Disco Bloodbath

He DJ’ed for the Sex Pistols. He worked at Vivienne Westwood’s sex shop. And he almost went to prison for Malcolm McLaren. But how could a punk like Alan Jones also be a disco queen? To celebrate punk’s 30th birthday, Jones gives a personal account of his scene-hopping odyssey

I tried to keep them apart. I really did. But punk inevitably turned to funk in the mid 70s for this Sex Pistols original who worked in Vivienne Westwood’s World’s End shop SEX. That is, until the tax inspectors arrived and I had to pretend to be a punter. I was also the one who got arrested for wearing that iconic naked cowboy T-shirt in my most famous headline grabbing moment. And if I had a pound for every time I’ve seen those pictures of me, Steve Jones, Vivienne, Jordan, Chrissie Hynde and Jones’ fuck du-jour (who we only recently remembered was named Danielle) revealingly modelling Vivienne’s latest swanky modes... Well, I’d be as rich as Malcolm McLaren.

As much as punk’s free spirit and rebellious nature matched my own coming-of-age in those sea-changing times, I always held on to my inner Disco Queen. I mean, I was an anarchist and all that. But I was also an in-your-face, way-out-of-the-closet homosexual too and although many early Pistols fans were gay we found it easier to never mind each other’s bollocks. I probably could have shagged my mate Sid Vicious if I’d pressed hard enough. He did ask me once how big my cock was. Sadly No Future there.

So where else was an insatiable fashion slag going to get laid? At The Catacombs, The Masquerade or The Sombrero, the main gay clubs in pre-AIDS “screw you in the toilet?” hedonistic London. That meant listening to such DJs as the camp one we called Pamela Motown and his constant diet of Donna, Gloria and Diana, with a 4/4 beat, Eurovision melodies and swirling violins. It came with the territory because the swooping sexual innuendo and epic tragedy contained in such classic tracks as I Feel Love or I Am What I Am emotionally hit homos hardest. Those songs mirrored exactly the posing, ego-deifying and self-protective components of the contemporary gay psyche and lifestyle.

Much as I loved Johnny Rotten angrily barking hot-button lyrics backed by the snarling Pistols’ dynamic presence, I also adored the glamour-drenched Broadway style glitz of the Salsoul Orchestra, anything on Casablanca Records and every disco diva from Grace Jones to Marlena Shaw.

Nobody could understand that at the time. Music genres back then were very clearly defined and pigeon holed. You were a hippie, a glam rocker, a teddy boy, a skinhead and you were only into what your demographic inDFexibly liked. Dislikes, meaning every-body else’s likes, were equally rigid. Today an eclectic musical palette is culturally responsible and socially sensible. In 1975 that distinct lack of crossover was the cause of the beginning of the end for Pistols bass guitarist Glen Matlock when he told Rotten he’d like to play songs by The Who in their set.

Much as I loved Johnny Rotten angrily barking hot-button lyrics backed by the snarling Pistols’ dynamic presence, I also adored the glamour drenched Broadway style glitz of the Salsoul Orchestra, anything on Casablanca Records and every disco diva from Grace Jones to Marlena Shaw. Nobody could understand that at the time. Music genres back then were very clearly defined and pigeon holed

I found myself in the weirdest position around this time: championing the Pistols’ ground zero sound, which many said was tuneless noise, while defending disco’s hypnotic thumping for practically the same reasons. It all came to a head in one of the most memorable gigs the band ever played at the El Paradise strip club in Soho’s Brewer Street on Sunday April 4, 1976.

Manager Malcolm had hired the place for £90 from the Maltese mafia to get an early buzz going about the boys. It was the worst dump any of us had ever seen with three broken seats stuck in the middle of the entire dank and dusty place. We had to hose caked on cum off the toilet walls before the band would even use it as a changing room. And with their hygiene record that was really saying something.

I had two roles that night. I took the entrance money on the door from hardcore fans and conning a few old geezers into thinking they would still see a raunchy stripper. I wore my newly sewn Cambridge Rapist mask in an effort to remain incognito so it would be a surprise when I turned up in my other guise as guest DJ for the evening. I’d raided Capital Radio’s offices - don’t ask - for every 45 single and album track I thought I’d need to keep the joint jumping. 

It soon became apparent I’d misjudged the crowd. These were punk’s early days. It wasn’t easy to determine the vibe from a youth cross-section trying to find an identity within a musical genre still grappling with its own. My club tastes, honed by endless Donna Summer nights in intimate all-male environments, cleared the scruffy dance DFoor. 

