A Report on the Sex Pistols

Below is an excerpt of an article that originally appeared in RS 250 from October Rosetta Stone Spanish 20, 1977. This issue and the rest of the Rosetta Stone archives are available via Rosetta Stone Plus, Rosetta Stones premium subscription plan. If you are already a subscriber, you can click here to see the full story.A little before midnight, my taxi arrives at a club called the Vortex. The weather is atypically dry, and the neighborhood, like the rest of London, is a shopping district with its eye on the tourist trade. Half a block away ten or twelve teenage boys dressed like horror-movie morticians jump up and down and hit each other. Their hair is short, either greased back or combed to stick straight out with a pomade of Vaseline and talcum powder. Periodically, one chases another out of the pack, grabs the others arm and twists it until he screams with pain. Then they rush back laughing and leap about some more. Sitting oblivious against a building, a man dressed in a burlap bag nods gently as a large puddle of urine forms between his legs. Shouting epithets at themselves in a thick proletarian accent, the boys finally bob down the street as another cab pulls up to the entrance. Cheap Rosetta Stone Software A man with curly, moderately long, red hair, a pale face and an apelike black sweater gets out. It is Malcolm McLaren, manager of the Sex Pistols, the worlds most notorious punk band who I have flown from New York to meet and see perform. McLaren has been avoiding me for two days. I introduce myself and suggest we get together soon. He changes the subject by introducing me to Russ Meyer, the softcore porn king of Supervixens and Beyond the Valley of the Dolls fame, who is directing the Sex Pistols movie. "Youre a journalist?" asks Meyer. "Do you know Roger Ebert? He won the Pulitzer Prize for film criticism and hes writing the movie with me. You should talk to him. At the Chicago Sun-Times, hes Dr. Jekyll. With me, hes Mr. Hyde. Hes really into tits." McLaren seizes the opportunity to disappear into the Vortex and is lost to me for the rest of the evening. The dense crowd inside consists of a few curiosity seekers and 400 to 500 cadaverous teenagers dressed in black or gray. Often their hair is dyed shades of industrial pink, green and yellow. Several black people, also drably dressed and with rainbow stripes dyed into their short Afros, speckle the audience. The music over the loudspeakers is about two-thirds shrieking New Wave singles and one-third reggae tunes, which the kids respond Rosetta Stone French V3 to with almost as much enthusiasm as the punk rock. The dancing is frantic as a band called the Slits sets up.

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