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Rating:
Demons.
Behemoth the great beast, Asmodeus the lustful, Echate with fiery eyes, Pazuzu who speaks to the pregnant, and Lucifer the bearer of light (and that's why, remember, God hates him more than all the others).
Where do they go when they're not gnawing at our Spirit, where do they sleep when they're not speaking to us?
I know.
They stay at the Chelsea Hotel.
They mingle their voices with those of Dylan Thomas and Thomas Wolfe, with the moans of Nico and the curses of Allen Ginsberg. They wander through the Victorian Gothic rooms and wrought iron balconies, where they suggested verses to Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, saw Tennessee Williams and his Frank Merlo love in secret, and watched Basquiat die piece by piece.
And yes, among those voices, there are also Sid and Nancy's.
The demons know what really happened that October night in 1978, and now only they know, because even Roky Redglare passed away in 2001, taking with him that truth that, by now, only he (a dealer and a third-rate actor) knew.
Truth that, in any case, no one cared about.
Especially not the EMI, who, having paid the bail, hurried to set up a band for him — the Idols — to strike while the iron was hot, before that English idiot kicked the bucket. They knew very well that the album of a mad, drug-addled murderer would sell much more than that of a fool too high to help his woman dying slowly, bleeding out in a Chelsea Hotel bathroom.
And the Idols aren’t even bad, with two former New York Dolls included, but it’s Sid who doesn’t fit.
Sid never fit.
Maybe it was Anne's fault, his mother, who, always a drug addict, threw him out of the house at fifteen.
And on the street, he met Johnny, and then John Simon Ritchie became Sid Vicious, after his hamster.
But this isn’t right, he's turning into a romantic hero, and there's nothing romantic here.
I wanted to talk about punk.
The umpteenth label that doesn’t mean a damn thing, for lazy critics and listeners, but this time it does have a role (yes, precisely that word), oh yes it does.
Whether it was a critic from the Chicago Tribune who invented it, talking about Ed Sanders, or Dave Marsh on Creem, or Lenny Kaye in the Nuggets notes, what matters is that the term was in the air since the early '70s, and McLaren and the Pistols — simply — appropriated it.
They didn’t want to invent anything, McLaren and the Pistols, they wanted to become famous and make a lot of money. And Rotten Johnny (the only one with talent) became famous, and so did McLaren a bit, and they made quite a bit of money.
But the record companies, who spent that money and realized too late that they were getting screwed, had to make that term — now — profitable.
So out pops that little word for everything: Ian Dury's rock blues, the glam of the Test Tube Babies, the garage of the Damned, or just rock of the Clash. And many others. And even a lot of stuff that had nothing, but nothing to do with it: Siouxsie, Elvis Costello, the Jam, even XTC. Just to mention England.
Because in America (where this stuff was fundamentally born) they did even worse: Patti Smith (the punk priestess!), Television (!), Talking Heads (!!), Wayne County et cetera, et cetera.
Oh, The Ramones!
But the Ramones are the Beach Boys!
Born in the grayness of Queens and not in the sunshine of California, in Gerald Ford’s America (!!) and not Kennedy’s, without the purity of the '60s and without a Brian Wilson who thought himself to be a Great Composer, but always the Beach Boys (and I consider this a great compliment), what the hell did they have to do with that punk scam (and nonsense)?
And the worst was yet to come.
Because in the years that followed, they threw everything into the punk cauldron and to make everything fit into that cauldron, they started inventing bullshit labels and sub-genres (HC, melodic HC, Straight Edge, Oi, Emo, Queer, Thrashcore, Screamo...) for an increasingly inflexible and conservative public that measured solos with a ruler and got heated discussing what was punk and what wasn't.
Well then (to mention one), I can't conceive of a greater betrayal for a Power Pop monument like “Zen Arcade” than calling it punk.
Because, you see, for me, there are only two punk records, and one of them exists only in my imagination.
And among these two, there’s no “Never Mind....,” chic and overproduced (yes, overproduced, it’s not me saying it, Kurt Cobain did. Chris Thomas, a guy who had worked on the Beatles' "White Album," was involved!) and not even “Spunk!”, for similar reasons.
No, my two punk albums are this “Sid Sings” and one that exists only in my dreams.
I would give who knows what for an album played by a group composed of Glen Matlock on bass, Pete Best on drums, Tommy Hall (what would Tommy Hall have become if the singer of his band didn't make up his mind to chop him with an ax!) on jug and Anthony Phillips on guitar, those who were kicked out (or bailed out on their own) with a kick in the ass out of the myth. What a group it would be! They’d explain to us what it means to repeat to themselves for the rest of their lives that they could have been there, among the stars, eating strawberries and drinking raspberry juice, and Astaroth — who finds the things lost by men — would have been seated among them.
But they never recorded this album.
They recorded “Sid Sings.”
Because that English idiot really did kick the bucket, after trying twice, his mother, having organized a party for his temporary freedom, thought it wise to give him some of her stuff (a good deal). Result: a nice overdose and John Simon (or Sid) falls asleep forever in the arms of that deadbeat Michelle Robinson, a small-time actress they hurried to place next to him. And don't pull out that Redglare was still behind his death, it would be like really believing that the hand of Beelzebub, the great deceiver, was in this story.
Then Virgin takes a handful of covers from a concert, badly recorded a few months earlier at Max's Kansas City, the couple of things they managed to get him to record in those months (including the famous version of “My Way”) and throws this short half hour of stuff on the market, which even reached number 30 on the charts in the UK, and they recoup a bit of their expenses.
And, well, it would have ended there. Sid had asked to be buried next to his Nancy, but the Spungen family opposed it. So his mother has him cremated and, by night, spreads his ashes over Nancy's grave.
