The Sex Pistols rolled into Melbourne’s Festival Hall on April 5—without Johnny Rotten, but with something just as volatile.
Frank Carter stepped in on vocals, bringing equal parts reverence, energy and barely-contained chaos to the stage. He wasn’t trying to be Rotten. He was there as a fan, fronting one of the most iconic bands in punk history, and clearly loving every second of it.
Festival Hall was packed with a crowd you don’t see often in a pit. Most looked well past 60, swapping safety pins for reading glasses. But there were still a few mohawks in the room, some younger faces catching their first whiff of real punk, and plenty of people just happy to be in the same room as Steve Jones, Glen Matlock and Paul Cook.
Carter didn’t waste time. Between songs, he begged the audience to start a mosh—“I want a massive circle pit!”—as if shouting it enough times would make knees bend the way they used to. It was more hopeful than effective. During ‘Bodies’, he jumped straight into the crowd to start one himself. A few people gave it a crack, but most held their ground, watching the chaos from a safe distance.
Musically, the band were sharp. No theatrics, no overplaying—just the riffs and the sneer, played loud and without apology. Carter didn’t overshadow the original members. Instead, he hyped them up, even snapping candid photos of the band mid-set. His respect was obvious, but he still brought his own bite to every song.
There was nostalgia in the air, but this wasn’t a tribute show. It felt raw and real, even with an ageing crowd and a few stiff limbs. Carter pushed the songs forward and did so with teeth.
It wasn’t a perfect gig, but it didn’t need to be. In fact, it shouldn’t have been. I mean, what is a Sex Pistols gig without a bit of mess?
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