The king is gone but he's not forgotten

"The king is gone but he's not forgotten
This is the story of a Johnny Rotten" Neil Young, "Hey Hey, My My"

 It's not uncommon for me to wake up on the morning with a snatch of a song stuck in my head.  Sometimes it's a song I've not heard in years, most of the time I have no idea why that particular song or song lyric should be all I remember from a dream.

One day this week, I woke up with a line from Neil Young's "Hey Hey, My My" -- a song which apparently debates whether it is better to burn out or to fade away.  One thing has always bothered me about the song, and that's the line's quoted above -- "the king is gone, but he's not forgotten/this is the story of a Johnny Rotten".  I haven't ever read an analysis of the song, so I can't be sure of all the references in it -- but it's always bothered me, because Johnny Rotten isn't dead.  Not literally, anyway.  Sid Vicious is dead, and it's Sid Vicious who is considered by many (many who aren't really that familiar with punk) to represent the movement -- I have always felt a nagging that Neil Young was confusing Johnny Rotten with Sid Vicious.

I said that Johnny Rotten wasn't "literally" dead.  What I mean is that John Lydon is alive and well, and appearing on our television screens advertising Country Life butter -- but at the same time, because of this and the passing of the years, his persona as Johnny Rotten is dead.

In the Sex Pistols, back in the 1970s, he was a crazy eyed kid who couldn't sing in tune and had more in common with Shakespeare's Richard III as played by Laurence Olivier than he did with any king of rock and roll.

Punk was a revolution.  It was the downtrodden and the pissed off giving the ruling classes, the middle classes, two fingers up.  It was about taking back control -- music no longer had to be prog-rock opuses, instead punk told people that anyone could have a go. And they did.  Those who didn't form bands made fanzines with sticky tape and paper, that was as rough-and-ready as the music it presented.

Punk as a movement caused more moral outrage and paranoia than any music before or since -- it was considered a bigger threat to our way of life than Russian Communism.

 The Sex Pistols made only one album.  Is that what Neil Young meant when he said it's better to burn out than to fade away?  Glen Matlock was replaced by Sid Vicious, just for the image, and Sid was in his own way responsible for making the safety pins and torn clothing of the impoverished working classes a punk "uniform".  Sid never "burned out" because he was never burning in the first place.

So what of Johnny Rotten?  He formed "Public Image Limited", who weren't punk at all, and dropped the Rotten moniker.

These days, John Lydon is a property millionaire, milking Sex Pistls and PIL reuinions for all they're worth.  He lives in a mansion in Los Angeles.  And while it seems he still has all the anger and bitterness of his youth, speaking out against the middle classes ands private schools and international politics, it's hard to take "Johnny Rotten" seriously these days -- he's long gone.  His opinions on the Royal Family matter less to me than someone who actually still lives here.

What really burns is that Johnny Rotten didn't even burn out -- he wasn't a candle that burned twice as brightly for half as long.  While it could be said that he should be respected for forming PIL, something completely different to the Sex Pistols and respecting his artistic integrity instead of playing up to the punk rock cliche, he has lost any kind of credibility in the years that followed.

That is the story of a Johnny Rotten, gone but not forgotten.

Kid, I wrote back

At the start of each month, I can be found in a bar in Shoreditch.

What coincidentally is my favourite bar in London -- and possibly in the whole world -- also hosts a monthly open mike night of spoken word.  And I live for this kind of thing.

Back in my Derby days as a student, I joined a poetry group and we'd meet once a week in a pub to share our poetry and give feedback and drink a lot.  Then once a month we'd all perform at an open mike night, called Raised Voices.

Raised Voices was held in the back room of a pub, which was freezing cold with no power other than a generator.  It seemed to fit the mood.  The students made only a small percentage of the people there, and I got a taste for spoken word -- despite needing a drink or two to have the courage to perform.

Raised Voices lost its edge for me when it moved out of the pub's back room and into a plush, carpeted conference space.  The florescent lighting had to be on, because it was either on or off -- no dimmed -- and the bar tender always had a slightly sarcastic smirk on his face.  The whole thing just felt wrong.

Then I moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, and met up with an old poetry friend who had been there for a year already, where he introduced me again to something new.  To two new things, really -- performing sober, and to performing in coffee shops.  It was often disconcerting being an Englishman abroad, when it wasn't just a short holiday but where people would stare at you in class, or be shocked to hear your accent when you stood up to perform in Cup o' Joes.

I think after I left Utah and until moved to London I had only performed twice -- once in Derby, when Raised Voices again had a new home (but none of the old faces, all my old poetry friends had scattered), and once when I was doing my Journalism post-grad in Leicester.  An amusing sidenote to that is that when I was interviewed for the journalism course, I spoke with great passion about how I loved to just write.  I was asked if I wasn't just a frustrated novelist -- I told them no.  I was a frustrated poet.  Why they still took me on is beyind me, I guess it was despite this they knew I could write, and saw potential.

So years and years later, we're living in London and I'm not giving much thought to poetry, let alone spoken word.  I have a dedicated bookshelf for poetry -- mainly consisting of Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage, Pablo Neruda, John Hegley and Beat writers, along with a huge anthology that I dip into from time to time.  It's years later, I don't think of poetry until we're in my favourite bar for my birthday celebration and I see a poster for Kid, I Wrote Back -- a new spoken word and poetry night, being held there.

It's hosted and organised by the extremely talented Chimène Suleyman and Dylan Sage who are well known in similar circles in the city.   Kid is worth checking out for their performances alone -- but there are so many great and varied poets and writers appearing there each month, I feel almost proud to be able to appear alongside them.  My own work varies so much in quality and theme, I don't feel I hold a candle to a lot of people there, but it's so great just to perform -- and gives me a reason to wirte each month.

No entiendo

I love the sound of other languages.  I don't know if the people are discussing Big Brother, Eastenders or eating babies, I'm happy to listen if the words sound like music.  I especially like the sound of Spanish.

I think my favourite Spanish phrase -- after "dos cerveza, por favor" and "Viene tormenta!" would have to be "No entiendo", I don't understand.

I always say the phrase the same way, with a shake of the head, a sad expression and a low voice. "No entiendo" as if I am truly sad that I can't understand what they are saying.

I use this on charity muggers.  "Hello mate do you have a few minutes to --" "No entiendo", and I hurry past.   The words, the shake of the head, the sad look -- it does a job that a gruff "No time, sorry mate" just doesn't fulfill for me.  The fact that I can't look even remotely Spanish with my resolutely pale skin and unconvincing pronunciation must only confuse them further.

I'd like one day to live awhile in a country where English isn't their first language.  Even if it's Spanish, I'll still use "No entiendo" when "dos cerveza" won't do.

I've been down... but I've come back brighter