Romantic?
Told you: there’s nothing romantic here.
In fact, his mother didn’t even think about scattering Sid’s ashes somewhere and brought them back to England. But, when she arrived at Heathrow, she was so out of it that the urn slipped from her hands and the ashes scattered on the ground.
A good part ended up in the trash.
Now this, this is a punk ending.
Dedicated to @Pinhead, in the hope that it pleases you.
Tracklist Lyrics Samples and Videos
01 Born to Lose (03:07)
Well, that's just the way it goes
This city is so cold
And I'm ... I'm so-so
That's why I know (I say hey)
Born to lose
Born to lose
Born to lose
Baby I was born to lose
Nothing to do
And nothing to say
Only one thing that I know
It's the only way ... I said hit it!
Born to lose (I say hey)
Born to lose (I say hey)
Born to lose
Baby I was born to lose
Baby I was born to lose
Living in a jungle
It ain't so hard
But living in the city
It'll eat out ... eat out your heart (I said hey)
Born to lose (I say hey)
Born to lose (I say hey)
Born to lose
Baby I was born to lose
Baby I was born to lose
Baby I was born to lose
Baby I was born toâ ¦
Born to lose
Born to lose
Born to lose
Baby I'm born too lose
Baby I'm born to lose
Born to lose
Born to lose
Born to lose
Baby I'm born too lose
02 I Wanna Be Your Dog (03:19)
So messed up i want you here
In my room i want you here
Now we're gonna be face-to-face
And i'll lay right down in my favorite place
And now i wanna be your dog
Now i wanna be your dog
Now i wanna be your dog
Well c'mon
Now i'm ready to close my eyes
And now i'm ready to close my mind
And now i'm ready to feel your hand
And lose my heart on the burning sands
And now i wanna be your dog
And now i wenna be your dog
Now i wanna be your dog
Well c'mon
04 Stepping Stone (02:18)
I, I, I, I, I'm not your stepping stone
I, I, I, I, I'm not your stepping stone
You're trying to make your mark in society
Using all the tricks that you used on me
You're reading all those high fashion magazines
The clothes you're wearin' girl
are causing public scenes
I said
I, I, I, I, I'm not your stepping stone
I, I, I, I, I'm not your stepping stone
Not your stepping stone
Not your stepping stone
When I first met you girl you didn't have no shoes
Now you're walking 'round like you're front page news
You've been awful careful 'bout the friends you choose
But you won't find my name in your book of Who's Who
I said
I, I, I, I, I'm not your stepping stone
I, I, I, I, I'm not your stepping stone
Not your stepping stone
Not your stepping stone
06 Belsen (02:11)
Belsen was a gas I heard the other day
In the open graves where the jews all lay
Life is fun and I wish you were here
They wrote on postcards to those held dear
Oh dear
Sergeant majors on the march
Wash their bodies in the starch
See them all die one by one
Guess it's dead guess it's glad
So bad
Belsen was a gas I heard the other day
In the open graves where the jews all lay
Life is fun and I wish you were here
They wrote on postcards to those held dear
Oh dear
Be a man be a man Belson was a gas
Be a man kill somone kill yourself be a man
Be someone kill somone be a man kill yourself
07 Something Else (02:06)
Look at that
Here she comes
Here comes that girl again
One of the cutest since I don't know when
But she don't notice me when I pass
She goes with all the guys from outta my class
But that can't stop me from thinkin' to myself
"She's sure fine lookin', man, she's something else"
Look at that
'Cross the street
There's a car built just for me
To own a car would be a luxury
But right now I can't afford the gas
A brand new convertible is out of my class
But that can't stop me from thinkin' to myself
"That car's fine lookin', man, it's something else"
Hey, look at that
Just wait and see
Worked hard and saved my dough
I buy that car and then I roll up with Joe
Get me that girl and we go ridin' around
We look real sharp with the wide top down
I keep on dreamin' and thinkin' to myself
"When it all comes true, man, well that's something else"
Hey, look at that
Watch out this
Never thought I'd do this before
But here I am a-knockin' on her door
My car's out front and it's all mine
It's a '41 job not a '59
I got that girl and I'm thinkin' to myself
"She's sure fine lookin', man, well she's something else"
08 Chatterbox (01:51)
I said Chatterbox
I said ya squalk a lot
C'mon gimma some lips
Yeah Chatterbox
I call you up
Don't give me no line
I'm comin in your home
On the chatterline
All dressed up
I got nowhere to go
Seems like fun night
On the telephone
Said Chatterbox
I said ya squalk a lot
C'mon gimma some lips
Yeah Chatterbox
C'mon c'mon c'mon
Yeah Chatterbox
C'mon c'mon c'mon
Yeah Chatterbox
I said Chatterbox
I said Chatterbox
I said ya squalk a lot
C'mon gimma some lips
Yeah Chatterbox
Call you up
Don't give me no line
I'm comin in your home
On the telephone
All dressed up
I got nowhere to go
Seems like fun night
On the telephone
I said Chatterbox
I said ya squalk a lot
C'mon gimma some lips
Yeah Chatterbox
C'mon c'mon c'mon
Yeah Chatterbox
C'mon c'mon c'mon
Yeah Chatterbox
I said Chatterbox
10 Chinese Rocks (02:43)
Somebody calls me on the phone
Say hey-hey-hey is Arty home
You wanna take a walk
You wanna go cop
You wanna go get some Chinese rock
I'm livin' on a Chinese rock
All my best things are in hock
I'm livin' on a Chinese rock
Everything is in the pawn shop
The plaster fallin' of the wall
My girlfriend cryin' in the shower stall
It's hot as a bitch
I should've been rich
But I'm just diggin' a Chinese ditch
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