Swindler's List; Malcolm McLaren (1946 - 2010)
He didn't lack for enemies when alive, but the death of MALCOLM McLAREN from cancer saw former antagonists such as the Sex Pistols' John Lydon lining up to praise his contribution to music, in particular his role in helping foment the punk scene in ‘70s Britain. To mark the passing of the man who helped create the stereotype of the media-manipulating rock Svengali, we revisit an interview conducted with the sly old maestro in 1994. In it, he talks about the Pistols, the New York Dolls, Kurt Cobain, the British Royals and Naomi Campbell.
Stuart Clark, 04 May 2010
I have to confess to being a bit teary-eyed last week when word came through that Malcolm McLaren had died from a cancer-related illness in New York, a city he decamped to on more than one occasion looking for musical – and no doubt other! – mischief.
The flamboyant Englishman wasn’t a friend or even somebody I'd call myself a rabid fan of, but as one of the architects of British punk he did play a significant role in my life.
My first encounter with Malcolm and his courtiers was in December 1976 when having been instantly seduced by the Sex Pistols’ debut ‘Anarchy In The UK’ single, I made a pilgrimage to his and Vivienne Westwood’s newly rechristened King’s Road clothes shop, Seditionaires.
A decidedly non-streetwise 14-year-old who’d never heard of Situationism yet alone read its manifesto, I wasn’t the least bit prepared for what lurked behind its barricaded façade.
It wasn’t so much the S&M fetishwear that nearly made me pee my pants as the people who were standing around the counter modeling it. The only one I recognised was punk scenester Jordan (no relation) who soon after that landed a starring role in Derek Jarman’s Jubilee, and mis-managed Adam & The Ants in their pre-dandy highwaymen days. I thought Bowie four years earlier doing his Ziggy shtick was as exotic as it got, but these guys and girls made him look like Gilbert O’Sullivan in comparison. Watching over them almost paternally was Malcolm, a gangly character with a mushroom cloud head of red curls. For the next 18 months the Pistols and him were my world.
Fast forward to August 1994 and I’m sat in the bar at Dublin’s Conrad Hotel waiting to interview Malcolm for Hot Press.
“Can we concentrate on the new album rather than ancient history?” the lady from Island Records asked.
“Of course,” I lied.
It may have been ancient history to her, but I was still mad as hell at the way the Pistols had imploded on stage in San Francisco in January 1978.
“Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” Johnny Rotten had sneered at the end of the Winterland Ballroom gig, which was the signal for Steve Jones and Paul Cook to bugger off to Rio and meet Ronnie Biggs; Sid Vicious to develop an even worse heroin habit; and Rotten to revert to his real name and start Public Image Ltd. To a hopelessly naïve teenager who couldn’t have taken the words of ‘Anarchy…’ more literally if they’d been hand-chiseled in stone and given to him by an old man from Israel, it had been the ultimate act of betrayal and, damnit, I wanted answers!
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