Don’t shoot me, I’m only the accordion player? Bollocks! Shoot him now and put us all out of our misery!

I spoke to PiL frontman John Lydon about his Love/Hate relationship with the accordion and how it’s the perfect remedy for toothache!

Written By Andrew J Nolan

Abscess Makes The Heart Grow Fonder? – ‘Can you hear and see me?’ yells the former Sex Pistols talisman as he pops up on my screen bang on the appointed time. I reassure John that I can hear him loud and clear from his LA home which has thankfully been spared from the recent wildfires. Irrespective of my former band The BibleCodeSundays supporting PiL twice at The Indigo O2 in London back in 2012 and 2014, I was still unsure if Mr Rotten would have the time or inclination to talk all things accordion while much of Los Angeles still smouldered around him. ‘Oh how could I resist!’ chortles John. ‘A thesis on accordions, now that’s tough stuff! It’s too great an opportunity to turn down. I mean, neither of us are doing this to flog records, are we!? But let me tell you, I’ve got an abscess coming up, so I’m in a foul mood and the accordion is the perfect thing to be bashing at this moment in time!’

The huge beaming grin across John’s face reaffirms that it’s all in jest. In fact, it’s clear that he can’t wait to get his resilient gnashers into the subject of squeezeboxes, but before we do I ask if he’s safe after more than 40,000 acres of the greater Los Angeles area was destroyed by fire. ‘The floods have now started and the mud slides, so they’ve closed the main roads in to me. When I fill up the fridge I do it for a month at a time. What I really dread though is when they cut off the electricity and the gas. It’s been happening all through the fires and it’s a nightmare to try and live like that. I was far enough away from the worst of it, but then again too close – and the way the authorities were so unprepared for an event like this, I can tell you all of us were shitting the big brick!’

The fires, potentially the costliest in US history and fuelled by the powerful Santa Ana winds, prompted evacuation orders and warnings for over 200,000 of LA’s residents.

‘I’ve been in worse fires though,’ asserts John. ‘There was one out here back in the 90s and that came to the front gate. My dear Nora was still alive and that was really bad. You don’t realise how intense the heat is. Once it’s within 500 yards you’re getting cooked like a fried egg. That fire got put out thanks to Mr Spielberg because he had his own fire station. He lived about two miles up the road and, you know, Spielberg to the rescue! Thank God I was on Shindler’s List!’ cackles John.

Perched right beside my laptop is an old scarlet red Paolo Soprani and I inform John that it was played for many years by my cousin Paddy Malynn in The Favourite pub in Holloway. ‘On Benwell Road!’ smiles Lydon as he moves closer to his screen to have a better look at the vintage melodeon. ‘That’s where we used to live. I grew up listening to this stuff didn’t I – but I don’t have much good to say about Irish jigs on an accordion,’ confesses Lydon with that trademark devilish grin. ‘Worse than that is Scottish reels and jigs on an accordion. I find it so irritating and grating, but here’s the oddity about that. When I was younger I found hidden in my parents cupboard an accordion and I wanted to know why. Lo and behold it turned out that my dad when he was young before he left Ireland was something of a childhood prodigy on the accordion and he played in showbands. But he would not teach me a damn single thing about it and I think it was for the same reason he wouldn’t speak Gaelic when he moved to England. He just wanted a fresh start and I kind of understand that with my dad. I’m like that too. When something feels like you’ve done your bit and you’ve done enough, you move on.’

‘Both of my parents spoke Gaelic when they were very young at school but it was beaten out of them by the Catholic nuns and priests-run system over there.’ I compare them to the Nazis to which John concurs, ‘They might as well have been. Father Ted came way too late! Mum and dad both told me horror stories and neither of them would teach me any Gaelic at all because of the torment they went through. They were beaten black and bloody blue – the canings they got were unreal; and similarly I used to get caned by the nuns in primary school for being left-handed. My mum and dad just told me to, “Buckle up and be a man about it.” Some religious traditions should not be passed down!’ laughs Johnny.

‘My dad’s accordion was a similar colour to yours,’ continues John, inspecting my squeezebox once again. ‘That red pearlescent swirly finish. That was the fashion. I’ve seen them in brown too which are glorious. It almost looks like gold. What make is your one?’ inquires John. ‘Paolo Soprani,’ I reply. ‘It’s a handcrafted Italian model.’ ‘Yeah, well, mmmmm,’ reflects Lydon sceptically. ‘Italian accordionists are no loving matter either!’ he chuckles. ‘And as for the killer of all time on the accordion, it has to be the Poles! Mad polkas – vile beyond belief!’ grimaces Rotten, both of us now in raptures. The origins of polka music are somewhat shrouded in mystery, but it is believed to have emerged in the mid-19th century in the region of Bohemia, which is present-day Czech Republic and Poland.

