Sex Pistols
The Warfield
October 14, 2026
Photos by Raymond Ahner and Dragonfly de la Luz
The Sex Pistols at The Warfield was an unexpectedly feminist night. The legendary punk band returned to San Francisco, the scene of their spectacular demise in 1978, for a raucous 50th anniversary reunion show. They’d only played here once since then, in 2003, with original frontman, Johnny Rotten. This was the first time the band’s been back with their new touring frontman, Frank Carter.
Frank was no Johnny Rotten, but it’s safe to say that neither is John Lydon anymore. And Frank didn’t even try to be. In fact, he went out of his way to not be Rotten. He was kind. He was sensitive. He intentionally made the space feel safe and inclusive for everyone. And honestly? That was punk as fuck.
Slated to play their seminal Never Mind the Bollocks: Here’s the Sex Pistols in its entirety, the band, consisting of all the other original members — guitarist Steve Jones, bassist Glen Matlock, and drummer Paul Cook — launched into “Holidays in the Sun.”
The energy was palpable. The crowd started pogoing and the pit went off. By the third song, “Pretty Vacant,” Frank was already crowd surfing, even doing a handstand literally on top of the crowd. He had the audience clear a space in the middle of the mosh pit, planted his microphone stand in it, and surfed his way into the eye of the chaos where he stood screaming the lyrics with a raging circle pit whirling around him like a hurricane.
While the rest of the band understandably seem to be slowing down in their 70s, Frank’s energy was ferocious, kinetic, and surprisingly warm and uplifting. He was deliberately inclusive and showed a level of sensitivity and awareness that seems rare for most guys, certainly at a punk show.
He was so kind, in fact, at one point he interrupted the show, knelt down to where I was standing front row center, looked me in the eye, and twice asked if I was okay when he saw me struggling against a guy who was trying to wedge himself between my friend and me. After confirming that I was alright, he turned to the guy, stared him right in the eye, and growled, “How about you stay the fuck where you were?” And the guy backed off! I never imagined I’d feel so safe and protected with a Pistol pointed in my direction!
And that’s not the only time Frank proved he’s a protector of women. Before they played “No Feelings,” he again asked the crowd to clear the mosh pit, announcing that, for this song — “the best Sex Pistols song ever fucking written” — the pit would be “ladies only.”
“Gentlemen, please step as far back as possible so all the girls feel that they have a safe space to dance and enjoy themselves. And I promise you, you will never see a happier mosh pit in your whole fucking lives,” he said. “If the idea of this upsets you, go to the bar. Or the toilet. Or, better yet, just leave.”
Then he spoke directly to the women: “You all have it worse than everybody, especially in this current climate. This is the bare minimum you should expect from every band you go and see from this point forward.”
High-pitched cheers of joy erupted from the girls, giggles floating up like bubbles that nothing could pop. Frank implored the guys to police their friends — “If drunk Tony’s looking like he wants to move toward the mosh pit… just hug him tight!” — then launched us into an experience most women have probably never had in their lives. (See the video I recorded from the heart of the giggly chaos below.)
Speaking as a girl who’s been to probably a hundred punk shows but never really felt safe going into the pit — and who was once shoved so hard into the stage by a guy that I still have a visible dent in my thigh eight years later — I have to say being in an all-grrrl pit was incredible! Frank was right: it did feel like the happiest pit ever, and the giggliest!
The sweet sounds of a hundred joyful girls squealing and frolicking for the entire duration of the song was pure punk rock dreaminess! Every face was smiling, and it was such an unexpectedly beautiful way to dance and play and just be girls together. I never would’ve guessed that the first time I’d feel safe enough to get in the pit would be at a Sex Pistols show. Somehow I doubt Johnny Rotten would’ve done that.
Apparently, at the Denver show a couple nights prior, Frank ejected a male audience member for breaching the grrrl pit. He later posted a statement on Instagram: “If you are a man who gets offended by a band making room for a female only moshpit (sic) then you are PART OF THE PROBLEM. Stay home, read a book by bell hooks, come back when kindness, compassion and empathy have landed with you.” Wait — did Frank Carter really just reference the world’s preeminent Black feminist theorist? That was quite the move. And Frank is quite the guy.