With Rotten and company glaring at me from the tiny stage I knew I had to quickly ‘Turn The Beat Around’, in the immortal words of Vicki Sue Robinson.

I didn’t do it without a fight. First I played Julie Andrews singing Thoroughly Modern Millie in an effort to cultivate the kitsch John Waters/Kenneth Anger aesthetic. Punks had a fun sense of humour too, right? That’s when Rotten lost it and literally tore the vinyl off the deck. So I played The Tubes’ White Punks On Dope four times in a row just to get my repetitive own back. Of course that early anthem was just what the doctor ordered, not Carol Douglas’ Doctor’s Orders.

Needless to say I never did DJ for the Pistols again. No point. My idea of background wallpaper for cruising was entirely different to what soon became standard conformist punk issue. I didn’t get paid anyway - Malcolm disappeared halfway through the evening with the £240 takings just as gangster Vince turned up with his glitter-haired moll. They stood at the back of their scummy venue staring stony faced at the remainder of the act and made everyone really uncomfortable. A feeling made worse, thanks to Malcolm putting speed in the watered down cocktail dispenser, especially when Rotten got carried away as usual and smashed some coloured light bulbs in.

In many ways the El Paradise experience should have marked my exit from the Pistols’ favoured inner circle. It didn’t mainly I suspect because I was one of their first supporters, who fed them during nightshifts at the Portobello Hotel, and someone who would put up with their constant bickering. There was guilt too over my banner T-shirt arrest. I had to face that courtroom totally alone and pay a fine I could ill-afford despite McLaren promising to hire a lawyer and get me off. That was prophetic in hindsight. Whenever there was trouble, watch McLaren disappear. I’d taken the fall for promoting their lifestyle so what did a little disco between friends matter.

I tell any researcher wanting my input on this truly exciting time - where the attitude shifts were palpable, the paranoid heaviness surrounding us absolutely thrilling - that the punk movement was only ever the Pistols for me. They were the first, the last, my everything. The rest were mere pretenders. Westwood’s clothes were another reason I remained part of this crazy world. I could always score in her designs. She used gay porno images, see-through rubber, bondage motifs, leather, zips and suggestive rips that bordered on fetish wear. Many were the times my famously bee-hived shop assistant Jordan and I had to stop elderly gentlemen masturbating in the SEX changing rooms for mistaking the basic ethos of our fashion emporium.

I tell any researcher wanting my input on this truly exciting time - where the attitude shifts were palpable, the paranoid heaviness surrounding us absolutely thrilling - that the punk movement was only ever the Pistols for me. They were the first, the last, my every- thing. The rest were mere pretenders...

In this respect Westwood was way ahead of the Village People macho look that would sweep the gay disco world in late 1977. She’s never acknowledged that though or ever been credited with it. Best to remain counterculture couture star than admit to influencing the era’s most despised mass market. So when I segued completely to that Giorgio Moroder synthesized alternate universe in mirror ball reaction to the police violence ending the God Save the Queen Jubilee boat party, I could still get away with wearing three seasons old Westwood evening ensembles.

I did stay friendly with the band. My two other famous punk signatures were still a few years away - appearing in The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle and helping director Alex Cox research Sid and Nancy. But I wasn’t sorry to turn my back on No Feelings for No More Tears. Enough was enough. The initial burst of enthusiasm when everything seemed possible got more depressing by the minute walking past part-time punks who owed you the biggest style debt but gobbed on you anyway in complete ignorance. Boogie Wonderland was a far more enticing fantasy. I’m glad I played my part in what would turn out to be the last great music revolution. Who knew? If I had I would have taken more candid photos so I could earn all the money those one-time hangers on still do.

I did take snapshots of my massive disco achievement, producing the Carmen Rollers roller-disco pantomime Cinderoller at London’s Empire Ballroom. You try getting ten stoned drag queens to skate in time to the disco version of Evita. But who cares about that now in political context?

I consider myself lucky in having had one foot firmly in each music strand characterterizing extreme sides of the same amazing era. I’m not saying I expected that to happen. Or that I’d go on to embody and proudly uphold the memory of both contrasts. Yet punk and disco continue to creatively and positively impact on the music scene so I’m more than happy to do so. Any regrets about worshipping at the hymn altars society then so despised? Just one. I wish I could have seen Rotten’s face and said ‘I told you so’ when he finally realised I Will Survive would become equally important historically as Anarchy in the UK.