‘Honestly, it fills me with horror. It has such potential as an instrument but when it’s used in that diddly diddly duh duh way, I can’t bare it, I can’t. It makes me die inside with anger.’ It’s clear that the old traditional style of playing the squeezebox isn’t Johnny’s cup of tea, but it didn’t discourage him from playing it on the track ‘Sun’ from his 1997 debut solo album ‘Psycho’s Path’. I propose that Lydon’s recording method reminded me of an old west of Ireland style of playing where a lot of tunes were partially improvised and simplified by the musicians. ‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!’ responds John enthusiastically. ‘And that can be rather beautiful. My brother Martin worked on that particular album with me. We used the accordion in bits and places on the song ‘Psychopath’ too. The way I approached it was, “this instrument has to be de-structured” and I found some lovely ways in discovering really intriguing melodies and patterns on it. One method was to let the damn thing roll down the staircase like a slinky. Amazing results! You get lots of traditional drones coming out of it that way.’

‘Seriously though, I would have loved my dad to have shown me how to play it. The interest was always there lurking in my mind. I’ve got to tell you; I’m an avid collector of gypsy folk music and when it’s played by those lads and lassies I’m in heaven. It feels like I belong in that culture. Anything Andalusian, anything Flamenco, anything from the Caucasus’s and all of those mad gaf places. This is the stuff I love. If there’s a gypsy heart and soul involved, I’m in. I fell in love with The Gipsy Kings and their subtleties and usage of those instruments. But when its predominately twaddling away non-stop – which a lot of those Irish showbands tended to do – don’t shoot me, I’m only the accordion player? Bollocks! Shoot him now and put us all out of our misery!’

‘And yet I know many people who absolutely love that music, but I love the other side of it.  I’d love to hear indigenous Arabic music get hold of an accordion and use it. Little
squeezeboxes tend to annoy me, because that’s like a kiddy rinky-dink version of the horror that’s about to befall. But at the same time, because there’s always a duality in it for me, the other side of the coin is that I associate the smaller accordions with the actor Yul Brynner when he plays a Russian officer doing his own bizarre cosmonaut dance. I always think of the knee or jackboot of a Russian soldier with his jacket off and him just wearing braces. It’s got that vivid memory for me and it comes from watching those films. That, I love!’

Ironically in the 1970 Italian spaghetti western Adios, Sabata, Yul Brynner’s character shoots an agent who subsequently falls head first onto an accordion, causing it to play a sour note. Brynner looks back then impassively and scowls, ‘You played that rotten!’ Quite apt don’t you think, Johnny!

I ask John if his father continued to play the accordion after he emigrated from Tuam in County Galway to North London back in the 1950s. ‘I don’t know. My relatives wouldn’t tell me nothing! “I can’t tell yez if he waltzed,” hollers John in faux Irish accent. ‘So, he must have been extremely good – or he played it like Johnny Rotten! That’s where I got it from.’ I’m curious then to know how a young John Lydon managed to pick up the accordion at all. ‘Fucking very clumsily! So many buttons! It was impossible for my young mind to decipher what this was all about. And here’s another thing for you – none of them were left-handed! So, unless you turned it upside down and played it inside out, it was very difficult to get a tune out of. I’m not that ambidextrous you see. I’d have been better off if I tried to learn it with me feet like Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot and I think that’s another reason why my dad never mentioned the accordion to me. “The boy is left-handed. What’s the point?” It’s impossible if you’re left-handed. Accordions, guitars, scissors – they’re all against you. I want reparations. Accordions are prejudicial!’ laughs John. ‘I also wanted to learn the fiddle so my parents bought me one, but then I got very ill with meningitis and all that was pushed aside.’

The accordion Lydon played on his track ‘Sun’ wasn’t his father’s, it transpires. ‘That was Jebin Bruni’s accordion. He used to play with us back in the mid 1980s. He was Jewish and his father was a Jewish accordion player. That absolutely piqued my interest because I think Jewish traditional music can absolutely do well with an accordion. It must be something to do with the note structures and rhythms, but when it’s played in an Irish showband it drives me crazy. When it’s more traditional then I get the lilt.’

