Sock Free Hideaway

SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO

12. THE PRIMALS LIVE: up the slope & down the hill 

PART 1

THERE'S ONLY one band actually chronicle much of my early adult life; Primal Scream. A band that captured the zeitgeist on more than one occasion. I'd like to say I saw them tear up the Boardwalk in September 89 coz I was all set to go, but it was a weird one. 

I was half pissed and heavily obsessed with Jim Morrison. After reading No One Here... I bypassed his poetic influences, and rather predictably headed straight for his excesses. Only, I didn't smoke, so had never even tried cannabis before. That September afternoon I had acquired an eighth of squidgy-black, but was wary of being busted, so decided to swallow it whole in my bedroom, before departing for the show. 

A messy altercation with my sister followed and my wrist found itself flapping outside despite the window being locked. My sister drove me to A & E instead of the train station but unfathomably after getting stitched up, I jumped out of her moving car on our return. And rather than knock on my mother's door, I decided to shout expletives before launching myself through her porch windows instead.

 

I soon discovered Mum's next door, but two was a karate expert as he thrashed me all around the living room until the police arrived. Luckily for me, Mum refused to press charges on account of one of my teacher's telling her I was highly intelligent. I sat meekly in her living room watching the golf the day after on my final life at home before writing a cheque to a neighbour to replace 5 panels of glass (what was left of my inheritance). 

Just to register their own contempt for my appalling behaviour, my sisters left all my jazz-mags and the drugs that the police never found on the dining room table the week after. Thankfully, my mother reasoned that this was a past misdemeanor.

Fast-forward to July 91 and I'm off my box in a good way with both my sisters in tow enjoying my best ever night at the Hacienda and my favourite ever Tuesday night show. Despite convincing myself that it was my favourite Monday night show for thirty years. The Orb and Weatherall were spinning amazing records like System 7's Flutter and Liberation. 

Club veterans and DJs were milling around, but the half pissed, half drugged, gig aficionado's, had a euphoric woosh for big nights that set them apart and helped create an extra brilliant atmosphere. The Primals were simply stoned, immaculate, and playing their masterpiece Screamadelica to a sweat-box audience. Then many of us danced freely until 2 am. Not many people can put their hand on their heart and say 'indie-dance saved my life.'  

The year after, my kid sister had a mad crush on Bobby after dancing in dizzying proximity to him at the International 2, where leather trousers were out en masse. He glanced at me, a look akin to steaming hot piss ricocheting off a cold urinal but glanced her a wee smile. His skin actually looked sublime and, oddly, he was more impressive in the flesh. Most pop-stars were disappointing in real life. 

She never touched drugs, and I was galvanized in turn by her natural enthusiasm. I was just grateful that we now had a telepathic relationship that meant my drinks got bought and my spliffs got rolled despite me being too out of it to speak. I did have a stupid great smile on my face all that week. Ditto, Glastonbury 92, where a large array of different people were really feeling The Orb and the Primals. Making it revolutionary even. In 1990, only a few of us were dancing through the night, but that year... 

PART 2

A LESS well received Give Out... LP meant their Academy show in 94 was fairly low key. Kris Needs was playing The Clash, Mott The Hoople and Grandmaster Flash, but it still felt decidedly more like a gig. A bloody good gig.

I was starting to feel more mature and despite necking down some strong lagers on the bus into town; I was relatively sober and straight. I didn't drink during the show either, as I was at the front so my kid sister could get close and missed the cynicism and jokey banter of the Jockey Slut posse who were standing quite a few rows back. My arm was blue the next day after a sea of people had leant against it. It was, without doubt, my kindest act ever. Unsurprisingly, when they returned as veterans in the summer of  97 with a more cohesive album Vanishing Point, they played the Apollo. I was in bad shape but recall the show being quiet enough to walk through spacious foyers. 

My last truly enjoyable Primal's show was the Ritz in 98. Weatherall and the Chemical Brothers span many tunes I owned like Placebo's Balek and lots of familiar smiling faces were out in force. Like Discopogo with more space. The Primals even played Higher Than The Sun to a reverential response but largely perfected tunes from their previous show. Mannie's inclusion is what cemented their home team status, but this brought about its own mess. 

  

Before the long coda of the plastic glass years, that I will try to summarize swiftly, there was another fine show at the Ritz at the start of the new millennium. Eerily prescient and politicized, XTRMNTR was an energizing sensory assault of an album that luckily for us was captured perfectly in their live show. However, for a band so hard-wired into the psyche of my generation, something buckled when the anti-capitalist movement stalled. Coupled with Iraq, that felt like an unjust dictate. Hope of any meaningful concrete change dimmed.

In my thirties I was reading a lot of poetry, (via OU study and not Jim Morrison, I must add), so my elitist self convinced me that I understood their shows better than most and that the swelling numbers were missing the central tenet of their messaging. And had just showed up for some light entertainment.  

However, because they were so tight and passionate, live, I went to countless shows at the Apollo and even Brixton, spilling beer all over my hands. I saw their fresh material condensed to smaller and smaller segments as the boozy crowds just wanted a sing-song, reducing them to pricey karaoke. 

The highlights were often hearing their warm-up playlists, which included The Byrds and MC5, while the places were still half-empty. These shows were fast becoming nostalgia fests for ticket-stub collectors and hearing them bastardize their masterpiece Screamadelica, that one, perfect, harmonious memory I had, was tragic. Well, they didn't, but the sing-along crowd spitting their beer out everywhere did. Actually throwing myself out of a fast-moving car would've been more fun. 

I drew the line right there but did almost buy tickets for Bobby's book signing until recalling the fawning self-importance of these intimate events and decided reading it without the surplus flannel or autograph would be better. 

Infamous Audrey Witherspoon review - https://www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/1989-andrew-weatherall-nme-live-review-primal-scream-screamadelica-2610946

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