Saturday, June 7, 2008 | 11:18 p.m.
You had your choice of Saturday night big draws in Las Vegas: At the Palms, there was the Miss Exotic World Burlesque Pageant (aka the "Superbowl of Striptease"), and over at the Joint at the Hard Rock, it was the Sex Pistols launching their world tour with their only U.S. appearance.
It didn't much matter which option you picked. Both shows featured a bunch of ol' showbiz tarts shaking their moneymakers (and our wallets) one more time on the big stage. (You might as well toss Elton John into this mix, too -- he resumed his rotation with Cher and Bette Midler at the Colosseum this week.)
The Sex Pistols famously scared America 30 years ago when the punk progenitors set out on their shambling, star-crossed U.S. tour. Last night in Las Vegas though frontman John Lydon (nee Johnny Rotten) spat, blew snot rockets and dropped a few f-bombs, the only real shock at Saturday's beyond-sold-out show was how safe, polite and professional the latter-day Pistols appeared. As they set out on their summer tour of outdoor festivals, they've become the punk Beach Boys.
And the Hard Rock crowd (which included half of The Killers) greeted such once-scathing and confrontational numbers as "Liar" and "Bodies" as if they were interchangeable with "Louie Louie" and "Shout," bouncing and singing along as if this was a giant frat party, and the Pistols were the house band.
Judging from the audience response, Lydon should have no problem maintaining his voice through the 30-city tour. He can coast during the choruses -- the crowd simply took over and overwhelmed his mosquito whine, chanteing cheerily along from the first song to the encore, loud and rowdy as a stadium full of soccer hooligans. Or a hall full of Barry Manilow fans.
The band -- the original lineup of Lydon, guitarist Steve Jones, drummer Paul Cook and reinstated bassist Glen Matlock -- took the stage right on time, faking out the crowd by starting "Pretty Vacant" as a kind of wedding-band reggae, before reverting to the the relentless pounding, stun-gun guitar and shrieking which marked the rest of the hour-long show. All four played energetically (with a bit more classic-rock flair and flourishes than expected). And Lydon, dressed in pajamas like a pervy grandpa, mugged like a chubby cartoon rodent and made gargoyle faces. The other three looked pretty healthy, particularly Matlock -- in his short-sleeved plaid shirt and slicked back hair, he looked like he had just popped in from a Springsteen tribute act down the Strip.
Even if it got monotonous fairly quickly, it was all good fun -- they even coughed up their cover of The Monkees' "(I'm Not Your (Steppin' Stone)." When the whole house was screaming the formerly dire imprecation "No future, no future, no future for you," there was not a hint of anger, danger or outrage. The most confrontational moments of the night were Lydon's objections to the Hard Rock's hovering security guards. "The Sex Pistols are complete proof you can, if you make an effort, dance to anything!" Lydon shouted before singing some song about a queen.
As the Saturday night anarchists filed meekly out of the concert hall and into the casino to find something else to do, my Vegas-savvy friend led me to where the real Sex Pistols action was -- a Sex Pistols slot machine, just a few steps away from the door of The Joint. It was sitting there all alone, with the late Sid Vicious glowering from the glowing graphics. We pumped in a few bucks and took turns hitting the spin button, hoping to see at least one "Anarchy" icon among the "Censored" and "God Save the Queen" bars.
We broke even and cashed out. And we never did get our Anarchy. But that was just the way the night went.
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