‘My complaint about the accordion is not so much about the accordion itself – well, yes it’s about the accordion itself!’ howls Johnny, his mischievous grin a reminder that some of his remarks aren’t always meant to be taken literally or too seriously. ‘It’s when it’s matched with an acoustic guitar going plonkety plonk plonk, that drives me crazy – because you’re killing the violin, or “da fiddle” as we know it, and it becomes totally dominating. It’s like that film Amadeus where the Austrian emperor says to Mozart, “Yes, it all sounds lovely but there’s simply too many notes! Just cut a few and it’ll be perfect,” shrieks Lydon with laughter.

A young Johnny Rotten (top right) with his mother Eileen, his dad John Sr and his brothers Jimmy, Martin and Bobby

John’s mother Eileen was from Carrigrohane in County Cork, and although none of her
family were musicians, there were plenty in the Barry clan who loved nothing better than to belt out an old Irish ballad. ‘They were all traditional singers. I would compare it to donkeys hee-hawing in a field! We spent our summer holidays on an Irish farm when we were young.’ At this point in the interview John suddenly breaks into an impromptu Johnny Rotten rendition of ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’ and what his aunties and uncles must have sounded like many years ago huddled around a roasting hot turf fire in the farmhouse kitchen: ‘Hee-hawwww, you home again, Kathleen. To where your heart will feel no pain! Oh, I never want to lose you again, Kathleeeeeeeeen!’ We’re both in fits of laughter once more as John takes a scalpel to his traumatic boyhood experiences within a musical Irish family. ‘I love animal sounds now because I think we’re all part of nature, but we’re also lending kindly to the beasts of burden sometimes. Some of the most progressive bands for me sound like fat old cows! The hard chunky bits of course being diarrhoea!’

Throughout his teenage years, young Johnny could often be found drinking with his father around the pubs of Holloway and Finsbury Park. ‘Particularly in The Favourite and the one next door, The Montague Arms. It’s exactly where the Arsenal stadium is now, but they were two different pubs on Benwell Road connected only by the stouts being different in one to another. As I grew up it also became the meeting place for the Arsenal hooligan firms,’ twinkles John, ‘which blended in well.’ I ask Johnny if he got involved in any football violence himself. ‘Well, you know, you’re part of the neighbourhood and you support your local team. So, if someone comes down and tells you that you should do otherwise, well, you’re going to take umbrage and play the fucking accordion at them aren’t you! It was the Irish way. The kids would be allowed into these pubs, but you weren’t allowed to booze too heavily obviously. You’d have a little tipple,’ smirks John as he switches back into his Irish brogue.

‘I loved it – the whole environment back then, it was warm and it was friendly and welcoming. In those times the Irish and the Jamaican immigrants got on really well with each other. It was a different world and everybody considered themselves English because that’s the country you moved to. It was a very important, vital part of my upbringing. My mum and dad emphasised that. “You’re English now, be proud.” The 1966 World Cup was tattooed on our brains,’ smiles John.

The notion of progression and not standing still is clearly very important to John. While many second generation Irish kids held on tightly to their Irish identity, Johnny relished the opportunities that a huge city like London offered and grabbed it firmly with both hands. His fondness for his Irish heritage has never been in doubt all the same and is gracefully laid bare on his 1986 Public Image Ltd single ‘Rise’. ‘It’s a very famous Irish phrase and blessing – may the road rise. It means “good luck and may your journey be easier”. I’ve actually got the entire quote written on a teacup. A fan sent it to me, but it’s in the dishwasher so fuck your luck!’ chortles John. ‘I added to it and I love to use it in Rise because I think it summed up a perfectly true bunch of emotions.’

Jimmy Lydon, John’s younger brother, formed London Irish punk band ‘4” Be 2” in 1979 and their music video for ‘One Of The Lads’ – featuring John Lydon Sr heartily plucking out the Irish reel ‘Drowsy Maggie’ on banjo – was filmed in O’Donovan’s skip yard in Gospel Oak. John Lydon Sr helped them secure the dishevelled looking site thanks to his pals who worked there. Some of those Irish navvies even appeared in the video itself, but it was the band’s name that initially attracted much of the headlines. ‘Some dumb arses automatically thought they must be Jewish or anti-Jewish,’ explains John. ‘No! 4 Be 2 is a cut of wood for fuck sake! I remember having a bloody huge row with my brother and Youngie because they stole my clothes without asking and went on stage dressed as up as Johnny fucking Rotten! I felt like belting them with a 4 be 2 at the time.’

