The Sex Pistols in Atlantic City.

"May I ask," says the well-preserved blond lady in the black pantsuit, "what is the rock band playing here tonight?"

"The Sex Pistols," replies the Trump Marina doorman.

"The what?"

"The Sex Pistols."

"Oh, my God?what a freak show!"

To her credit, the well-preserved blond lady must not ride many buses or subway cars, or she'd know there's nothing freaky at all about the idiots gathered here. We're all used to seeing this crowd: Nebbishy guys with flames tattooed on their pipecleaner forearms, mall workers who save up to go to Manhattan and shop at Trash and Vaudeville, mighty-whitey blue-collar racists who've embraced punk haircuts and Doc Martens as a fashionable tint to prejudice.

Similar people often take up space in public transportation. That's why I didn't bother to go see the Sex Pistols at Jones Beach. Bad enough to be at a concert with these types; why suffer through sitting near them on the long bus and train ride to get there?

To really enjoy rock music by the ocean, only Atlantic City will do. It's a breezy two-hour drive with little traffic, or a slightly longer bus ride that's sometimes pleasant?unless you get stuck in the back with a bunch of illegal immigrants gnawing on the chicken they'd previously sacrificed to the God of Double Diamond Slots.

And if you're going to Atlantic City to rock, chances are that you'll end up by the water at Trump Marina, which has done a fine job of cornering the market on rock acts, beginning with an important Van Halen booking a few years ago. Granted, that was during the Gary Cherone period, but it was still a milestone in AC bookings. It's natural that the Sex Pistols would end up here on their latest reunion tour.

Trump Marina is also the AC equivalent of downtown Vegas, in that it's where the locals like to play?especially if they're the local rock fans of South Jersey and neighboring Pennsylvania. Still, the crowd isn't usually so, um, sadly urban. Strolling up to the Grand Cayman Ballroom, it's hard to miss the aging punks who've taken over the bar in the lobby. The old dame in the Queers t-shirt doesn't look nearly as sexy as that matronly blonde outside. Neither does the young girl committing the fashion don't of wearing a Pistols t-shirt?I mean, skirt?to the band's own concert.

Maybe all this stupidity should be expected when punk legends meet in New Jersey. On the other hand, it's worth the trip just to see security sending two young punks to drop off their absurd gear (studded belts, chains, etc.) with the Trump Marina bell captain. Punk's not dead. It's merely been checked at the door.

And don't forget that "during tonight's performance?stage diving, crowd surfing and moshing are prohibited." I wouldn't know if the crowd's respecting those rules during the Dropkick Murphys' opening set. I'm too busy with a few final scans of the gathering crowd. Old Skool Award goes to the guy in the Slaughter and the Dogs t-shirt. It's also fun to see the hillPhilly in the mohawk that descends into a mullet, although the guy in the Grand Funk t-shirt is simply trying too hard.

I wasn't kidding about those mighty-whitey morons. It doesn't take long to find a cretin adorned with swastikas and other Third Reich tattoos. Fortunately, he's balanced by the earnest young thing sporting a "Nazi Punks Fuck Off" patch.

I stroll into the Grand Cayman Ballroom and find myself in what feels like a classic punk setting. Okay, so you have to look past the expensive sound system and concentrate on the cavernous carpeted room with a stage at the end and chandeliers on the ceiling. Lots of old ballrooms were converted into makeshift concert halls for punk bands back in the day. During the 80s in Birmingham, for instance, shows were held at the old Tuxedo Junction. Trump Marina has replicated that vibe perfectly: The Grand Cayman feels more like a dank, rotting nightclub than the Jones Beach amphitheater ever could. And, you can drink and smoke all you like?big news to those poor punks still recovering from getting trapped without alcohol or cigarettes when Iggy played Jones Beach.

I almost forget that I'm here to goof on an oldies act. Remember that 20th-anniversary tour celebrating the release of Never Mind the Bollocks? Now it's the 25th anniversary tour of the Sex Pistols' demise, which sounds more than a little desperate. I had no interest in that '96 tour, and I wouldn't have bothered with this one, either, if it didn't give me the chance to hang out at Trump Marina on a nice summer Saturday.

As it turns out, the Sex Pistols are pretty great.

Say what you will about the cash-in, but original Pistols bassist Glen Matlock deserves some time in the spotlight. He was always the band's true songwriter, and he's since matured into a proper sex symbol; he seems more fit to play a heartthrob on Coronation Street. Paul Cook has also stayed in good shape, and seems determined to use this tour to prove that he's always been underrated as a drummer.

Steve Jones, of course, has simply become the bloated heavy-metal guitarist that he always was. And Johnny Lydon is reliably into his shtick, stalking the front of the stage, ignoring the ice and other crap being thrown at him. He also spits a lot, which really excites the crowd.

Lydon's looking good, too, but maybe it's a mistake to have a double for Johnny Rotten lurking at the side of the stage. Presumably Lydon's kid, presumably picking up summer cash as a roadie, his only real function seems to be kicking away the elbow of a Trump employee who innocently leans on the far back of the stage. Still, it's good to see there's a spare Johnny around if anybody needs one.

The band is rehearsed and does justice to their catalogue. The emphasis is on Never Mind the Bollocks, with "No Fun" and "Roadrunner" also getting trotted out. "God Save the Queen" is slightly modified with an effective goth grind, while "Holiday in the Sun" is delivered as a proper rave-up. Otherwise, the songs are just the way the crowd wants to hear them. It's almost bearable to endure the repeated cries of, "Whoo?punk rock!"

Things never do get crazy. Lydon promptly has security toss out the first cretin who nails him with ice, or spit, or whatever. I've seen Lee Ving do the same. Crowd surfers are also promptly ejected from the venue, although that's only really funny when it happens during "Anarchy In The U.K." But that's part of the encore, so at least the anarchist doesn't miss much more of the show.

For the most part, it's a well-mannered crowd. The lights come up as Lydon walks off the stage for the second time (once again brandishing?with no real explanation?a handmade volume titled "The Book of War"). The punks stroll out, and, to their happy surprise, discover Trump Marina has a pizza place open.

This gives them something to do while waiting out the rush to the parking garage. Not many seem interested in hitting the casino, but they can all go home feeling like winners.

They could have certainly been much bigger losers: Just an hour down the road, the Doors were playing at the PNC Bank Arts Center. Now, that's just shameful.