It’s remarkably difficult to love John Lydon these days. Certainly those [Country Life ads] banged the last nail in the coffin for those who doubted his snotty-nosed sincerity, but it is the revenue the singer generated here that made this release possible in the first place.
Already, commentators have been aching to poke fun at the déjà vu moments surrounding this album – another Royal jubilee, a modest Pistols get-together, and the reformation of Lydon’s post-punk project Public Image Ltd. Even at their most meandering, PiL (as they are often known) were always interesting. Opting to sigh and creek and rattle along in a dub-influenced negation of four-to-the-floor rock riffage, their early work is still highly regarded by the right people, and at the very least acknowledged by others. A fantastic triptych – 'First Issue', 'Metal Box', and 'Flowers of Romance' – followed by a slip-slide down through poor production and patchy writing meant that to many, their potential was never fully realised.
**This! Is! PiL!** is a strange and unwieldy beast. The trademark Rotten fury permeates the likes of 'The Room I am in', but frequently comes across as befuddled, despite the topic choice – British Council Housing no less – providing for some suitably close-to-the-chest altercations. The no-frills production works well on 'Human' and 'Deeper Water', the latter evoking the very best in Factory Records’ echoing guitar styles. There are points however, when things go wrong and in doing so, threaten to tarnish the rest of the album; 'Lollipop Opera' is quite intolerable to the ear, and 'It Said That' is the aural equivalent of pre-school collage, without any of the direction.
Niggling aside, 'Reggie Song', with its cod-Reggae vocal, high harmonies and backwards guitar, is a favourite – deranged and charming, summed up neatly by the line ‘I am from Finsbury park/ and I’m having a lark’. The closing numbers hark back to the drawling dub of yesteryear; 'Out of the Woods' in particular wouldn’t be out of place on any of the above releases, nine minutes long and staggering along sinister as some back-alley drunkard. This is among the more frustrating reunion albums I’ve come across, one which adds little to the band’s catalogue, yet does not detract from it either. It stands instead as a testament to John Lydon who, for all his butter-churning and faux-raging, is still full of street-smarts, and capable of some wonderful turns of phrase. There is plenty for die-hard fans to appreciate here, but for a fair-weather, buy 'First Issue' and go from there.
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