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let him forget (“Albatross,” 12 easy minutes of loping almost-funk that prove with the rest of the LP that this group is dubwise way beyond any slavish imitations, in fact has a concept of bass like nobody else in white music history), and battles the whole Eng./Mod.-American/Happy Days culture of ultimately entropic nostalgia or cannibalism as we used to call it (“Memories,” in which the mix shifts gears in a truly startling way); then there's “Train Round the Bend” for Hammer Studios film freaks combined with more anti-pop-slop bile (“Poptones”—with this imagery, this guy shoulda been writing E.C. comics). “Careering” is ineluctably ominous complete with what sound like cawing crows and pistol shots, and may or may not be about what's happening in Ireland; either way, the sheer velocity of a line like “A face is raining across the border” is enough to wing you. “And No Birds Can Sing” paints lifeless manors with perfectly sculpted lawns in Britain or Beverly Hills (makes no difference), built on a riff ascending forever like the mewlings of all the aborted fetuses piled at the city dump, while “The Suit” describes a social climber who is what he wears, so his clothes and even his skin are no better than the last rusty safety pin in Babylon. “Swan Lake” is about the living dead sans romanticism (“Words could never say the way/I see it in your eyes”). “Graveyard” is all the guitar solos taken out of these songs and melded into one purposive mass, while “Socialist” is the best keyboard instrumental since Dave “Baby” Cortez's “The Happy Organ” and sounds like brain lobes being extracted and wriggling on the table while the cymbals grieve as best and fast as they can. The rest of the album consists of a statement of purpose which, near as I can decipher, works out “Pop-Rock-Fear-Hate” over and over while Lydon lays it on the line after some equally uncompromising guitar work: “Voice moaning in a speaker/Never really getting too close.”

For all Lydon's protestations, Second Edition is as close as you can get right now. The reason for the protestations, the group's name, the unglamorous photos, the box itself is that he doesn’t want to be a pop-star anymore. And who can blame him? You can épater les bourgeoise till you’re dead, but you really don’t have to prove anything to anybody and they’re not gonna listen anyway. My only criticism is that sometimes he comes off a little self-righteous (“You never listened to a word that I said” or “You make me feel ashamed”—who the fuck does he think he is?), but this album makes it clear that he, Keith Levine, Jah Wobble, and whoever else comes or goes in Public Image are gonna be around for a while. Personally speaking, I don’t mind a bit if they’d rather spend all their time in the studio and come up with something as fine as this instead of touring. You did it, you snide little bastard. Now do another one. Keep to yourself. We don’t want to meet you anyway.

The Village Voice, March 24, 1980

Killer Frogs in Transatlantic Blitz:

A Franco-American Chronologue

Starring Les Variations

Allen Park, Michigan, USA-April 1974—A bunch of us are in the Allen Park Hockey Rink, supreme arena of this bratwurst burg, watching BTO break on thru to Cobo Hall while the sweat off the pubes condenses in the air, when out comes this bunch of funnynosed dark-complected guys outfitted in spangles crossbreed Arabian Nights and hey-mofo-I’m-a-rockstar. They set up and begin to play this odd swirling churn which sounds like “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” with Joujouka stirred in, so being the steely lobed old cynics we are we retire to BTO's dressing room to drink up all those Mormons’ beer.

Which is where, later, I first meet Les Variations, the world's first French-Moroccan hard rock band. They return from their set bouncy with distinctly anti-Gallic cheer, and assert themselves most ingenuously: Allo, Lestair, I am Alain Tobaly, zees eez my brothair Marc who plays lead guitar, that's our drummer Jacky Bitton and Jo Leb who zings, we love America and rock ‘n’ roll, ‘ey man, you like Vats Domeeno?” Meanwhile