I ask John how much of a lost link ‘4” Be 2’ were in regards to the development of London Irish music. The outfit were, after all, pre-Pogues and had recruited a fresh-faced, future pop sensation by the name of Paul Young (Mike And The Mechanics) into their unruly ranks. In fact ‘4” Be 2’ had already disbanded in 1981 before the 1984 release of The Pogues’ debut album Red Roses For Me, yet arguably the North London Paddy-Punkers never received the respect they truly deserved? ‘Well, I don’t know,’ ponders John. ‘If you ever seen them live I don’t think they deserve any respect! The clothes were good though! The idea is they wanted to have fun and being a mostly Arsenal-led institution, fun is what they had. They didn’t take it too seriously and they did take it to Glasgow. Back then that was pretty chancy and walking the line, but they had great fun doing it. If they made mistakes you were in on the giggle with them. A bit like The Faces – absolutely hilarious the fuck ups that would go on. They’d just look at you and go, “What’s wrong with that then?” All those bands I loved. It’s so open-hearted.’

‘My two brothers Jimmy and Martin were in 4” Be 2. My manager Rambo was in that band as well – and him that looked like Sid Vicious from Killing Joke, Martin Glover. My dad too, bloody hell yes my dad. He was definitely playing the banjo in the video for “One Of The Lads”. That’s how they got away with using my name on the records – “Featuring John Lydon, Produced by Johnny Rotten.”’

‘4” Be 2’ featuring Jimmy and Martin Lydon outside Wormwood Scrubs Prison, West London in 1981

Naturally our conversation moves onto The Pogues and John’s many encounters with Shane MacGowan. ‘I knew him when he ran around in a union jack shirt and called himself “Shane O’Hooligan”. I seen him as one of the early punks and he was very loud and proud about that. Then suddenly it all went into Irishness and the accent drifted – but then, you know, there must be something in that Guinness that made it so. Again, it was harmless and I loved it very much. It certainly wasn’t “plastic”. “Dirty Old Town” – that’s genius that song, right. Come on. It got plasticated though because a lot of bands thought they could jump on that afterwards but they can’t pull it off, no matter what they do. The Pogues were the first to stick some pipes and whistles on stage and my, did they murder that or what – but in a good way! And of course there was an accordion diddling around in The Pogues too and it was all just so supersonically ludicrous. You find your own melodies don’t you.’

Without warning our Zoom video call abruptly freezes before John’s beaming face disappears from my screen entirely. Damn you wildfires! Another impromptu LA power cut has seemingly scuppered our interview, but all is not lost. Ever the gentleman, John quickly sends his personal mobile number to me via his agent and we’re soon back in full flow. We move on to discuss the music that influenced John’s parents when they first arrived in London.

‘My mum and dad loved all types of music and British pop music was an absolute delight to them,’ recalls John. ‘At a young age I discovered that they had Kinks records – You Really Got Me, Babe. I thought fucking hell, yeah you do! It’s a bizarre terminology “a Catholic taste” because it implies vast openness, but I don’t know the Catholic religion to be that way at all. My parents were absolutely enthralled with coming to England. It was freedom for them. The stifling repression of religion dominating the culture of a country was so destructive.’

John’s internal quarrel with the old ways of the ‘Old Country’ finally came to a head on 6 th October 1980 when he was arrested in Dublin after a barroom brawl erupted between himself and a barman who had taken exception to the North Londoner’s rebellious dress sense and behaviour. The Donnybrook not only resulted in Lydon spending a 48 hour spell in Dublin’s notorious Mountjoy Prison, it also discouraged him from performing in Ireland for best part of 30 years. ‘Mountjoy Jail, a delightful place,’ remarks Johnny ever so wryly. ‘Welcome to the world of John. I’m not one to get down and feel repressed, tortured and abused. I made the best of it and I’ve gotta say the pent-up energy I had while I was in there was beautiful because it went directly into ‘The Flowers Of Romance’ album. I came straight out of the court, flew to London, booked a studio and went mad!’

‘So many of the prisoners wanted to hand me notes to the outside, but I wasn’t doing that anal stuffing malarky. I know what a paper cut is like on a finger and it ain’t gonna go no further than that I’m afraid. Being banged up in there influenced songs such as “Francis Massacre” and the lyrics “Francis Moran, go down for life”. He was one of the blokes in there and there was both UDA and IRA prisoners too; who you know, were seriously threatening kinds of people. But because I’m me, I don’t take sides with any of that and I got on alright. Everybody knew the Guards had it in for me and so, yippee! That kind of made my life easier.’

