I pick up the phone, expecting the voice of the infamous Johnny Rotten. Instead, I get a sneeze.
"Hello?" I say.Then I hear someone blowing his nose.
A couple seconds later, "Hello. This is me. John."
John Lydon (his real name) is in Milwaukee, and he's not at all happy about it.
"Oh, God, Milwaukee. Weather's weird. Chernobyl weather, I call it. The day before you freeze to death; the next day it boils. And the whole town stinks of dead meat and rancid brewery."
Leading off with an insult is, of course, exactly what you'd expect from the man who may have single-handedly inspired the so-called punk revolution of the mid-1970s. Still, these are rather temperate words from the former lead singer for London's infamous Sex Pistols, a guy whose lyrical forays included such gems as "I am an anti-Christ" and "God save the Queen/She ain't no human being."
In fact, Rotten is showing signs of mellowing. He no longer molds his flaming red hair into the outrageous Gorgonesque clumps, and his trademark nastiness, when it surfaces, seems largely tongue-in-cheek, designed to meet the expectations of peers, fans and reporters. And while he still signs autographs as "Johnny Rotten," all of his press material refers to him as John Lydon.
In fact, he says he doesn't much care to discuss his colorful past.
"This really doesn't interest me," he said, sounding impatient. "I just do what I do and get on with it. If others want to hang around in my past, that's all well and fine, because I've gone someplace else. And I'm not particularly interested in shouting praises to myself over the phone."
Lydon says he's much more interested in discussing his current musical endeavor: a cross-country American tour (by bus) with his band, Public Image Limited or PiL. The band will appear Tuesday, Halloween, at the Fairpark Coliseum - which is just the sort of place Lydon likes to play.
"I don't want to play large arenas because you get get too conceited and it all gets so out of hand. It gets too big for its own good. I think the discipline of playing small venues is absolutely necessary for a live band."
He pauses, blows his nose again, then continues. "In a large arena, you're not really performing the songs; you're just acting out a part. It's easy to get away with murder. The bigger the stage, the more people are impressed by it."
PiL's songs are hard-hitting, with enough gritty guitar to shoo off any Barry Manilow or Beach Boys fans. But it's a far cry from the minimalist punk stylings that made Lydon famous. The songs on "Nine," their ninth and newest album, are tight and well-executed, but still distinguished largely by Lydon's voice - a trilling vibrato unlike anything heard this side of Madame Butterfly.
But of equal importance for Lydon is that the band members get along.
"Most bands absolutely hate each other. They just seem to be conniving together for the money. I think that's a great tragedy. When things don't work on a personal level I just stop."
Despite critical acceptance and success of "Nine," Lydon, ever the non-conformist, is reluctant to view himself as part of the rock establishment he once ridiculed.
"Yes, you can see them throwing awards at my feet every year at the Grammys every year, can't you? Let's be real honest: They wouldn't invite me to an event like that in a billion years. You know damn well I have nothing to do with the establishment. They hate, loathe and despise me. My very existence is an annoyance. It's because I laugh at them, and I laugh very loud and a lot of people listen. And I usually speak the truth. I find all that Grammy- and MTV-awards nonsense to be insipid. It's just a bunch of wankers patting each other on the back. You know: `Don't you want to join my club?' Well, I don't. I've no time for any of it."
It seems unlikely that members of the rock establishment (whoever they may be) live in fear of Lydon's sharp tougue. And whether he speaks the truth is, of course, a matter of opinion. But there can be no doubt about whether he speaks his mind. Take, for example, his assessment of the Irish band U2 and lead singer Bono, whose use of Christian themes has won kudos from fans and critics alike.
"They're borrowing to a very large extent from ideas previously created by Public Image and various other bands. I don't think U2 are particularly anything. They'd really just be a fairly nice club band. But all this pomposity that Bozo the Clown seems to be throwing on them. They're down on one knee praying to the Lord - the saviors or rock and roll stuff. I find it very awful. And I think to bring Christianity into rock music is a vileness. It's wrong, it's wicked and it's stupid."
And what is appropriate grist for rock 'n' roll?
Another short blast on the Kleenex, then he responds: "Me. There should be more songs written about me."