When the band played their “Stepping Stone” cover, the crowd launched into pogoing again, and I witnessed a truly radical moment. The guy next to me was recording with his phone, and halfway through the song, Frank leaned in and started singing into the camera, which was cool enough on its own. But then he did something no one expected. He took the fan’s phone and continued filming himself while he performed, even going around and filming everyone in the band before returning it to the fan at the end of the song. We’ve got that footage right here, and it is amazing. (If you don’t have 3 minutes, start at 1:40.)
Arrow de Wilde, singer for opening act Starcrawler, joined the Sex Pistols for “Silly Thing,” bringing more fun, femme energy to the show. As expected, the band closed with “Anarchy in the UK.” Towards the end, a guy bolted onto the stage and threw his arm around Frank, dancing and singing. Instead of having him removed, Frank handed him the mic and let him sing the last line. When the song ended, the stage-crasher made a wild and confident leap onto the crowd, and when no one made any attempt to catch him, faceplanted straight to the ground with an audible splat. A fitting way to end a night with the world’s most legendary punk band.
Looking back, it was one of the most fun punk shows I’ve been to in a while. The pit was lit, the boys were boisterous, and the girls got to have an experience of a lifetime. It is so rare to feel the way I felt as a girl at this show. The way Frank made it safe for us to be in the mosh pit and went out of his way to make sure I was alright and not being taken advantage of (while having no idea that I was there to review the show) — he showed everyone that being nice, making space, and being a good human is not at all antithetical to being punk rock. More than just a frontman, Frank is a good man. It was refreshing as fuck, and I will never forget it.
Starcrawler
Opening for the Sex Pistols, Starcrawler had the unenviable task of warming up a crowd waiting for punk rock royalty. But honestly? They should be headlining shows in their own right. Before the band went on, I heard some of the audience indicate they were actually there to see Starcrawler more than the Pistols. As soon as they launched into “On 2 U” and assaulted the room with the first chords of the night, I completely understood.
Led by an indomitable frontwoman with undeniable star power, Starcrawler is glitter punk glam rock at its finest: loud, unruly, and too feral to give a single fuck. Between singer Arrow de Wilde’s deadpan rock-goddess magnetism and lead guitarist Henri Cash channeling Jack White’s combustible intensity, Starcrawler had a chemistry that felt always dangerously, deliciously close to exploding. With the boys all wearing tuxedo T-shirts while their fearless femme leader rocked a shirt-dress that had “Kick Me” emblazoned on the back, their black and pink aesthetic was cohesive and deliberate, and they looked every bit like they belonged on stage — much bigger stages, if I’m being honest.
Arrow comes across as a female Joey Ramone — and I’m not just saying that because they covered “Pet Sematary.” She has that same effortless, almost confrontational cool that leaves no room to question whether she’s a total fucking rock star. She also has a rare, self-possessed kind of charisma, commanding the stage with the sort of presence that makes you wonder why she’s opening for anybody. Often when that’s the case, the band itself can be lacking, relying solely on the frontperson’s star power. Not so with Starcrawler. The music is so viciously good, especially on songs like “Roadkill,” “Kick Me,” and “I Love LA,” and Henri’s guitar playing is so passionately electrifying, it’s clear that even on their own the band would be quite a formidable force.
Although the Pistols would soon take the stage and sing “My Way,” Arrow made it clear to us all that she’s doing things her way, and her way honestly seems like the right one. With her hair in her face and her beautifully unshaven legs on unapologetic display, she screamed, “You know I’m rhinestoned up, so you treat me like a baby… But this whole time I’ve been a bigger man than you!” And during one song, she strutted over to the friend standing beside me in the front row, knelt down to sing to him, ripped his baseball cap off his head, placed it on her own head, then tossed it into the air and was gone long before it landed. Arrow de Wilde is the fucking show.
Before the end of their final song, there was no obligatory “Thank you, San Francisco! Goodnight!” routine. Arrow just walked off the stage while the band was still playing, unceremoniously clocking her rhythm guitarist upside the head as she passed. I wasn’t even entirely sure she wasn’t coming back until they took off their instruments and followed sometime later.
Arrow de Wilde is a natural born rock star. She has the presence, the attitude, and the sheer force of personality to hold a room full of people who came to see one of punk’s most infamous bands. That’s no small feat. The Sex Pistols may have been the main event, but Starcrawler made a pretty compelling argument that they deserve a stage of their own. Because if Arrow de Wilde isn’t headliner material, I honestly don’t know who is.