John’s father flew into Dublin from London on the day Johnny was released on bail and took him straight back to Benwell Road in Holloway. Sadly, in 2008, John Lydon Sr passed away and the funeral was attended by many of John’s cousins who had travelled over from Ireland. Cue another negative experience with his kinfolk and in an interview given shortly afterwards, John remarked, ‘If you’ve got any Irish in you at all means you’ve got about 200 living relatives, three-quarters of which you hardly ever met, and every one of them wants a bob or two out of you.’

I remind him of this quote, to which he responds, ‘Well, Dad’s funeral was in Tottenham, opposite their ground – not in Galway as some papers reported at the time. My brother lives up in that area, so coincidently their ground was right opposite and, being Arsenal fans, we had the audacity to have a funeral there for me daddy. A lot of relatives came over from Galway and most of them behaved very well, but a few were bordering on showing ridiculous contempt for the reality that was going down at the time. “Can’t you get me on X Factor, what’s wrong with yez?”’ continues John, switching back into faux Irish accent. ‘They weren’t understanding anything at all and being deliberately selfish. I felt embarrassed for them – to be so oblivious to the immediate situation was shocking. But then you know, a few pints and Paddy’s raring to go on Simon Cowell’s fucking torture chamber!’

‘In fairness, it’s not just them. You’ve got to understand that a lot of people think I have connections, and that a show like that is all false and they’re not really singing or playing and it’s all studio trickery. It’s not. You’ve still got to be able to hold the tune and you can only fine-tune certain aspects. It’s just that ignorance of how complicated putting together music and singing really is. It’s certainly not a waltz – with an auld accordion!’ laughs John.

Myself and John Lydon backstage at The Indigo O2, London in 2014 when we supported Public Image Ltd

Reconciliation with the ‘Old Sod’ came on 3 rd February, 2023 when PiL performed their song ‘Hawaii’ on The Late Late Show in Dublin in a bid to represent Ireland in the 2023 Eurovision Song Contest. The song is a deeply personal love letter to John’s wife Nora who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease and sadly passed away on 6th April that same year. ‘It was one of the saddest times of my life,’ reflects John, ‘because I knew Nora was dying. The opportunity to perform the song live and take the recording straight back to America so she could see it was an overwhelmingly kind act on their part (RTE). I don’t suppose any of us, me definitely included, really expected it to go much further. The whole Eurovision Song Contest, it’s awful. I mean, that’s even worse than the accordion!’ hoots John, swiftly flipping the first solemn moment of our interview back to the fun side. ‘It was lovely then to sit down with her and see if she reacted, and she did. At the time she asked, “Why are you crying?”’ trembles John, his voice finally faltering for a brief spell. ‘So, Irish television I will love you forever for that.’

John’s affection for Ireland continues to this day with his support for the Phantom Planters in Belfast, an environmental climate change awareness organisation dedicated to planting thousands of trees across the island of Ireland. Sometimes called the ‘Paramiltrees’, John joined them in the official planting of a new plum tree at Belvoir Memorial Orchard during a recent PiL tour. ‘We’ve tried to raise money by raising trees in Ireland,’ outlines John, ‘because a lot of them got knocked down. It was a worthy giggle and a sensible thing to do. All the golf courses they put up ruined the farming, which was a very foolish move.’

Unsurprisingly, my only remaining question for John is akin to a two-part reel – the first instalment being curious as to whether or not Johnny Rotten still owns an accordion? ‘Ah, only in memory. I bought one when we first played in Estonia when they were celebrating the idea of independence and 180,000 people turned out at this festival. I was very impressed with the Estonian folk and going out shopping I found a store that sold Russian uniforms and the like – and sparkling away in the corner was this mini green pearlescent piano accordion. I bought it of course and I would still have it to this day but for the fact that my lovely Nora managed to set fire to the house a couple of years later!’

Watch out for those fires John. My final poser comes straight out of life’s personal bucket list, ‘So, would you like to use the squeezebox on any future recordings, Johnny? Maybe we could thrash out some duelling accordions together?’

‘Not if you’re going to take it seriously in the way it’s been institutionalised,’ laughs John. ‘It’s an amazing instrument, so maybe we could both roll two accordions down the stairs at the same time and see what befalls us?’

I’ll cherish that as a yes if that’s ok with you then, Mr Lydon.

Public Image Ltd – This Is Not The Last Tour 2025 kicked off at The O2 Academy in Bristol on Thursday 22 May. For more details visit: www.pilofficial.com