Public Image Limited
9

John Lydon is someone who divides, there’s no doubt about it. From the '70s to today, he has somehow managed to piss off more or less everyone, at one time or another. It is clear that being liked by the world is not one of his priorities. I believe that, more than anything, he cannot stand being stuck in a cliché.
Among absolute provocations (“Belsen was a gas”) and anticlerical tirades (the text of “Religion” is one of the most violent attacks ever made against ecclesiastical institutions), politically incorrect quips, and other pleasantries, he continued to interpret being punk in the most logical way: doing exactly the opposite of what was expected of him.

From the attempt to destabilize a British reality show to the very British participation in an ironic advert for a butter brand, many of his moves have been aimed at dismantling his own historical fans. He called the Clash “a gross evil,” declared he doesn't pay taxes, insulted various colleagues on multiple occasions. In short, a perfect member of the rancorous assembly of capossellian memory.

Despite everything, Mr. Rotten is a genius.
Punk for him was never pins, crests, squats, protests, “no future” for its own sake. Punk for Rotten was and is situationism, iconoclasm, and lateral thinking.
When accused of reforming the Sex Pistols for money, Johnny confirms this, declares that they were the only ones not to take a penny from the great rock’n’roll swindle and names the tour “Filthy Lucre.” When asked to be transgressive, he dresses as a perfect English lord; when everyone wants him experimental, he becomes pop, when he succeeds with pop he drops everything and dives into electronics. When asked for another tour with the Sex Pistols, he reforms P.I.L. Sometimes it went well for him, more often he was left alone.

Brilliant in finding collaborators (I'll mention just a few: Jah Wobble, Steve Vai, Chemical Brothers, Leftfield, John McGeoch. A dizzying list), much less in holding on to them.
He must have a really terrible character, by the looks of it… let's say somewhere near Dave Mustaine's.

Under the P.I.L. banner, the man with the most disturbing eyes in showbiz (excluding Marty Feldman) inserts a series of experimental masterpieces: above all “Second Edition” and “Flowers of Romance.” In the mid-'80s, he dedicated himself to pop, but always with extreme originality: “This is what you want... this is what you get,” “Album,” and “Happy?” travel on very high levels. In 1989, for the first time, Mr. Public Image stumbles, producing this “9,” lacking imagination from the title (it's the ninth album of the band…). It is without a doubt his worst record, mainly due to a terrible choice of sounds, polished and glossy to the point of being cloying.

A sugary sound, drowned under layers of icing like a damn wedding cake.
Amid monotonous drums, guitars with echo valley delay, and obese keyboards, his usually menacing chanting drowns without escape in a kind of sonic meringue.
Lydon has always soiled the sounds, created disorientations and shifts capable of supporting his voice, one of the most ungainly and original in rock history. Here, however, it seems someone combed him… and combing Johnny is like ironing Tom Waits' clothes or forcing Lemmy to bathe. You just don’t do it, period.

Not only that: for the first time something jams even in the composition: the tracks that start well get lost along the way, those with a catchy chorus fall apart in the verses. In a couple of cases, like “Brave new world” or “Same old story,” McGeoch's often valid ideas are smashed down by embarrassing choruses.
Despite all this, “9” contains some gems: the beautiful single “Disappointed,” “Happy?,” the monotonous but fascinating “Armada,” and especially the cinematic “U.S.L.S.1,” ideal soundtrack for a plane crash.

Too little to save the album from oblivion: I recommend it only to those who want to have everything, but absolutely everything, by P.I.L. For everyone else, the advice is: get drunk, turn off the lights, and put “Flowers of romance” on full blast in your headphones. At your own risk, of course.