RIP Malcom McLaren

There was a time when could never have imagined myself writing those words. There was a time when I considered McLaren the reason that punk died. IN this, I had largely absorbed John Lydon's version of events, which, as I came to understand, is a deeply conflicted one.

Then I watched the Classic Albums DVD for Never Mind the Bollocks, and damned if I didn't find the elder McLaren a hilarious and utterly likeable old coot (especially in comparison to the incessantly crochety Lydon). In fact, I went so far in the opposite direction that I wrote this about Lydon in the earlier iteration of this blog:

And twenty-five years later, the dumb mook hasn't moved on. You can read it in his autobiography, see it in any interviews: bitterness. He's still pissed at Malcom McLaren, at the monarchy, at the world. Steve Jones, Paul Cook, and Glen Matlock are all men in their forties, able to look back at their gloried past with detachment, recognizing their achievements and their mistakes with humor and regret. Not Lydon, who still spikes and colors his hair and spits invective. His wit, intellect, and lust for musical creativity, audible on any Public Image, Ltd. record, is swallowed by his terminal adolescence. He's so busy demonstrating how much smarter he is than everybody that the doesn't see everyone shaking their heads at him. That, too me, is true tragedy.

Then I happened to catch his interview on Red Eye last night, and he had only kind words to say:



And the Independent even has him saying:

"For me Malc was always entertaining, and I hope you remember that. Above all else he was an entertainer and I will miss him, and so should you."

Either they caught him sober, or he really did mean it when he said in his autobiography that he really didn't have any animosity towards him. In any case, hearing the man speak well of his contemporaries was a pleasure. So whatever rest McLaren has earned, it would seem all wish him to it. Peace at last.