Malcolm McLaren has rolled into the pits one last time at an untimely 64. Mesothelioma. The godfather of the Sex Pistols, grandfather to Agent Provocateur, an ex Mr Vivienne Westwood, an inventor of bow wow wow and boy did he give Adam Ant the biggest leg up ever. Along the way he made some pop records for himself that could be listened to and enjoyed. There's the New York Dolls dalliance, the shops, the shameless self-promotion when there was no shame in shameless-self promotion. It would be shameful now, but of course now he's not doing it. Now it would take a team of media consultants and they'd still get it wrong. By consensus. Malcolm McLaren was a renaissance man when they were thin on the ground. He was a human sampler, a masher upper before mash ups were. Recently, finding myself at a wildly popular Curryoake evening, I wondered still, had Malcolm McLaren got a hand in it? It's going to be so big in Little India.
I can't tell you whether there would be an outsideleft.com, I can't tell you whether I'd be happier if I'd never heard of him back when I was a kid. I can't blame him for everything can I? All of the good things would most likely be gone, never have happened. No London, Los Angeles, no St. Leonards, no Kirk, no Ron & Nancy, but, on the other hand, look at well, I won't say, some people I know who've never heard of the guy. They do nothing never endeavor and have very nice lives. So maybe without Malcolm McLaren's influence, I might have never tried to do anything ever. Maybe then I'd be happy now.
