated and a hush descended on the club.
A little shaken and in need of a stiffener, we waited a suitable amount of time then tentatively peered around the door.
Seeing the coast was clear, we made it to the bar and attempted to get some in.
Two long-haired student types in tie-dyed shirts and flares sidled over to us.
Affable enough, they offered us all a drink but were a little troubled and upset that we hadn’t reemerged to play the rest of the set.
Well you guys were slinging glass at us and we hadn’t really come all this way to each lose an eye we explained.
But we had read that you like that in your fans they retorted.
Power of the press eh?
I am sure Edinburgh is more welcoming these days...
Glen Matlock: I Was A Teenage Sex Pistol, Assembly George Square Gardens, until Wednesday, 7.30pm, £15-£18, 0131-226 0000