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Heard on records, the Sex Pistols' music is primitive, purposely repetitive, less melodic than the American brand. In person the Pistols' antics add to the entertainment, if one enjoys a little gutter rebellion and a lot of depleted expectations. Rotten, Vicious, Jones and Drummer Paul Cook are only in their early 20s, but they have mastered the art of the 1950s pelvic thrust completely. Rotten is the live shell: an emaciated, electric figure who jumps from simian crouch to arm-swinging swirl to Groucho Marx prowl. Dissolving a coy smile into a demonic leer, he half snarls, half shouts the notorious Anarchy in the U.K.:
I am an antichrist I am an anarchist Don 't know what I want But I know how to get it I want to destroy
Tour openings any place, let alone in a foreign country, are tough moments for even the mightiest of rock groups. The Atlanta crowd was not knocked breathless by the Pistols, but they obviously had some of the fun Rotten urged upon them. It was not a typical punk assemblage of street-wise rowdies, although one fellow showed up with a safety pin punched through his cheek. The kids pelted the performers with a friendly barrage of crumpled paper cups and, as the Pistols' big beat went on, twisted and swayed on their feet. They had no choice: the place had been designed without seats to encourage informality and mingling. Imagine, no furniture to break up! Punk aficionados could only hope that things would get worse.