Vicious White Kids

It was 1978 and the Sex Pistols were dead, slayed in San Fransisco by their Johnny Rotten, who coughed up blood and asked if we felt cheated. We were, of course. We were cheated but it didn't feel to bad. We were cheated but we attended the funeral anyway, a funeral that might have made a culture depending on who you asked. Everyone knew we had been cheated but Sid Vicous, the lanky, pale faced cheater himself. He made the horrible mistake of believing his own myth. Like a child fresh out of the stroller that runs across the street Vicious decided he needed another band, partly for fun and partly to make enough money to move to New York, where he would solidify his status as a dumb, junkie prayer candle for those that the funeral produced. 

The band was called Vicious White Kids and like any other childish movement, they were a lot of goddamn fun to watch. They didn't play their own music, of course they didn't, instead they blew through and jumped around and flailed to the music of others. Iggy Pop, Paul Revere and The Raiders, Eddie Cochran. Bam. Bam. Boom. All with the sneer and feedback of all the members previous bands combined. The New York Dolls. The Sex Pistols. Noise and feedback. They only played once and I think that was perfect. Seeing ones child walk for the first time is gratifying and the same concept applies here. They played once in London, at the Electric Ballroom. Vicious died soon after. I really can't see any other goddamn way that would have turned out. 

If you would like to listen to the aural equivalent of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, and I know that you do, listen to this. It's not hard. It's been released and re-released countless times. You're already on the internet. Look it up.